Dark December Days–Monday Meanderings

Today is dreary. My meditation time was drearier. I look out the window and the branches are bare. The few leaves that remain hang listlessly. There is no breeze to stir up some action. Not a bird shows up to feed on the fruit that remains on the ornamental pear tree. Everything is still, empty.

Photo Credit: David Slotto

I’m in concert with nature until I remember that it’s the first Sunday of Advent. Celebrated in Christian communities, Advent marks the four Sundays leading up to Christmas—the arbitrary date chosen to commemorate the birth of Jesus.

The word Advent is derived from the Latin word for “coming.” It denotes an attitude of anticipation, expectation, hope, waiting—much like that of the early Jewish people who lived in expectation of a political Messiah who would deliver them from the tyranny of the Roman occupation of Israel.

Understood from the Christian perspective, which views Jesus as the Messiah, this deliverance is spiritual rather than political. Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world.” In this sense, I find that the spirit of Advent offers a message for people of all spiritual traditions.

We are attuned to the seasons of the year. We mirror them in our own lives. When nature sleeps, we may experience our own emptiness and know innately that there must be more than decorations and shopping and whatever else we turn to in order to dispel the darkness within.

Advent is the season for the child inside of each of us. It a time to be excited about what is yet to come, to believe in a spiritual Santa Claus who will appear in his own time to fill those empty spaces in our heart and spirit. When we are surrounded by barren landscape, those gifts will fall gently into our lives like pure snow. We await beauty. We hope for peace.

Photo Credit: scrapsoflight.blogspot.com

This image is that of an Advent Wreath. In Christian churches and homes, a candle is lit on Saturday Eve each week to open the vigil of Sunday’s observance. Usually the candles are purple to make that sense of emptiness however, on the Third Sunday, Gaudete Sunday, a pink candle promises joy. Gaudete means joy in Latin–the first word of the reading from Isaiah–Rejoice, Israel. Your salvation is drawing near (my paraphrase).

Written on Sunday for Monday Meanderings. The sun decided to show up and the birds are having a great time in our pear trees.

For more indepth reflections on Advent, shared by writers and poets of many spiritual traditions, I invite you to check out Into the Bardo, an interdenominational site that will post an Advent-related essay or poem every day until Christmas. One of the things I appreciate most about this site is that it highlighst similarities, rather than differences between many diverse spiritual points of view, showcasing, somehow, they most often converge into a whole. Differences are respected and teach us new ways of understanding mystery. It is sites such as Into the Bardo that will, we hope, bring us closer to one another. Into the Bardo is hosted by poet/author Jamie Dedes with the help of contributing authors. I am honored to be one of them.

Depouillement–Monday Meanderings

Photo: V. Slotto

In French, the verb depouiller means to strip or to skin. It’s a harsh word. For me it conjures up images of bleeding or, at the very least, nakedness. It’s the word used to describe what happened to Jesus when they tore his clothes from his body before crucifying him.

That word came to me this morning when, during my quiet time. I sat facing the window, watching as a gentle breeze tore, one-by-one, the leaves from “my” tree. At this moment, the wind has become bitter and that same tree (now the upper branches outside my office window) is letting go of its leaves rapidly. It is being stripped.

I cannot but think of the Buddhist teaching of detachment, a teaching which seems to traverse all philosophies and religions–a concept that faces each of us as we age, begin to lose loved ones, strength, beauty, health, material and physical independence, perhaps even mental acuity. Life is, indeed a series of letting go’s.

I’m not Buddhist, but have always been drawn to many aspects of Buddhist practice. Today I came to understand with a bit more clarity, the importance of non-attachment. I’ve been struggling with an issue that I’ve perceived as a threat to my security and to something I hold dear. It dawned upon me that my attachment to that “something” was impairing my ability to enjoy the happiness of the moment and was messing, not only with my serenity, but also with my sleep. I made the intention to return to the present moment and its many joys. When the moment comes to let go, I hope to be like that tree, allowing the leaves to return to earth and nourish it.

I’m no longer young…or even, by most people’s estimation, middle-aged (though I don’t feel old). It’s time to accept those things in life that must leave us. I know myself well enough to realize that this won’t be the end of my wanting to hold on. But, perhaps, if I let go of the things I cling to, it won’t be quite so painful. Maybe I won’t even bleed.

Have a lovely week. Now I’m on my way outside to rake up some of those leaves.

Betrayal

English: Betrayal of Christ (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Black notes hang
in a barren equinox sky,
fade into a cry of
coarse wonder that echoes
in a dark tunnel.

