A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

Sylvia Plath

Advent poetry and poets

The time draws near the birth of Christ

The moon is hid; the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

----

Ring out a slowly dying cause.

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

From Alfred Lord Tennyson's "In Memorium"

Religion and Ethics Newsweekly is an erudite and informative PBS program that usually airs on Sunday afternoons in my area. On the website, you can get a brief synopsis of upcoming stories.

This is one I didn't want to wait for and so I share it with you in this season of Advent-tide. It's a little history, a little literary, and all Emmanuel. Poetry, there is nothing more mystical and able to convey the Advent anticipation and quiet excitement of the season. Here are examples of poetry for Advent/Christmas, some of which I had never heard of, but am delighted to find.

I think you will find them a spiritual and mystically influencing way to approach the season of waiting. I know I have...

Floundering and finding

I am not sure where this entry will eventually end up as my mind is in wandering mode at the time of this writing...

We have had a strange and unusual Spring here in southern Oregon. Here it is nearing the end of April and we are still getting snow in the mountains and the valleys, including my own. It could be another one of those years where we are in the 40's and 50's until the first of May when it will--as before--rocket to 80 degrees within 24 hours and leave us all stunned and coming down with colds...joy.

I want the warmth to come, the light, bright and good, the greening of my world. I need the light to shine in the darkness of my weary spirit; weary from grief, loss, hurriedness, workday stress, the loneliness in the crowd kind of feeling, the stillness of my home. I want to put my hands in the earth and inhale her in all of her fertility and life-giving presence. I want...no, I need flowers and growing things to involve my hands and heart in moving meditation and in those moments, continue a silent dialogue with God about everyday stuff, and about what I'm to do with my life, aside from the usual perambulations of the every day.

I spoke with my spiritual director this last Sunday, and we talked about finding our identity as women of our respective generations. From where we have been to where we are now and what the future may make of us in time. There are times when I find myself in a mental desert searching for myself, if only I knew what I was looking for, I may find it. Or maybe its a mountain I must climb to test my endurance of the seemingly ordinary. On other days I think I have figured it out but you know, we never really do...figure "it" out that is. We lead ourselves to think we are coming within reach only to discover that we are further away than we initially thought. This is when I tend to want to simply forget about ever discovering that "thing" I am supposed to be. And why is that so important? To try to fit myself into an identity or a role that I think I am to engage for the rest of my life.

I have been silent in this blog for a while. Yes I did write a rant on letter-writing which I didn't announce to my usual list of readers but just let it sit there to be found by those who might happen by. Lisa Fox of My Manner Of Life has also been in silent mode. I have read some blog entries by similar spiritual women who have wondered if their blogs should or could continue. Closeted Pastor and Gartenfische have approached this subject and I like what they say about it, and the support they have received to keep on writing. All three of these blogs by these extraordinary women should continue in my opinion but then I am selfish in this respect because I love reading fine writing about things that really matter in life. I know I can find substance in each one of these places given the articulate prose.

When you are a searching person like me, you need inspiration in its many forms. Being a lover of literature I have found some especially good places to immerse my often empty cup of myself and find myself filled with refreshing word images and enlightenment. Recently I found Choralgirl
and her poetry offerings as well as her prosaic commentary on poets of our time to be refreshing and enriching. I also recommend the pithy writings of the author of Wyrdbyrd's Wyrld where topics are many and the views are varied. And if its the Barkings of an Old Dog that you want to hear, I offer you Clumber, who's perspective is vertically diminished yet brimming with good bites and dreams...of bites...of something, preferably tasty sans drool. I find that dogs always have something sage to offer us, either silently [its the eye communication] or physically [dragging us by the leash, or depositing wet tennis balls in our hands]. I love the picture of Laika, the space dog's memorial statue in Moscow. I earnestly encourage you to take a look. Somehow Clumber pawed his way through cyberspace to find it.

And as Clumber is a seeker of God and of the doggy esoteric, I too am seeking God in the everyday, in the dogs [I am becoming partial to golden retrievers, hence the blatant dog picture] I happen upon [and occasionally the kitties; most definitely the rabbits], in the people I meet, intentionally or otherwise...perhaps my journey is about them, or they are in some way a part of my journey in finding out who I am and what I am to be. I welcome the thoughts of my readership and their perspectives on the matter. I admittedly say that I become tired of feeling lost in certain aspects of my life. But maybe this is the way its supposed to be: that there is no "fitting in", that we are always going to be in a state of flux. Perhaps in my spiritual life, floundering is part of the finding. Either way, I am never alone.

Catherine

The photo of Mt McLoughlin is courtesy of the USGS and the picture of Dewey the golden retriever is courtesy of his human, Shawn Nolson at shawnolsen.net. The sleeping volcano that is Mt McLoughlin is in huge, plain view of my office in the northern part of the Rogue Valley of southern Oregon.

"Logos"

Why wonder about the loaves and the fishes?
If you say the right words, the wine expands.
If you say them with love
and the felt ferocity of that love
and the felt necessity of that love,
the fish explode into the many.
Imagine him, speaking,
and don't worry about what is reality,
or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
If you were there, it was all those things.
If you can imagine it, it was all those things.
Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word
spoken with love.

~ Mary Oliver ~

From: Why I Wake Early, written in Memory of John Paul II

A new poetry blog

Hi there all...

Though this is not a posting of thought-provoking poetry or prose, it is worth shifting gears to bring it to you and your attention.

In my Lenten musings, I have come across a new-to-me blog called The Grotto. It is about the poetry of Anne Skelton, and apparently hosted by her as well. She is somewhere in my neck of the American woods but her offerings are in their early stages and sort of reflect some of our Northwest seasonal affective disorder. Some if not all deal with personal loss for now, but in communicating with her, she promises things will get lighter as time goes on. It seems that a good friend of hers has persuaded her to create this blog for her own expression as well as the enjoyment of others.

As I perused the blog I later had to ask her if she was going to leave it with only the written word or would she put up some photos or art work; she said she didn't know; she paused, sort of shrugged invisibly in her letter and then told me she thought that maybe that would be a good idea [yay! For me!]. She moves deliberately and thoughtfully so let's all be patient. Currently she has four works up at The Grotto and some links to poetry sites she finds edifying and "beautiful".

So, in your journeys, I urge you to stop off at The Grotto and rest awhile as you read some soulful work wrought of words.

Catherine+

...living Lent in the fast lane....

"All My Stirring Becomes Quiet"

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.


Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.

Wendell Berry [1934 - ] was born in Kentucky following 5 generations of Berrys who raised tobacco. In 1987 after an extensive education [his classmates were Larry McMurtry, Edward Abbey and Ken Kesey at one point] and writing career, he returned to the English Department at the University of Kentucky to teach and write. He is a prolific writer of novels, short stories, poetry and essays. He has won numerous literary awards and prizes, and continues to write to this day.

First two photos courtesy of Google Images

Last photo courtesy of Webshots