God’s First Gift

A tree reached out to me yesterday.
A leaf, fresh from birth motioned
to me to take a look and I
saw thin veins echoing my own.

On this Mother’s Day she
reminds me that many
are the relatives
giving birth.

It is said that it takes a
village to raise a child;
I think that it takes
a forest, or ocean,
or mountain, or leaf
to raise a soul.

There are many ways to
be born, to live, to die but
there is only one way to
know yourself and that is
by paying obeisance to
the earth, our first Mother,
God’s first gift.

Back from a Break

Observant readers might have noticed that I have been absent from stillvoicing for that last number of weeks. Some of you who know more of my life than others may have suspected that this is because of my broken elbow. This is, in fact, correct. My writing has been restricted by a broken elbow incurred the Saturday before Palm Sunday. I had surgery on Easter Sunday (all quiet in the hospital that day). I was in a cast for two and a half weeks after that. The cast disabled my ability to type but it did not impend my opportunities to learn, and so I share with you three important lessons acquired while in a restricted modality of life.

First lesson: go slow. The first bit of advice from my orthopedic surgeon to me after my surgery was “Don’t fall!” He repeated that after the removal of my cast. It was a fall that broke my elbow. While on a run I hit a patch of ice and took the full weight of my body on my right elbow. I am right dominate so the learning of going slow was nicely foisted upon me. But the good physician and my accident have commended that as a way of living. Going slow means savouring moments, and being present in the places you find yourself.

Second lesson: do less. Those of you who have broken bones or sustained other injuries know well that tasks done without any ado become impossible to do. And so, I had to learn to do less. But I had to learn to do less in a rather busy time. This happened at the end of term when marking was due. I tend to provide quite a lot of feedback on papers, which was now impossible without the ability to write or type. Instead, I made use of the audio file option on our online marking system. But the file only allows a five minute long file, and so I had to be succinct and direct in my comments. I had to do less, a practice that demanded doing what I did well. This, too, is a good life lesson, I think.

Third lesson: ask for help. I was unable to drive, and so my good wife became my chauffeuse extraordinaire. But she helped me with so much more, tying my shoes, making my meals, etc. Of course, she wasn’t the only person to help me out. Neighbours and colleagues helped me out with rides and this and that. Something as simple as having doors opened for me helped me to see that being helped is a way to affirm our common humanity and build relationships. Students, my hairdresser, and others helped me with coats, carrying things, and more. It is a humbling but humanizing thing to ask for help. I need to do this more, and I suspect most of us do.

Go slow, do less, and ask for help. These are things that my broken elbow said to me, and still says to me even while I have begun the slow process of healing. These are life lessons. I suspect I have heard these maxims before, but they have a certain gravitas now that is grounded in the source of the voice commending them: my body.

I Will Draw All to Myself

Yesterday I was in my office
upstairs when I was
caught unawares by
soap bubbles, rainbow themed,
floating by my window on the
wind. Our neighbour’s grandchildren
sported after these globes with
sticks, gleefully striking them
down with due diligence.

I hopped upon one for
a time and the Spirit carried
me up on it to get a bird’s eye view
of trees stretching out buds
of squirrels in serious play
of robins staking their claim.

From above I could see all of this
and more – so much more in these
two children reminding me that the
sermon I was labouring over was
playing out in the yard below.

May in March

Yesterday the Feather and Cross group from our church was to do a tour in the Sugar Bush with an Indigenous guide. We are a group of Lutheran Christians interested in learning more about our Indigenous neighbours and exploring ways to live in right relationship. We do a number of events throughout the year, and this would have been the third year with a trip to the Sugar Bush. It was cancelled because of the forecast for heavy rain and winds. Also, the trees are not running because of the unusually warm spring. It is as if we are experiencing May in March.

I recall, not so many years ago, hearing that the effects of climate change would be much more rapid than were imaginable. This prediction seems to be spot on, and leaves one wondering. There has, of course, rightly been much conversation about how the climate change reflects on humans acting badly. Others also weigh in on the observation that solutions, concerns, etc. are largely anthropocentric. This, too, is commonly true although we are starting to hear people reframing the crisis in a way that draws attention to the way in which other species are paying the price for our folly. Some, too, speak of the burden this is for the earth itself.

