A Metaphor for Life

This beauty is so stark;
plying my mind with
sensual gestures.  Here
we find diamonds in the drift.
Yet, these marvels caressing my
eyes are but clusters of crystals of ice –
sharp and exact under a microscope
while soft and generous in the
play of the day’s rays of sun.

These drifts stand in opposition to a seemingly straight
line, that is but a throng of dots upon closer inspection.

Drift beside line: together a metaphor for life.

What seems straight is a crowd of clumps and
what curves is a collection of crystalline lines,

Things are not as they appear:

the grave now Your womb and
my kindness Your cross.

Never takes no…

Water never takes no
for an answer. It
penetrates or
persuades, as befits
the occasion. There is
a life lesson in this:

what once gave life now destroys
what once laid waste, now gently

coaxes the cow, the crow, the corn
growing now in my garden. Water
will not be gainsaid, it is the
persistence of the Syrophoenician woman, it is
the widow who demands justice of
the unjust judge, it is
the moment when
all hell breaks loose, and you
do not know how it will
end. Water
will not be tamed,
will not be domesticated
and this image of God
coursing through my body
now calms, now rages,
now evaporates,
but it never

Easter in Mondays

I remember, some years ago reading a very fine book by Nicolas Lash entitled “Easter in Ordinary,” which referenced “heaven in ordinary” from a poem by George Herbert (entitled “Prayer (I)”). The point of the book and poem both was that Easter shaped experiences of grace sometimes surprise us in the seasons named “ordinary.” For those not conversant in church-speak, those are the times of the year not dedicated to seasons such as Christmas, Easter, Lent etc. Seasons ordinary are exactly that, and so the poet points to the surprising character of Easter insights in ordinary time.

I have always been a fan of ordinary time, but even more so a fan of ambiguous time. “Ambiguous time” is not a liturgical designation, and as far as I am aware, is a term I have invented. I will happily hear of evidence to the contrary. At any rate, ambiguous time points to those days not quite ordinary, but neither extra-ordinary. I think, in particular, of Boxing Day, or Easter Monday. These are days that live in the shadow of the big days, and so seem even less ordinary than ordinary time, which has taken some distance from High, Holy Days. In a way, Easter Monday, is exceptionally ordinary to the extent that it stands back so that Easter might have its full sway.

But for foragers of the divine in the rough, Mondays such as this – and in fact all Mondays as the day after Sundays, which are known liturgically as a little Easters – are rich in retrospect and relief. Retrospect because such days are days set aside to mull over what occurred the day before, and relief (as in rest but also in the artistic sense of the word, that is something cut away so that something else comes to the fore) because these are days that step back so that Sundays shine, and Easter Sunday in particular.

What was this Easter Monday for me? This Easter Sunday gave me the second opportunity in a two years to spend the Easter weekend with one of my daughters in their towns: last year in Halifax and this year in Ottawa. Easter was doubly out of the ordinary, then, giving me occasion to experience worship in a different church, meals at different tables, and yet a familiar joy at the narrative of new life and the hymnody of deep and abiding hope.

Easter Monday, by contrast, was spent back at home and doubly ordinary – allowing me to recall that the gift of being outside my familiar surroundings long enough to appreciate them, and short enough to pine for these days away to return. Easter Monday was not quite sorrowful, yet wistful in a good way; that is, it announced a longing for such days to return in times ordinary as well. Easter Monday, it seems, gave me and gives us just enough distance from Easter Sunday to remember that it was gift, and yet there is an equally profound gift in Mondays themselves, in that they serve as a bridge to the week by providing a little distance, a little space, a little bit of ordinary mixed in with their holy to make it possible to be in awe that the Word made flesh can be heard well in the vernacular and in ambiguous times.

Prodigally Content

How many poems are in me?
Is it a host? Or legion?
Or only one more?
I was going to count, but
demurred, recalling their
surreptitious character.

But I do know that every
now and then, a poem
deigns to let go, and
then again like
an echo
comes back to haunt me,
about my ear –
foreign yet familiar and
prodigally content
to shadow me.