Eagle Missing Inaction

I have been missing with inaction lately as it comes to this reflective journal because I have been busy working my way down a path in a storm.  I could not see further than a foot in front of me, and everywhere I stepped was washed out  terrain.   Have you ever thought you were in Atlanta and all of a sudden everyone is speaking a foreign language, nothing looks familiar and you realize you are in Little Havana, Miami, or some such place?  And you know no one in Little Havana and are completely incapable of appropriately expressing your need to get home...excuse me, sir, can you tell me how I got here?  Blank stare and "no comprende."  Your reality suddenly does not exist, and you realize that all of your coping techniques that you thought to be so effective do not work.   All that study, discipline and search for spirituality got you no where.  You are nothing.  If anything, completely stupid.  You are once again lost.  Dark Night of the Soul?  Gee, I didn't intend that, but when do we pencil in "dark night of the soul" on our calendars?  That's the point of a dark night, isn't it?  Sometimes we have things to learn.  We aren't there yet and too tired to go on.  But I know that one step leads to another leads to a brisk walk leads to a run leads to flight. 

One of my favorite Bible verses is Isaiah 40:31.  It says:

 "But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagels; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." 

Now I don't know what "waiting upon the Lord" means exactly.  My best guess is waiting on the Spirit to refill, clarify, comfort and direct.  I once read that part of the life cycle of the eagle includes a shedding of feathers, rendering all eagles, at some point, incapable of flight.  During this time other eagles bring food and water to the downed bird until the feathers grow back and the eagle can again fly.  There's no pretense there.  The downed eagle cannot pretend to be all right; he needs help and the instinct of his breed to preserve him. 

Are humans this way?  I think so.  Our breed probably will bring us food and water when we lose our feathers....if they know our feathers are gone.  And I am grateful for friends through whom the Spirit brings me food and water until I can again fly.

Marjorie Fair

It is rose season in the South!  The Lady Banks has long since bloomed, but now Prosperity, Climbing Pinkie, Sombriel, Old Blush, and my pet, Marjorie Fair, are in full bloom. 

Across from my house there used to be a garden fondly named "Miss Mary's Rape Garden."  No joke.  The story I hear is that many years ago the lawyer who lived in the house a block over earned a good deal of money defending a rape case a county over.  With the money he earned from the case, he had a garden on the back of the property planted for his wife, Miss Mary.  When I first moved into this neighborhood   remnants of the garden remained, dark and  overgrown.  The lawyer and Miss Mary no longer lived in the house.  The next owner sold the back of the block, and a house was built on what used to be Miss Mary's Rape Garden. 

Around the edges of the property were garden remnants, to include a rose that I never failed to see during my neighborhood walks.  Late spring, early summer this brilliant rose would peep out of the weeds on strong stalks after being mowed down by mowers, even during years of severe draught.  Which told me it was a real survivor.  I was so impressed with that rose's determination, I decided I had to have one.  So I took a clipping and looked her up.  It turned out to be a Marjorie Fair. 

I ordered a Marjorie Fair from Antique Rose Emporium and planted it in my garden.  It is beneath the diningroom window, and shortly after Easter every year, little red blooms start appearing through the diningroom window.  Jokes aside, nobody puts on a show like Marjorie Fair.   This rose has climbed all over the side of the house, gracefully I might add, and now covers a sizeable portion of the side wall of the house facing the garden.

Marjorie Fair is sometimes called Red Ballerina and Red Yesterday.  It is a modern shrub rose (1978), but it behaves like an antiques rose in its hardy lack of fussiness.  The blooms are not pure red, rather magenta with a good deal of blue.    

