In the midst of a trying workweek
while fighting a cold,
exhaustion, despair
a last-minute supper decision
led to a country restaurant
for the healing power of
chicken ‘n’ dumplings
and collards that tasted
exactly like Grandma’s
—God, I miss her so
Tiny musician
learning her art at age one
standing on tiptoes
Knowing how his little niece loves music, my musician son gave her a real keyboard for her first birthday
Why is it that, as I began to think of a November theme for my Spiritual Journey writer-friends, that the word holy came to mind?
I suppose it was connected with the start of the holiday season…holiday, from the original Old English, hāligdæg, means holy day.
I am writing this on a holy day to many around the world, All Soul’s Day. Following All Saint’s Day. Following All Hallow’s Eve…a holy triduum for remembering the dead, collectively known as Allhallowtide. On Halloween morning I saw a mystical fiery rainbow in the clouds, a colorful band of light joining earth to heaven. Genesis 9:13 played in my mind: I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. A promise from God. There’s also a rainbow around the throne of God (Revelation 4:3).
Holy. As in hallowed.
I think of votive candles lit in memory of deceased loved ones, the bright flames driving the dark away, the way that hope does in the despairing soul. So many holy-day observances involve the lighting of candles.
My little granddaughter had her first birthday at the end of October. A solitary candle burned on her cake, representing her one year of life.
Holy.
It also means blessed.
For me, holy is closely linked to my life-word, awe, in that they encompass the divine and a reverence for it. Even a shadowing of fear. When I was a small child attending church with my grandparents, I sensed all of this on entering the sanctuary, long before I had words to convey it. I did not know, then, about the ancient Holy of Holies, the inner sanctuary of the Tabernacle where God’s presence dwelt, that only the High Priest could enter it once a year to make atonement for the Israelites, and that anyone else trying to do so would die. Even the High Priest had to prepare with great care.
Holy. It means sacred, consecrated, set apart.
The ancient Jews considered the Holy of Holies the spiritual junction of heaven and earth.
I looked at all the white-rail decor in that long-ago Methodist church and could not understand, describe, or convey…but I sensed holy and trembled.
My other granddaughter, age six, was baptized recently. I watched her, robed in white, descending into the baptismal pool where the preacher—her stepfather, my son—held out his hand to her. Her little face was aglow with the faith of a child (the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these), looking up at her dad with absolute trust. My son was overcome with emotion.
Holy. Pure.
My spirit clings to the word. Although it seems like life is often consumed by an ever-raging sea of unholiness, the holy is always there, like a luminous lifeline. It shines in faces of children. It swells in birdsong, in music so beautifully composed that it draws tears. It lives in extraordinary, self-sacrificial acts of love. It manifests itself in healing. In forgiveness. I see it often in nature, obeying its patterns, displaying such breathtaking glory and wonders that one forgets the brokenness of things. Yes, when the slant of light is just right, one gets a shot of awe, a glimpse above and beyond, a perceiving of holy. Of the presence of God. Like a fiery rainbow on Halloween morning.
In the end, it is all a matter of opening the soul to seeing.
Here’s to finding the holy in every day of the journey.
I wrote a poem about the rainbow on All Hallow’s Eve; people forget the Christian connections to the day.
Spiritual Journey Friends, please share your links in the comments below – blessings to you all!
At one year old you
look like me, some people say
I can see it’s true
and I celebrate
how you recognize me now
by clapping your hands
it’s your special sign
born of me clapping my hands
celebrating you
Yea, Micah! Franna celebrates you every day ❤
Looking back…
every day a wonder
every day a celebration
every day new
because of you
beautiful
independent-minded
serious
precious
kiss-blowing
dog-adoring
music-loving
beatbox attempting (!!)
baby girl
one whole year
of life transformed
by exponential love
every day
on this day
praise to God on high
for the profound gift
of you
my prayer
on looking back
at every day
of this past year
is wrapped with thanksgiving
and tied with the ribbon
of utter joy
for all our days to come
looking forward
Happy first birthday, Micah. With so much love, every day – Franna
My grandmother loved music
all of her life.
She wanted me to love it, too.
And so she took me to
Murphy’s Mart
(if memory is correct)
to buy a child’s chord organ.
I looked at the pretty blue instrument
and chose a doll instead.
Grandma couldn’t understand.
But you love playing my organ…
don’t you want one of your own?
At the time I didn’t have words to say
I love music but it isn’t my destiny.
The doll, called Blythe,
had eyes that changed color
when I pulled a string:
blue
green
pink
orange.
