It is not what I expected in a meeting at the end of another long workday.
A series of self-care surveys.
Not so much the physical, psychological, and emotional ones.
The spiritual one…
There’s my word – awe!
‘Other’, for me: Write about all these things.
Which I do.
And my spirit sings.
Yesterday, it happened
at morning arrival
buses and cabs lined up
behind the school
waiting for the ringing of the bell
to release students into the building
staff gathering outside to receive them
while across the narrow street
from the sidewalk
graced by quaint and picturesque houses
a little child crossing
a car coming out of nowhere
not stopping in time
the sound
indefinable thud
like one low drumbeat
or heartbeat
a split-second silence
before collective screaming
then sirens
flashing lights
a knot of people
police and EMTs
a little red jacket in a heap
on the gray asphalt
two loose shoes underneath the car
staff, all the while
attempting to usher
other children inside
but they have seen
they have seen
some saw the little one
clutched in his weeping mother’s arms
some saw him
helped to his feet,
able to stand
some saw EMS get him
into the ambulance
all the long, dark
storm-clouded day
murmurs of
shock
horror
worry
until, just before dismissal,
he came to school with his mom
to show his friends he is okay
his little scatched face, pure sunshine
many of us
overcome with tears
awestruck
by this heroism
on her part
and his
and by the amazing grace
of God
that happened yesterday.
Child shoe. zendritic. CC BY-NC-SA.
Winter mornings
dawn in gray monochrome
before the sun bursts on the scene
like a passionate artist
with its gilded palette
Driving to work
in this gray in-betweenness
I note the doves
always sitting on the power lines
like heralds
their plump bodies
of soft sandy colors
framed by the oyster sky
reminding me:
look for the peace this day
live as peacefully as possible
this day
Then, in the strange way
of life
as I drive home
weary and worn
the golden part of the day
nearly spent
what should I see
on other power lines?
Hawks
big and breathtaking
still as statues
painted in shades of rust
They might remind some people
of raw bloodthirstiness
or predatory fierceness
but their beauty
fills me with such awe
that it’s all I can do
to keep my eyes on the road
driving home
as I think about how my winter days
are bookended by birds
and how there’s something
inherently sacred
and profoundly satisfying
in that.
Dove. Jim, the Photographer. CC BY 2.0
Red-Shouldered Hawk. goingslo. CC BY 2.0
(One of these days, when I can stop the car safely, I am going to get my own photos of my hawks…)
*******
with thanks to Ruth at SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog
for today’s inspiration to write:
“You are invited to linger in your winter memories, reach deep and pick a golden moment to share.”
Writing leads me
on so many journeys
today it was
to the center of the Earth
it all started with
using “compass”
as a metaphor
which led me to wonder
what really makes a compass work
why the needle points
to magnetic north
which led me to
the magnetic field
and crystals in the Earth’s core
and to the discovery
that these crystals
are a type of snow
(iron snow,
but still)
snowing there
in the molten middle
of our planet
and now I’m swimming
in metaphor
the compass nearly forgotten
because in my mind
I see it snowing in Earth’s core
and I know
it doesn’t look
anything like what scientists
are guessing at
and that’s okay
because I started
with only a compass
not even a tangible one
and I found myself
pulled into fiery living snow
hidden from human eyes
and I felt the flapping
of a majestic blanket
as it rippled far
into the heavens
making the auroras dance
to its rhythms
trailing their long veils of light
-where was I?
Oh, right, the compass.
The journey, the journey.
It’s why I write.
NASA’s THEMIS Sees Auroras Move to the Rhythm of Earth’s Magnetic Field.
NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. CC BY-NC 2.0
“The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living.” -Abraham Joshua Heschel
Epigraph in Atlas Obscura: An Explorer’s Guide to the World’s Hidden Wonders
(Foer, Thuras, & Morton).
On the first week back to school after the holidays, I spent time covering classes and duties for colleagues who are out due to COVID protocols. I arrived on campus each day not knowing what I’d be called on to do. This has been the pattern for the whole school year thus far, in fact, and it may continue until June…
But I am not going to focus on the intensified daily juggling act.
I will concentrate on the unexpected moments of light…such as when a colleague told me that my iPhone could understand spoken Harry Potter spells.