I recall, some years ago, having this image in my mind of the earth experiencing humanity as a pesky insect that it finally, on day, decides to swat. I find this image becoming more and more prominent in my mind, as things become increasingly apocalyptic. I’m not sure if we live with a willful blindness, or if we are caught in habits of activity that we cannot extricate ourselves from. But to call it troubling is an understatement and I wonder how the religion can assist in a time such as this.

A famous apocryphal tale told of Luther was that he was once asked what he would do should he know that the world would end the next day. He was reported to have said that he would plant an apple tree. Luther scholars scoff at the veracity of this although it is an interesting and possibly helpful way to frame how we should comport ourselves as glaciers melt, forest fires rage, and sea level rise. To plant a tree is a pledge to hope, even if it is hoping against hope. To deprive people of hope is evil, I think, even while I realize that hope without a reality check is dangerous – a luxury we cannot afford in this current time.

But perhaps there is some hope in remembering that wisdom traditions the world over have found a way forward in remembering that humanity is a partner with all of creation, and that our first ethical responsibility is to the past and future of the earth. Despair might seem like an easier solution than imagination, but holy hope can be found when we deny ourselves – both as individuals and as a species and imagine a different future, leaning for inspiration on the artists, poets, musicians, and scientists. Moreover, in learning to live with less we might discover again that in losing we gain, and in gaining less we redefine what more is.

Live Little

How do candles work such magic?
A little wax, a sprig of wick, and
with a flame they right
a room.

Hatred ebbs,
worries wane,
uncertainties erode,
and hope obtains
for a time.

It is amazing what a little
light does in its being little.
Brightness blinds and search
lights cast hard shadows.
But a gentle lumination hallows a room and
creates a warm space that slips inside.
The softness suggests Spirit,
birthing hope,
suckling faith,
begetting love
from a spirited candle,
teaching us to live little.

A Switch in Time

Today is the last day of reading week at the university where I work. In the past I have sometimes said that it would be more appropriately called meeting week, but this year was different. Meetings that were scheduled for this week were moved to next, and we were encouraged us to take advantage of the downtime as we were able. I am glad for this and so feel a bit more refreshed for the second half of the winter semester. The winter semester sometimes feels like a bit of a slug – the turn around time after the fall semester is short, we live in a post-Christmas vacuum, and the weather can be hard. This year it was especially drab with plenty of grey days and rain in January: dreary and worrying, too, with atypical temperatures.

Over the last few years, we opted to go to Lake Joseph over the Family Day weekend that begins reading week. This year, with the weather, we demurred and finally decided against it. We enjoy Nordic skiing and a bit of snowshoeing at the resort we have visited but this year we doubted that there would be enough snow. We looked at travelling south for some time in the sun but were a bit late and so didn’t really find any deals that interested us. So, in a last-minute decision we decided to spend a couple of days at Niagara Falls. I know some might think that a bit schlocky, but I really love being at the crest where the water crashes down. It does something to me – it fortifies me in some ways.

Over the years I have most often been at Niagara Falls with retreats or meetings, often staying at the Mount Carmel Retreat centre. This is a marvellous place on so many levels. We didn’t stay there but instead booked a hotel room overlooking the Canadian falls. Our goal was to be still, relax, read, and watch the water. Of course, we walked down the falls as well – I made three trips. I usually tell myself that I won’t take any photographs but of course I do.

We came back from our days away a bit refreshed. For the rest of the week I had some work tasks that I quite enjoyed doing at a less frantic pace. I worked on a grant application, had a couple of meetings regarding some publishing projects, and generally whittled away at my list of emails to answer. Friday included a lunch and learn offered by the Office of Indigenous Initiatives. It was rich and rewarding.

Yesterday I managed some relaxing reading and a run, and today I will turn my thoughts back to the rest of the term ahead. We are halfway through now and in a blink it will all go by.

I am glad for some down days. I am reminded that in the Genesis narrative even God rests on the seventh day – perhaps indulging some divine play. Times like this remind me of the need to attend to the quiet. I hope each of you has some such reminder from time to time that time utterly slips away from us unless we waste a bit of it now and then.

On the Breath of God

I recall one summer in my youth,
working at an institutional laundry,
where Alfred insisted in his Teutonic
accent, on being always busy.
The way to escape the drudgery
of each day – replete with
soiled uniforms and sheets
rendered with tears and tears –
was to be frantic.
Even coffee breaks were
frenzied with cribbage games.