The Bungalow

Behind my house is a bungalow with two rooms and a bath.  Several years ago I had part of it made into an art sudio which thrilled me.  It was beautiful, but it did not work out.  It was too hot in the summer; too cold in the winter.  Many of my old projects are out there, and tonight I sifted through some of them looking for a particular work.   I found lives I remembered and lives I had forgotten.  Childish pencil drawings, college conte crayon sketches on brown paper, acrylic paintings demonstrating this or that principal, graded art design projects, so many faces and bodies I never knew, faces and bodies I knew very well, friends and lovers memorialized on paper, animals I love, houses I loved, projects that make me recall happiness, projects I cried through (the Mont Blanc ink drawing), projects  I worked on while slipping into places that were not real (a flower arrangement of pink and blue painted on a Florida porch), projects that bring back memories of euphoria drawn in country houses while high on pot, water colors painted while high on something else, ink images painted after rehab.  Collections during my pale aqua and black period and many, many fashion sketches.  I found so many unfinished ideas, completely finished ideas and, very significantly, the bohemia of my life - scarves of purple and green, ash trays that are works of art, books, paper, trays with pressed hydrangea, shadow boxes, beautiful bottles of ink, paint tins that are little works of art, lovely brushes, pen nibs, chalk, my favorite gouche, magazines from long ago with beautiful images, lovely bottles, neat art paraphenalia.  What a glorious cluttered mess of memory and renewed inspiration.  The energy of my spirit fairly hovers and vibrates through this collection that is all mine and only mine because no one else could appreciate this mosaic of passion.   

On the back of my property sits a bungalow containing a beautiful collection of lives I have lived and dreams I have dreamed so far.  Proving that one man's junk is another man's treasure.    

Episcopal Cafe

There is a new blog created by the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, Episcopal Cafe, and it is so worth going to see.  A mixture of news, art and spiritual writing, it is beautiful and entertaining.  Check it out.

God Dropped By

It is Easter Even, and many folks gathered at the church today to clean up and flower the nave.  After the job was done and everyone went home I went back over to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take some photos. Everyone worked hard to decorate the nave with azaleas, apple blossoms, and lilies.  The altar flowers of mauve lilies, delphinium, sweet peas and Queen Anne's lace sit in regal splendor waiting to be admired as they adorn a vase my friend, Linda, bought at an antique shop yesterday.  A white flower wreath hangs on the cross with tiny white tendrils reaching down to the altar.  It smells delicious in the nave and is a feast for the eyes.  The sacred space is quiet and peaceful and waits for the celebration of our risen Lord tomorrow morning.

Though my church was founded 149 years ago, the cornerstone for the stone church we occupy today was laid Easter  135 years ago (we had a rough time in the beginning losing the first church to a storm).  I'll bet those who came before us were with us today, will be with us tomorrow and are smiling that someone still loves it like they did.

This photograph was one of those aha photos that just thrills a photographer.  The light is right, you are at the right place at the right time and the reward is a moment of exquisite beauty captured forever.  Whatever happens tomorrow, today my church was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.  It will be brilliant tomrrow to welcome Christ back to life.

This image looks as if God dropped by early to say he approves.  

Accidental Ancient Customs on Good Friday

It is Good Friday, the holiest day of the Christian Year, and if you are like me you find incredible beauty in the starkness of it all.  The cross veiled in black, the stripped altar, the lack of pretense in anything we do, the leveling of the playing field, the scripture, the chants, the Spring beauty surrounding all of this observance of Christ's death.

Our office is closed for Good Friday, so it is no problem attending a noon Good Friday service.  Around my church we tend to clean up before Easter, mostly on Easter Even when we flower the nave.  But a few years ago I got to hankering to orange oil the altar on Good Friday, something not typically done.  Our altar, a memorial to a rector from 1870 - 1880 and his wife, is a solid wood treasure that is fully seen only when stripped after the Maundy Thursday service.  So it has now become something of a tradition for me and several of my friends to go over with our orange oil and rags and clean the altar and the chancel furnishings.  Only later did I learn that it is customary to clean altars on Maundy Thursday, called "Clean Thursday" with water and wine (from the book Encyclopedia of Easter, Carnival, and Lent by Tanya Gulevich):

"In some churches the altar is ceremonially stripped of all its cloth coverings at the end of Maundy Thursday services. Other cloth hangings are also removed. This stripping leaves the church with a stark appearance, thus preparing it for the mournful services that take place the following day on Good Friday. It also gives those in charge of cleaning and decorating the church an opportunity to wash everything thoroughly in preparation for Easter. This custom fits well with the day's nickname, "Clean Thursday," although most writers believe that this name came about from an old tradition encouraging people to bathe and clean their clothes on Maundy Thursday in preparation for Easter. In the Middle Ages the floors and walls of the church were scrubbed on Maundy Thursday. Moreover, altar tables were ceremonially washed with water and wine, an act that symbolized Christ's blood washing the world clean from sin."