You balance the cup
of deep water before
a moment of stolen hope emerges
then abandon yourself
to pure gravity

before ripping apart the
warm apple.
Can you carve
wind into a blur of
textures or

sew rags for dappled
ghosts who fold them
in your tree-house?
The memory of a crowing
cock haunts you

constantly, doesn’t it?
Blood clots slowly
when you
break your promises.
Doesn’t it?

This is an impressionistic account of the biblical story of Jesus’ betrayal by Judas and his subsequent denial by Peter, considering Kelvin’s prompt for Saturday’s dVerse Poetics but linked to dVerse OLN. The stories illustrate human responses to failure. Overwhelmed by guilt, Judas despaired and hung himself, while Peter held on to hope and received forgiveness.

 

thirteen ways of looking at a desert

Photo: Rosa Frei

Linked to One Stop Poetry: http://onestoppoetry.com/

thirteen ways of looking at a desert

i
sometimes something
we judge to be barren
throbs with life

ii
wind scatters sand
like gossips spread destruction

iii
if you go to the desert
you will see the stars
perhaps one of them
holds your life purpose
then you are no longer
afraid of the viper’s kiss

iv
the power of thirst
consumes all other desires

v
shifting sands
are like people
who vacillate
you don’t know
where you stand

vi
the desert is a canvas
open to splashes
of vibrant color

vii
the desert is
a state of mind
are you alone
or lonely

viii
the desert is
a place of temptation
there the devil tempted
jesus
   bread
   greed
   power
nothing has changed

ix
if you try
to leave your mark
upon the desert
nature will erase it
   wind
   earthquake
   war
we don’t really matter

x
the hotter it gets
the fewer people hang around

xi
many people
do not understand
the beauty of the desert
or of wrinkled faces

xii
at some point
you will visit a desert
and discover
what it is to be arid

xiii
when the desert blooms
you will find grace

Based on a form of Wallace Stevens: “Ways of Looking at…”

SiS’s Daily Haiku Challenge: Sea of Galilee

Submitted to SiS’ Daily Haiku Challenge: http://pendownmythought.blogspot.com/p/haiku-challenge.html

Sea of Galilee

On Galilee’s shore
an empty boat waits in hope
empowered by Light.

This image immediately brought to mind the shores of the Sea of Galilee in Israel where Jesus walked and taught with His disciples, perhaps, at times from a boat. The light that suffuses the picture made me think of one of the names by which Jesus is known, the Light of the world.

Rediscovery-Jingle’s Poetry Potluck and One Shot Wednesday

Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck. The theme this week is dreams and visions. Check out the many poets at http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/

…and to One Shot Wednesday at http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/

Rediscovery

Emerging from this fog
(induced by absinthe or perhaps unknowing?)
I fly in my balloon, the landing rough
in rockiest terrain.

Quixote I am not but savor
tastes of honey from the gentle smoothness
of earth’s ivory skin.

I deconstruct the faith
that, as a child gave cause for desperation,
pursue Elijah’s chariot, with fiery wings
to worlds oblivious of tragedy,

return like Sandalphon or Phoenix
brilliant in life’s kaleidoscopic dance
of raging color.

Withhold your judgment now, dear friend.
The day may come when, too, you will embrace
my vision, and welcome in the Logos.

Note: This poem was written using the prompt I posted on Monday. You may want to check it out. The random selection of words contributes a bit to the obscurity. I confess to adding words to this one for the sake of some cohesiveness. In the bible, the prophet Elijah was taken into heaven in a fiery chariot. It is said that he has returned to earth as the Archangel Sandalphon who is the overseer of the below direction (the earth). Logos is Greek for Word and is used in this context to refer to Jesus as the Word of God as you will read in the first chapter of the Gospel of John. Eventually I will, no doubt, revise this poem and lose of few of the arbitrary words. Should you decide to try this prompt, you would make me happy if you left a link in comments.

Big Tent Poetry–The Gospel According to St. John

Image via Wikipedia

This is submitted to Big Tent Poetry. This week’s prompt was a wordle with what seemed to me to be a most unlikely assortment of words. This was what came up for me although, granted, there were no boiler rooms in the time of Christ–that one was a stretch although, if you’ve ever been in a boiler room it is a bit reminiscent of hell. The one word I could not make happen was forklift!

Check out some great poetry for the prompt at:  http://bigtentpoetry.org/

 

 

The Gospel According to St. John

Time passed slowly that afternoon.
Blood flowed like lava into my cupped hand.

The man who hung upon a rough hewn tree
should have reigned over lush gardens of creation.

The night before I’d struggled to remain awake,
but now I stood by the mother until he passed

into the boiler room of hell. We remained there
to receive his body, returned it to the earth,

sealed the tomb with the clunk of a massive boulder.
After the Sabbath, the Phoenix resurfaced from the ash-pit.

Now I write his story, dipping the nib of my pen
in the sanguine ink of eternal mysteries.