Sensing Light in the Darkness
At this time of year, the dawn of each new day, with all its uncertainties and possibilities, can remind us of the birth, more than 2,000 years ago, of a man of unmatched courage and strength and compassion and empathy, whose death at the hands of those then in authority sparked a faith that, despite its ups and downs over the centuries, can still bring out the best in all of us.
Woody Osborne
Winter record cold
Near-record snowfall,
But snow, dry.
Spring, dry,
Summer, dry,
Autumn, dry.
Would leaves turn
Brown, curl up,
Blow away in fall
Winds and rains?
But no!
Brilliant red maples,
Scarlet and crimson,
Neighbors
Orange, yellow, peach.
Fall fashion show followed:
Ash and poplar in yellow,
Birch in burnished gold.
Oaks appeared last in
Russet and burgundy.
Mid-November mountainsides
Still sported coats of
Many colors.
But ‘twas apple trees spoke
Of Advent,
Apple trees sang
Of Christmas.
Old apple trees,
Several each mile along
Country roads,
Old apple trees scattered in
Abandoned fields,
Some barren as long as Elizabeth,
Bearing fruit.
Apples, hundreds of apples on
Each tree,
Limbs bowed to the ground as if
To present
Their gifts to the Christ-Child.
Never red were redder,
Yellow more yellow,
Gold more gold.
Some dropped apples
Before leaves
Making a skirt of
Red or yellow
As if for a Christmas tree.
Others dropped leaves
Before apples –
Barren trees decorated with
Gold, red, yellow balls.
But some trees kept
Apples and leaves,
Apple leaves
More golden than I can
Remember.
Bright red apples
Hung amid leaves of
Gold.
No Christmas tree in
Rockefeller Plaza
Or White House lawn
More glorious.
If the leaves of autumn
Proclaim his Advent,
If the apple trees
Celebrate his birth
From August into
December, then
Who am I to
Protest
The premature singing of
Carols,
The wreaths of fir,
The holly and ivy,
Following close in the wake of
Thanksgiving.
This year in Maine nature
Celebrated Christmas,
Not “In Bleak Mid-winter,”
But in spectacular autumn.
Was creation not the first
Christmas
When all the stars
Sang
Together as God
Created the world,
When God first
Descended to earth and
Walked
Among trees of Eden?
And is Christmas
Not the healing of
Creation
When all the angels
Sang,
“Peace on earth,
Good will to all,”
And the Word became
Flesh
And dwelt among us?
As every Sunday
Is Easter,
Let every day
Be Christmas,
A day
To sing with joy,
To hope against hope,
To practice peace,
To love with abandon.
This we wish for you
This Christmas,
This season of
Christmas,
This year of
Christmas.
Gary Vencill
December 2015
For us, this year, this Advent 2021, this imagining is what Incarnation looks like. During this season of darkness while we are waiting for the return of the Sun and the birth of the Son, we proclaim the Light present in this community. And we are filled with HOPE.
Photo by Barbara Kourajian
We think you might like "Solstice," a poem of hope in dark times by a friend who wishes not to be identified by name. – Meg Graham
Solstice
In the soft, slant rays
of December sun,
in its late, rosy rising
and in the quiet sunrise radiance
that lasts the whole short day,
we can see for ourselves
how dangerously the spinning earth
has tilted from the sun.
We can sense for ourselves
the delicate balance,
the perfect poise
with which, at the last possible moment,
the ponderous globe begins to right herself
and, after the longest endurable night,
gently relents,
leans towards the light.
In the air’s strange mildness,
in the ground’s bareness,
in the flowering of branches
which should be hung with snow,
we can see for ourselves
how dangerously the seasons
have wandered from their course.
We can sense for ourselves
a delicate balance
lost.
And yet, we, too,
at this last possible moment
might still turn back,
still find a way
to let our planet breathe again
and blossom in her seasons.