I picked her instead
of the music.
Grandma, dismayed,
bought her anyway.
It was only the beginning
of my fascination
with seeing the world
through lenses
of many colors.
Maybe it was then
that a writer
instead of a musician
was born.
Neo Blythe ‘Bohemian Peace. MissBlythe. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
I have learned, in researching my Blythe doll, that Kenner only made them for a year (1972) in the U.S. A Japanese company bought them out. An original Blythe doll is now worth a couple of thousand dollars. I don’t know what became of mine, unfortunately. My grandmother’s own glossy-wood Roxy chord organ from the 60’s, however, stands in my foyer. In the end, it’s infinitely more priceless to me.
See another good example of Blythe at https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=897056547546831.
Every year for National Day on Writing, I reflect on why I write.
It’s like looking at a diamond ring in a semi-darkened room. Different facets catch the light, scattering sparks of brilliant color, red to orange, green to blue. Writing, for me, is an inner fire. A living fire. It is in my blood the way that farming was in my grandfather’s blood, that music is in my son’s, that crafting was in my mother’s, that a love of children was in my grandmother’s. I see different facets even in these comparisons. Farming is about sustenance. Cultivating the earth, harnessing resources to make it produce—this is what earth is designed to do. Music is expression, form, response, sounds in time, even color. It can be endlessly repeated and replicated; it is the unique and universal language of humankind. Crafting…it takes skill to make a new, useful thing from pieces placed exactly right, sewing them together so that the seams don’t detract. My mother was given a hand-me-down sectional sofa covered with pink scratchy fabric (it was 1970s horrible). She studied it, measured it, bought earth-tone floral fabric and cording and systematically created a custom slipcover that lasted for years. The love of children…does this not tie all of the above? Creating, nurturing, producing, expressing, a contribution to the future.
Writing is all of this.
One can make the argument that all these things are learned, and so they are. But that doesn’t account for the compulsion to do them even when there is no need. Granddaddy gardened into his nineties when he didn’t have to produce his own food anymore, when all he could manage was two small rows in the old dog pen after the dog was dead and gone. He carried a chair to sit on and rest between the kneeling to weed. My son hears all the instruments, all the harmonies, in a song; he spends hours recording a song over and over with different instruments, singing the different vocals, until it all comes together like he wants it…simply for the joy of accomplishing it. My mother received little income from the clothes she made for people; she crocheted countless baby blankets as gifts. She made flop-eared stuffed bunnies with changeable clothes, for the whimsical fun of it, never making a dime. Craftsmanship is beauty unto itself. Like art. Like music. My grandmother’s face shone like the sun at sight of children. I was one of her greatest beneficiaries, my life indelibly shaped, still being shaped, by her love. I might also mention it was Grandma who sparked my love of reading and writing long before I could do either.
Writing, in the end, has much to do with story. At least for me. The story of having lived and loved. The story of seeking the beautiful. The story of gratitude for finding it, in all of life’s brilliant facets and sparks, even in the shadows. There would not be shadows if there were no light. It is there, always there, for the capturing.
And so I write.
Necklace given to me by my father. Years later, it still shines.
with thanks to Denise Hill for the prompt on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today: American Sentences, a poetry form invented by Allen Ginsberg, are comprised of seventeen syllables.
To my husband.
An Observation, While Watching Oblique Light Striking Fiery Leaves
What shall I say to you, in the long afternoon of our shared autumn?
Memories of many colors scuttle across sidewalk existence.
I cannot decide which I would gather to preserve, to toss, to burn.
Trees have no compunction about shedding their fragility—should we?
Give me your hand while it is yet light, for evening comes earlier now.
Moments, in their gilded crowns, are more beautiful than ever before.
with thanks to Carolina Lopez for the Open Write prompt on Ethical ELA today
I’ve Been Writing This Since
I’ve been writing this since
I looked into the wide vent-grates
of the upper room floor
of my grandparents’ apartment,
sure that I saw angels
in the depths
in the same way
that I saw stairsteps to Heaven
in the light fixtures
of the doctor’s office ceiling
when I was a sick child.
Yeah, well.
I am still here
believing
when those I loved
are long gone
yet cheering me on
from the other side of portals
I cannot see
perhaps they are looking
through vent-grates
and light-fixture stairways
at me.
And so the donkey
bore the symbol of the Lord
on its humble back
Jerusalem donkeys on my bother-in-law’s farm. Note the cross on their backs: Yo, you talkin’ to me?
Baby Jerusalem donkey
lit bits and pieces 