Christmas Wind

As the wind howls around the corners of the house, Sam comes to me, looking out toward the beast he cannot see, fear shaking though him. The weather folk dismiss it with explanations of low and high pressure systems through the area. But some call tigers cute. The grumble of a tiger’s purr does nothing to deny the beast’s power and ruthlessness.

It came to us at full roar, pushing the sea, claws and teeth tearing our homes and lives to splinters. It left us cold and shaking, clinging to each other, reminded of our weakness.

And now on the eve of Christmas it howls again. No name, no coverage in the media. But Sam’s trembling next to my leg and the power flickered again, thousands with lightless Christmas trees and wreathes. The memory of the beast breathes on our necks.

This season should be full of heavenly peace, touched by affection. But this should rings hollow when we consider our proximity to the eternal, multi-dimensional reality blowing through the world. It is what we celebrate, angels, messengers of the maker presenting an agenda that invaded and overturned lives, leaving them clinging to each other.

And so, we find the two things the tiger, the storm, and Christmas have in common. The wonder that they bring, leaving us in awe, reminded of glory that transcends our small agendas. And the truth that if we are to find peace in this life it is at the knee of our loved ones. Sam understands. He knows what to do when the beast howls. We can learn from simpler friends.

Listening to the Bunch

Every year around this time, I bring a lot of plants indoors. They’ve been in the back yard since the end of April, basking in the dappled glory of lazy summer afternoons. But now as the temperatures drop, the rubber plants, the philodendrons, the palms, and all their cousins aren’t equipped to handle icy winds. So, I lug these old friends into my sun porch.




They’ve made the trip before. But I swear I can hear them grumbling. ‘Yo, dude, we don’t like it in here. No sun, dry air, what do you think we are, desert plants? Come on…’ I could go on, but you get the idea. I feel sorry for them, but the alternative is death. So I put up with the abuse and keep wedging them into the available space.



Now they’re adjusting, figuring out how they can make the best of the new digs. I know how they feel. Summer is hard to loose and winter’s extremes aren’t easy on anything. But I’m glad we have the space and I’m grateful my family is willing to put up with the winter population. Hey, they clean the air and add moisture to the environment. Now, if I can shut them up, maybe we can have some peace.

To Everything There Is a Season

It’s almost October. Here come the playoffs, baseball that is. It can be confusing. It’s football season. I bleed blue, big blue. If I had another child to name, I’d seriously consider Eli. So, how do I do justice to my Yankees? Baseball and Football, two very different sports, played in very different seasons.




One has to do with finesse, fine motor skills, with a rhythm that matches the heat and humidity of summer. Baseball breaths with a rhythm that watches the shadows move across the field for hours. It inhales as the pitcher waits for the catcher’s signal, winds up and slings the ball toward the plate. The batter swings, lifting it high into the blue, as the left fielder shifts slowly, gazing upward, waiting, waiting, accepting it, a gift from the sky.



The other shoves armored monsters into each other, trying to knock each other down. They rush, tackle, claiming territory until they can make a strike that dominates the opponent. Its rhythms are brutal, radical, moving up and down quickly like the temperatures of the season, temperatures that break and kill.



How can I enjoy both? Either I’m schizophrenic, or the rhythms of the seasons do something to my sensibilities. Perhaps to everything there is a season.



But I still wonder, what do I do about October?

Equinox

Planets are too large to put into any category that makes sense in our daily normality. The words immense, huge, gigantic are descriptive only in poetic terms. They do little to give meaning to these immense, huge, gigantic chunks of stuff that sail through the silence at speeds that are just as meaningless as immense, huge, and gigantic, held close to the light by reins of force that transcend our understanding. Some who study and compute have descriptive concepts attended by numbers and squiggles that do little to allow us to make sense of it all. Oh, now we understand, we say. No, we don’t. All we have is a description in another language. But the chunks of stuff, including the one we live on, sail on beyond our understanding. Twice a year the planet where we live comes to a place of equal shadow and light. Our ancestors that didn’t have our sophistication (in other words no numbers and squiggles) took these moments to be full of potential and possibility, as anything that’s balanced does. They understood with their awe the size and power of the chunk of stuff that made this happen. They knew that they were small and vulnerable. They also knew that important things happened on this day. My favorite is the possibility of balancing eggs on end. (If you never saw it, try it. Then try it again). The older I get the more I find myself advancing away from the silly arrogance of scientific descriptions. I don’t disbelieve them. But they are so inadequate with their squiggles and numbers. Even if all of that really made sense to me, those computations can’t touch the size and shape of these chunks of rock, their speed, or the powers that move them. I find myself looking into the night sky, feeling the living power of the beast on which I ride. My hand rests in the grass, its fur, and I know again humility.

Socked In

We went on our annual pilgrimage to North Carolina. We rent a small condo that overlooks the beach. The ocean provides our background. We sit just beyond the tide’s reach, Chris working on a needlepoint of hydrangeas that only progresses on the beach, and I reading books, smoking Ashton cigars, and body surfing. It’s a safe haven from our normality that tends to wear us down. It’s a port in the storm. This year we couldn’t take our morning walks or sit under our umbrella. Thunderstorms pounded the Crystal Coast for five out of seven of our vacation days. Now and then we trundled down to the beach and got some sun between showers, but the storms ruled the week. You’d think we’d be disappointed or upset. But the truth be told, we were fine. The hours were peaceful, filled with silly conversations, cooking, reading, watching lightening hit the ocean, and mostly being together. The time of life was sweet, sitting on the beach or not. I do not understand why we insist on supporting a soul-eroding pace that offers us little time to listen to the birds, appreciate the flowers, and discuss how Motzart’s sense of humor is evident in his music. I’ve heard that the only difference between a rut and the grave is depth. I think our normality is a destructive rut. I can’t please everybody, or do everything that needs to get done, especially when my agenda doesn’t include taking care of my marriage, my sense of humor, or my soul. I guess that means I’m not going to get ahead. Oh, well. I never did figure out who I was trying to get ahead of anyway.

Birth

The power of birth is not in the one that is born, vulnerable, squalling,
Having no hope or despair, just discomfort, and primitive fear.
They are refugees, torn from their homes and given freedom to…
When before they had freedom from… A terrifying trade.

It is in the moment of birth that power blooms. That modulation that drags all
To a new cord, a theme, an improvisation invited by this shift in freedom.
Each experience in our living mimics the original, offering choices from the womb
Of what was, into the world of what can be. A terrifying shift.

But all our births lead finally to mystery, shrouded in the dark of death. We know little
Of this transition. We fear it and deny anything beyond the womb of what is
Limited and confusing as it is, we know it. To consider anything but what we know
Is foolishness. It is to lose what little reason and sense we have here. A terrifying prospect.

But the empty tomb invites us to another birth. Invites us to see beyond the blindness
Of here and now’s limitation. Invites us to hear more than muffled cacophony. Invites Us to live into a new freedom, beyond survival’s threats. He is risen! But we are the Ones born! He knows us and calls us by name. He calls us home. Be not afraid!

The Lord is risen indeed! Hallujah!