I wonder if there is something in human nature that makes us want to clean the altar during Holy Week.  I didn't know that was a custom when I did it the first time since it was not done in my church and I never read about it.  Is it a symbolic annointing and the only thing we can do to honor and comfort our God while he is dying for us?    I have been contemplating ordering some Spikenard oil to include in next year's oiling to include the oil with which Jesus was annointed prior to his death.  Would that make this annointing a sacrament?  Would it not be an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace; an outward sign of gratitude for the inward realization of salvation?

It is a peculiar thing to find oneself doing something, only afterward to learn that it is an ancient custom.  It is a calling to join the grief and hope of the communion of saints and actually become an active participant in this event which, when relived, is experienced in a newer realer way.  Sometimes these little things blow me away and make me certain that I am part of something very, very mysterious and powerful at its core.

Easter: When The Sun Dances and Rocks Sing

It is Holy Week, and we celebrate the final moments of the life of Christ, reenacting the institution of the eucharist, his death on Good Friday and his return to life on Easter morning.

I cannot say that I enjoy this part of the Christian Year best, but I can clearly say that it has the greatest impact on me. I ponder, study and read a good deal this time of year. I wonder what it all means, how loyal would I have been, how unimaginable to see him suffer and die, the veil decorated with angels ripping in the temple, the indescribable joy in the garden seeing him alive again!  Mary...Teacher?....

The more I ponder the events of the crucifixion and resurrection I am amazed by the cosmic significance of these events, and I think that I "get it" a little better every year. This is much more than an event in history. Our memesis, or reliving, the events convinces me that all of creation hung in the balance as Christ hung on the cross. He did have a choice. He chose not to come off of the cross and destroy this creation. This is why we are here today.

One indicator of the cosmic nature of Holy Week is found in Luke 19:37-40. When Jesus entered Jeruselem the crowd of followers joyfully praised God for the miracles they had seen and cheered "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord, Peace in Heaven and glory in the highest!" This was something that got under the skin of some Pharisees, so they urged Jesus to rebuke the gleefully loud followers for saying this. Jesus said " I tell you, if they keep quiet, the stones will cry out."

Think about that...the stones will cry out (!). The cosmos would cry out; nature itself would cheer him on if the followers did not. The concept has filled me with awe since "Jesus Christ Superstar" when I first noticed that specific statement of Jesus. All of nature would hail him. My, my.

And another of my favorite stories of the cosmic nature of Holy Week and Easter comes from Carmina Gadelica,  Alexander Carmichael's collection of prayers, hymns, charms, songs, poems, incantations, blessings, runes, and other folklore in Scotland among the Gaelic speaking people there between 1855 and 1910. Every Easter I revisit the story of  Barbara Macphie of Dreimsdale who gave testimony to seeing the sun dance on Easter morning in joy for a risen Saviour. 

Barbara watched her whole life to see for herself if the Gaelic myth were true.  Only once did she witness this cosmic celebration, and she described it as follows:  " The glorious gold-bright sun was after rising on the crests of the great hills, and it was changing colour--green, purple, red, blood-red, white, intense-white, and gold-white, like the glory of the God of the elements to the children of men. It was dancing up and down in exultation at the joyous resurrection of the beloved Saviour of victory.  To be thus privileged, a person must ascend to the top of the highest hill before sunrise, and believe that the God who makes the small blade of grass to grow is the same God who makes the large, massive sun to move." 

Perhaps Barbara believed enough that one time.   Perhaps someday I will join Barbara Macphie in believing enough and be thus privileged to witness the stones cry out and the sun dance for joy as the cosmos celebrates the risen Lord.  

Up On A Roof

My garden is a natural sanctuary about now.  It is a very beautiful place to me even though I have spent the best part of a month cleaning it up and getting it ready for Hot Season.  It is only ten years old but has an ancient feel to it because of the wall, the ivy and the plants that live there.  It is an incredibly Southern garden, and everything about it makes me feel at home.