This I had to see for myself.
Hey, Siri: Lumos...and my flashlight came on. (Lumos is the spell that makes wands and lamps light up in the books in and movies, for those who don’t know).
Hey, Siri: Nox…and my flashlight turned off.
Hey, Siri: Accio Twitter…and my Twitter app opened up in my phone.
Tell me this is not a great wonder, technology.
Furthermore, the knowledge came in handy when I filled in for quarantined teachers in upper grades. I demonstrated the “magic” and wowed the kids.
That’s the thing about wonders…you want to share them. Wonders are not meant to be contained. They are contagious. They are forever beckoning and burgeoning.
So maybe the magic of Siri understanding Harry Potter is a small thing.
Maybe a greater wonder is finding the right book to inspire a reluctant reader. This past week it was not Harry Potter but books about children with physical limitations and differences who face extreme challenges. Out of My Mind by Sharon Draper. And, of course, Wonder by R.J. Palacio. They grip you from the start…
I pause to reflect here on all the wonder wrought by books in my own life. I feel the covers tingling with magic whenever I pick them up (maybe it’s just my anticipation).
Last week I watched the wonder on kids’ faces as they learned how a prism or raindrop separates light into colors. I watched in wonder as two students known for behavior issues stayed on task to complete their assignments when they were allowed to work together.
I thought, randomly, about the fireworks that went off in the distance on New Year’s Eve. My six-year-old granddaughter was spending the night. My husband and I allowed her to stay up. She heard the booming of the fireworks at midnight and wanted to see them. We went out on the back deck, but fog and trees obscured our view.
I’ve never gotten to see fireworks, said my granddaughter.
One day you will, I told her.
I like the sound of them. It makes me feel calm.
That filled me with wonder…I have never heard anyone express that about the sound of fireworks. Least of all a child.
Maybe the calmness has not so much to do with the sound but the place and the sense of safety…these are linked in their way to wonder. The unexpected, the new, a bit of uncertainty but also an embracing. The opening Heschel quote encapsulates it well: The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living.
Like a bright, beckoning burst suddenly illuminating a moment, a mind, a spirit.
Do you remember spending last New Year’s Eve with us, too? my husband asked our granddaughter.
Oh yeah! Can I stay here next year, too? And the one after that?
Sure you can! You can stay every New Year’s Eve if you want.
Even when I am fifty-nine?
Yes, even when you are fifty-nine.
Wonders upon wonders await.
Of this, I am sure.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge and the wondrous community of writers.
In my various morning readings
I encountered plagues
divine deliverance
fulfilled prophecy
epiphany
and wounded trees
weeping until their blood-sap
crystallizes
into fragrant resin
ancient gift of kings
and in one passage, this line:
It is almost too beautiful to believe
my mind is replaying
all these things
when I catch sight of you there
perched on a wire
against the eggshell sky
—an owl! No,
not in daylight
—a hawk
ancient bird of kings
winter sun glinting
on your snow-banded wings
—almost too beautiful to believe
my heart sings
3046 Red-Shouldered Hawk. Ashala Tylor Images. CC BY-NC 2.0
My hawk looked like this one. Stunning.
Hawks have a number of symbolic meanings, such as associations with Egypt, pharaohs, divine power, and salvation from slavery…I’d just been reading about these in Exodus.
I’d also been reading of the Magi.
Hawks, birds of keen vision, are also said to represent the ability to see meaning in ordinary experiences
—if one is willing to become more observant.
January morning
clear and still
rose-gilded clouds
aflame in the sky
like a royal canopy
fiery pink
presiding over
the stone-gray world
as I drive on
smoke wafts and lingers
after a slow descent
from chimneys
around the bend
a curious slanting of light
from behind me
winter-tilted Earth
catching the rising sun
at strange angles
the treetops ahead
become gold filigree
sun-dipped coronets
adorning bodies
enshrouded with shadow
the road I travel
twists and turns
the slanted light shifts,
striking the tree trunks
turning them crimson
blood-red
like arteries
conduits of life
not competing for sunlight
in this one moment,
just standing transformed
by oblique rays
—I revel
in the winter-slanted light,
thinking of how blood rises
to the surface
and how age-old secrets
stay hidden
deep within.