And, should we choose
to turn again,
with what sweet hope the earth
might welcome winter’s turning
and the new year’s holy birth.
Annonymous
How dreary it is
to walk between the shadows
dragging my spirit with me
always two steps behind
I feel the darkness
searching for fulfillment
then brush it away gently
with both hands
Ann van Buren
Jane LaChance
Painting by Linda Moe
In the dark water of the deep pond
beneath the surface, a flame slowly moving.
(An airplane moving, high in the sky at night.)
Winged flames are found in such unexpected
places -
a torch at night in the thick forest,
a candle burning on a moon-lit desert,
a beacon on a starless ocean,
a memory of light sparked by a dead child's eyes.
My hope - nothing but rituals of light in dark.
I don't know whether that leads
away from one's life or into one's life.
I have suspected for some time now that
my own gnarled darkness, roiling with energies,
if uncovered, would become bright paths of fire.
Sylvan Moe
Photo of Antelope Canyon by Judy Madson
The Feast of Santa Lucia
Lucia: derived from the Latin word “lux,” meaning light
I remember walking the quiet streets of Oppdal, Norway in darkness to my daughter's barnehage (nursery school). Once inside, I took my seat in the darkened room, waiting in silence with the other mothers for the Lucia procession to begin. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, we heard the singing...distant but coming closer. Soon our three and four-year-old children were in the room, robed in white, carrying candles and bringing the light to us all.
I remember and honor this Scandinavian tradition by baking Lussekatter, the special buns for the day, every December 13th. During the baking, I enjoy the aroma of cardamom in the house and softly sing the words of "Santa Lucia."
~ Barbara Kourajian
“Carol’s Peaches” (photo by Carol Simanton)
In these dark days
I feel the insatiable need
to can peaches,
summer’s light carried in a jar.
Never mind that summer is over,
and the grocery store produce department
has moved onto apples.
There are sure to be a few peaches
still in the bin,
trickling north in trucks from Georgia
for those of us who can’t let summer
succumb to winter’s icy grip;
those of us who,
come the shortest day of the year,
will go down to the cellar
and bring up a jar of peaches.
And then,
in a liturgy of light,
will hold that jar up to the setting sun
(at 4:00 in the afternoon),
give thanks,
open the jar,
and take into our mouths
the golden sweetness of summer
in a defiance of darkness
no different than singing “alleluias”
at the grave.
Which means that today,
despite the thousand things
on my to-do list;
despite the scarcity of peaches
in the grocery store produce department;
despite the hunting I will have to do
in the barn in order to unearth
the canning jars,
I must can peaches
for the sake of holding onto hope,
for the sake of the light
that even now is fading,
for the sake of love
that knows no other way
of making itself known
than through the reach and breach
of limbs and peaches;
the feel of skin on skin,
the breaking open,
the letting go -
the fruit of summer sun
once saturated with light,
sliced to the seed,
slipped into jars,
stored in the dark,
where it waits
to be received,
conceived,
in the late
and waning light
of a winter’s afternoon.
Elaine Hewes
Photo by Ann van Buren
Gary Vencill
Dec. 10, 2014
APOPTOSIS, (ap·op·to·sis: the death of cells which occurs as a normal and controlled part of an organism's growth or development).
In the study of history, Arnold Toynbee points out : “Societies gain access to new energies and new directions only after a “time of troubles” initiates a process of disintegration wherein the old order comes apart. .. He showed how often the new orientation is made clear only after what he calls a “withdrawal and return” on the part of individuals or creative minorities within the society. The crucial change takes place in some in-between state or outside the margin of ordinary life…”
As we approach the winter solstice we enter the darkness. This transition point may well be the time to explore the other side of change. The series, The Year of Poppies, marks for me a shift in palette to saturated, primal colors. These Night Poppies reflect the rich interior world we enter this time of year and remind us that summer will come again. I pray with my work that Collective Renewal is happening individually and collectively during the dark months.
~ Patricia Wheeler
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