Time remains an anomaly.

Some days race away, now into a day of delight
that becomes an eternal now and then
into the belly of a beast burdened with
too much to do and never enough time, racing away.

In days crammed with detritus we evade
pauses – the quiet that reveals both
the paucity of our scrambling souls and
the possibility of a humility
born in the realization
that we are a drop in the ocean,
we are dust in the wind,
a word on the breath of God.

Meaningful Travels

This last Wednesday, I travelled to Toronto to attend the book launch of Honouring Age by my friend Mona Tokarek LaFosse. Mona has been working on this book for some time, and so I was very happy to be able to join her and others to celebrate this labour of love. The completion of each of my publications has been a satisfying experience. But nothing quite compares to the experience of holding the first book with your name on it.

I opted to take the train to Toronto. I find train travel to be a bit of a balm, especially if the alternate involves driving the 401 at peak times. Another bonus was that the train got me into Toronto early enough to afford me the occasion to attend the Art Gallery of Ontario. I first became a regular there during my graduate days, when a student pass made possible a weekly visit for something like 40 dollars per year. It was an oasis. I kept up my membership after leaving Toronto although the loss of a student rate meant it was a bit more money. But still I ventured into TO a number of times per year, by rail, enjoying a day away with art. Covid destroyed that.

So I was happy to become reacquainted with the AGO, which now has a year-long pass for a mere $35 per year! I utterly enjoyed my time, wandering about aimlessly for a bit before visiting a Keith Haring exhibit on the fourth floor, whose work I saw at the AGO some years ago. It was fascinating and a little bit disorienting – in a good way. Afterwards I made my way down to the second floor, entering from the back of the building. I was soon utterly lost. I used to know the second floor like the back of my hand, but the AGO has re-walled the space, and mixed up the work on offer. They have thickened Indigenous representations and set these alongside of “old favourites” in a way that enriches the viewer’s experience.

I next walked north to Emmanuel College for the book launch, and along the way passed a street where some 22 years ago – in a restaurant whose name I can no longer recall – a festive dinner was held. The event celebrated the launch of a Festschrift that Pam McCarroll and I had shepherded to honour the career of my Doktorvater, Iain Nicol, now at peace in the womb of God’s love. It was a wistful moment when I paused my walk and looked down this avenue of memories.

The launch was successful and after a train ride home, I walked back to 185 Sheldon Ave. N., sated.

And then just yesterday I went for a walk on the Walter Bean Trail in Kitchener, following the steps that I had taken with two of my three amazing daughters just before Christmas. It felt a bit as if they were walking along with me, and as I looked up to see the geese honking and flying in various iterations of a “V,” I noted that one such flight pattern more closely approximated a check-mark, thereby giving me a fowl version of a thumbs-up, perhaps.

Travel is remarkable. Sometimes God saddles up alongside our pilgrimages to knead the memories of our bodies in a way that soothes our souls, and to arrange the detritus of our life into evocative collages. Sometimes a walk is just a ramble but when the stars, or geese, or art, or memories align the gamble that is life takes on a fleeting but breathtaking poignancy. And we step into the One stepping longside us.

Shards of Grace

Last weekend it snowed
shards of grace as if
the heavens shattered and
sprinkled powder of delight
wherever the eye could
see. Love lay down
feather-like in snow
drift and bank
of divine distraction.

This weekend it all
melted and left me in
the lurch – March mud
in January, and I am reminded
that beauty, like time, like weather
like life and death and the aging between
them is really not at my bidding,

But still, there is a wonder in mist,
in fog, and today I spot a startling
mass of moss on tree, my seeing softened
by light refracted in divers directions.

My wife tells me it has always been there
and I realized that just now I am there too.

Winter’s Canvas

January beauty is
sovereign – snow
crystals command
my attention. Flakes,
each tiny and a treasure,
join together in sculptured art
even while they close roads
and shut us in.

But isn’t that what
beauty does? It arrests
us and divests us of
distractions by prying us
free from inane necessities.

Beauty slips through
the pores of my skin
and once inside decides
for me, choosing me to be
the site of resurrection.

My flesh shivers and quivers
as I see You from the inside out
now in the soft contours of winter’s canvas,
now in a melting flake flooding
my shivering porous flesh.