*******
I couldn’t take a picture of the scene on my early morning drive to work today. I can only try to recreate it with words. The sight left me awed and grieved at the same time: that the slant of the light could turn the treetops to lacy gold, could paint their trunks blood-red, and that these conditions might never replicate themselves exactly this way again.
I just happened to be in the right place at the right time to catch the haunting colorplay between the Earth and sun.
So much depends on perspective.
On the first Thursday of each month I write with fellow sojourners about our spiritual journeys. Margaret Simon leads the way on this first Thursday of 2022 with reflections on “one little word,” the writer-tradition of choosing a focus word for the year (thank you for hosting, Margaret).
This is the first time I have carried a word over from one year to the next.
Last year awe chose me by appearing in a quote on my planner when I had pretty much decided I wouldn’t choose a word. Perhaps the pandemic had left me jaded. Or simply too bone-tired to care. Nevertheless, there it was, an invitation to seek awe.
I accepted.
I never imagined all the awe that awaited in 2021.
The first grandchild was born into our family. Her big sister came to us by marriage at age three. She had been wishing for a little sister.
God is especially near to children.
Awe.
Baby Micah looks at me with the very eyes, from the very face, of my firstborn son. My husband and I wept at first sight of her.
Awe.
We lost one of our dearest friends in 2021. His last words to me were in response to one of my posts on awe: You are awesome in every way. Years ago he played Santa Claus at church for the children, when my oldest (the current new dad) was three. Nobody loved Christmas better; we spent every Christmas Eve together when my children were growing up.
He’s attained Heaven now. My youngest son, who’s become a funeral director apprentice, helped prepare his body for burial.
A symmetry, a grace.
Awe.
As the year ended last week, my family rescued a robin caught in the grille of a car after a trip down the interstate (read about it here if you like: The Robin). I couldn’t believe it was alive, that we were able to extricate it, or that it was soon hopping around my backyard eating worms in the unseasonably warm December.
Awe.
It chose me in 2021.
I am choosing it for 2022.
If you search the Internet for the benefits of awe, you will find lots of information: Awe reminds us that we are small parts of something vast and that’s good for us. It makes us care more for one another. It makes us healthier, calmer, more focused, more humble, less concerned for material things.
Spend time in nature and you’ll experience awe. Everything is connected, everything. I have seen a shy beige earth snake in the flowerbed glowing with bioluminescence. I have seen a deer running alongside dogs in a field, playing.
Spend time with children and you’ll experience awe. In the way that they see the world. In the way that they trust. And laugh. And dance. And sing. And love. Jesus said: I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to little children (Matthew 11:25, ESV).
Write, and you will experience awe. Yesterday I wrote on an unusual paraphrase of Jesus’ words in Matthew 11:28-30: “Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.” That line may stay with me forever. There is a flow, a pattern, a choreography to grace. As there is to the stars. Something too beautiful for words.
To realize that one is the recipient of God’s grace is awe. That He means for us to be free and not burdened is awe. That we exist at all, on this blue planet in the vast universe, is awe. That he wants us to learn of him is awe. That we play our short part in an ongoing story of humanity, forgiveness, redemption, and incomparable love, is awe. To know that unseen angels surround us is awe.
I know many stories like the one my grandmother told me, how people in farm communities nearly a century ago used to take turns sitting with someone who was sick and dying. It was Grandma’s turn to sit with the mother of her friend, Amanda. The old woman had been unresponsive for days, when all of a sudden, she sat up. Her face shone; she looked young again. She began to laugh: “Can you see them? Can you see them?”
She died that day. My grandmother never forgot the awe.
When it comes to spiritual journeys, be sure to invite it.
It is the fuel of eternity.
*******
also shared on SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog, with special thanks to Ruth for the “unforced rhythms of grace” inspiration.
x
Holidays over
first day back to school
we heard it might snow
what we get
is gale force winds
diagonal rain
and utter darkness
(oh, those kids waiting at bus stops…)
which is why so many don’t come
there are just four kids in one room,
six in another,
and so on
not to mention that at home
the power went out
before I could get ready
hardly an enchanting winter morn
except for candles…
when I finally arrive at work
my family texts
it is pouring snow here,
pouring
but when I look through the windows
don’t see any of it
not any
just cold cold rain
collecting in huge puddles
on this dark dark day
until
I pass a teacher in the hallway
leaning out of the glass door,
scouring the iron-gray sky
–are you looking for snow?