I describe this as an "incredibly Southern" garden because it is planted with many of the old Southern plants my relatives grew when I was a child.  The front room of the garden, not pictured here, is primarily planted with white azaleas and blue hydrangea.  There are also hostas, wax myrtle, Lenten Roses, ferns and Agapantha (African Lily that is the bluest of blue and the flower of Mary Magdalene).  This room is mostly a shade garden, shade provided by Natchez (white) crepe myrtle, a Yoshino Cherry and a Vitex (aka Chaste Tree with very blue blooms).  It is the oasis every Southerner needs from the brutal heat and humidity. 

The back room of the garden, pictured here, is shaded by dogwoods (one planted on Good Friday 2000) and around the courtyard are pittosporum, azaleas, antique roses and Viburnum.  This part of the garden gets more sun in the afternoon, but it is mostly somewhat shaded and comfortable most of the day. 

Monday morning before work I had to get on the roof to clear a gutter that was clogged.  The view was so spectacular I had to take a couple of photos.  This was my rose, and I stopped to smell it, even on a frantic Monday morning.  Oh, how I wish there was time to linger and think about the perspective of my world from up on a roof.  I remember and hum an old Carol King song remade by James Taylor that always had good memories for me:

"When this old world starts a getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
Ill climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, its peaceful as can be
And there the world below dont bother me, no, no

So when I come home feeling tired and beat
Ill go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Ill get far away from the hustling crowd
And all the rat-race noise down in the street

On the roof, thats the only place I know
Look at the city, baby
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Lets go up on the roof

And at night the stars they put on a show for free
And, darling, you can share it all with me
Thats what I said
Keep on telling you

That right smack dab in the middle of town
I found a paradise thats troubleproof
And if this old world starts a getting you down
Theres room enough for two
Up on the roof..."

I love to sit out in the garden and listen to the fountain around sunset, but nothing compares to the brillance of early morning.  Unless I am working there I never stay long because I have way too many things to do.  Still, I love to tend this garden and see it develop every Spring into an outdoor room that is an extension of my diningroom and sunroom. 

I wish you were here to have a coke float with me and sit out in the garden and chat for a few hours.  This is a good time of year for that before it gets so hot.   Later this summer some of my friends are planning to come for a fruit party.  We'll have loads of fresh fruit like peaches, pineapple, watermelon, grapes and, no doubt, homemade ice-cream out in the garden.  That is tentatively set for Memorial Day weekend. 

So from Alabama I wish you a lovely Spring full of lessons from the plants about living, dying, returning, resiliance and brilliance.  I wish you sunny days, gentle rains and breezes to rustle the leaves of your trees and make them glitter in the sun.  I wish you perfect exposure, low humidity and for the deepest part of your garden to quietly grow violets so small you have to get on your knees to examine their perfection.  If you don't get those thing, go up on a roof and see if you can find a different perspective to reveal, if only for a moment, a paradise that's trouble free.     

Exaltabo te, Domine

Psalm 30

 1 I will exalt you, O LORD,
       for you lifted me out of the depths
       and did not let my enemies gloat over me.

 2 O LORD my God, I called to you for help
       and you healed me.

 3 O LORD, you brought me up from the grave  ;
       you spared me from going down into the pit.

 4 Sing to the LORD, you saints of his;
       praise his holy name.

 5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
       but his favor lasts a lifetime;
       weeping may remain for a night,
       but rejoicing comes in the morning.

 6 When I felt secure, I said,
       "I will never be shaken."

 7 O LORD, when you favored me,
       you made my mountain stand firm;
       but when you hid your face,
       I was dismayed.

 8 To you, O LORD, I called;
       to the Lord I cried for mercy:

 9 "What gain is there in my destruction,  
       in my going down into the pit?
       Will the dust praise you?
       Will it proclaim your faithfulness?

 10 Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me;
       O LORD, be my help."

 11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
       you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,

 12 that my heart may sing to you and not be silent.
       O LORD my God, I will give you thanks forever.

Looking Glass