–oh yes, if it starts,
I am bringing my class
out here in the hall
to read Snowmen at Night…
just then, we see
the first flakes of white…
all over the building
children run to the windows
for every little bit of magic
they can find
or perhaps it’s more a matter
of letting the magic find you
or maybe even
a determination to
make the magic
yourself
for it is in yourself
just as it is
in every single
falling crystal
and most certainly
in books.
Detail of a magical mask design a colleague made and happened to give me today.
You will have caught the book connections in the first two photos; can you catch the last?
Plump little robin
we stand around you, aghast
at your misfortune
stuck there in the grille
of the SUV after
two hours’ interstate
yet you are alive
calling in your bird language
blinking and trembling
head twisting, trying
valiantly but in vain
to set yourself free
I think you’re impaled
except there’s not any blood
plus, your voice is strong,
full of warning, as
I lean in to examine
the situation:
both feet balled up tight
against your belly, somehow
straddling metal bars
wedged body, aslant
—can it really be intact?
—little eyes, so bright
that we three humans
standing before you in awe
vow to do our best
I grab a towel
(my childhood pet parakeet
often flew the coop
and had to be caught.
I learned to cover him first;
that small beak is sharp)
and we cover you,
but your loud cries of distress
tell us pulling hurts
—oh, you’re a fighter,
courageous little robin
biting at the cloth!
My sister-in-law
covers your face; my husband
hands me an ink pen
(ever-present in
his shirt pocket, a good thing,
as you never know
when you might need it,
in this case, to save a life)
so I wield the pen
through the metal grille,
through your feathers, bit by bit
freeing a pinned wing
until you’re sliding
into my cloth-shielded hands
like a newborn child
like a miracle
released at last, in the grass,
suddenly running
yes, flapping both wings
before taking a nose dive
into the clover
unable to fly
at least for now, surely bruised
needing time to heal
—the backyard becomes
bird rehabilitation,
bird sanctuary
where I can watch you
hopping along, pulling worms
these warm winter days
unseasonable
but I’m glad on your behalf,
keeping my distance
hoping predators
do the same, until you’re healed
and take to the skies
lucky bird, forgive
my bad Shakespearean pun:
you’re Robin the Plucked
for salvation comes
in the most peculiar ways,
begging the question
of mortality,
the taking and the giving
in daily living
these two days I’ve watched
your grounded red breast gleaming
by the old arbor
—today, no sighting,
inexplicable sadness
despite the wonder
of your survival
and the part I got to play.
Little Robin, plucked
to live life anew,
here’s to taking flight on your
wings and my prayers.
Robin the Plucked right after his rescue from the grille of my sister-in-law’s SUV. She’d driven down I-95 a few days after Christmas to visit us. Robin had some feathers askew from his ordeal but his wings weren’t dragging; my husband and I put him in our fenced backyard in hopes that nature would take its course, that he’d soon be fit enough to fly again (and that he’d want to). There are no words to adequately describe him enmeshed in that grille, very much alive and calling out, or for the sight of him immediately trying to run once we got him loose and laid him on the grass. I was amazed and elated to see him eating in the backyard with other birds that came and went the next day. I didn’t go near him again, as when I attempted it, he ran. I refused to distress him any more (heaven knows being trapped on the front of a car going 70 mph is enough for a lifetime). I joke that he’s my last good deed of 2021; I kept an eye on him all yesterday. On this first day of 2022, he is gone.
I keep watching, however.
One final observation, regarding the symbolism of robins: They’re tied to a number of legends and mostly positive connotations like spring and good luck (begging another question: Who’s the actually the bringer of luck here, Robin the Plucked or me?). But the perspective of Mother Teresa moves me most at present, as quoted in No Greater Love (Benenate & Durepos) on the legend of the robin and Christ’s crown of thorns: “Each of us should try and be that bird – the little robin. When we see someone in pain, we must ask ourselves: ‘What can I do to give them comfort?’”
Happy New Year and new life to you, Robin, wherever you are.
And to you all.
lit bits and pieces 