Response

 

This week looks to be busy, so imagining that I am pausing with a friend over a cup of tea reminds me that I can only do one thing at a time. The moments are worth savoring. Perhaps there would be less nastiness in the world if, as words become heated, we would pause and say, "Let us heat water instead, and sit together with a cup of tea."  For our upcoming trip to Bountiful, Utah to have our new ( to us) Tahoma truck fitted to be a camper, we have ordered a tea kettle so we do not have to always boil water in a pan. Spouts do come in handy.  Maybe that is what poetry is for.  I am hopeful about seeing a dark sky.  I have promised the sacred voices that I would keep a record of what I see, and while it might be a little chilly, I will, for a few moments, play my flute, and listen for the response of All.   At the Tea Garden    My friend and I mull over the teas displayed in square jars with beveled glass labeled by type. Each name seems part of a haiku: “After the Snow Sprouting.” “Moon Palace.” “Mist Over the Gorges.” I’m drawn to green teas with unoxidized leaves that don’t wither, hold their grassy fragrance like willow under snow in winter. The proprietor offers real china for the Chinese tea. Animal bones, fine ground, give whiteness, translucency and strength to the porcelain that appears delicate, resists chipping. The rim of the cup is warm and thin. My friend’s lips are plush: her lovely mouth opens to give advice I ask for. We talk about memory of threshold events, like a first kiss or a poem published. She can’t remember… I tell her about my brother-in-law’s chemotherapy—his third bout of cancer. He wants his family to put a pinch of his ashes in things he liked: his banjo, the top drawer of his desk, the garden. I wouldn’t mind becoming part of a set of bone china that serves tea in a cozy teahouse smelling of incense, cinnamon, musk, and carved teak. I’d like to be brought to a small table, sit between friends’ quiet words, held in hands so close that breath on the surface of warm drink makes mist rise over their faces. ~ Margaret Hasse from First Sip  image: San Leandro, December, 2023

Settling In

Those of you who are on Diana Butler Bass' email list have probably seen this, but it is such a rich offering that I felt I really needed to share.  The photograph, from a couple of days ago, was taken through our dining room window. I did not want to open it, or walk outside because I knew any movement would disturb the doves. Sometimes lesser quality just might be the better way. In the past few days we have had quite a few birds in our backyard, and I am sorry I have not yet put up a birdfeeder. That will be my project for next month.  Fortunately, a neighbor has one a few yards over, and another neighbor has left persimmons on their tree. 

The attached photograph is not a black and white photograph. Although many of my photographs over the years have been in vivid color, this time of year my eyes and heart yearn to rest easy among darker shades. Our souls need the rhythm of light and dark: spring's tender new shades of just being born growth, summer's vibrant hues in full array, autumn's oranges, yellows, and golds, and winter's greys that call us to silence.  The winter solstice will be at 7:27 p.m.Pacific Time on Thursday. If you can, take a moment and give thanks for the good order of heaven and earth. Yes, even in these times. Maybe especially in these times.  

Blessings this winter solstice and always.   

Light cannot see inside things.
That is what the dark is for:
Minding the interior,
Nurturing the draw of growth
Through places where death
In its own way turns into life.

In the glare of neon times,
Let our eyes not be worn
By surfaces that shine
With hunger made attractive.

That our thoughts may be true light,
Finding their way into words
Which have the weight of shadow
To hold the layers of truth.

That we never place our trust
In minds claimed by empty light,
Where one-sided certainties
Are driven by false desire.

When we look into the heart,
May our eyes have the kindness
And reverence of candlelight.

That the searching of our minds
Be equal to the oblique
Crevices and corners where
The mystery continues to dwell,
Glimmering in fugitive light.

When we are confined inside
The dark house of suffering
That moonlight might find a window.

When we become false and lost
That the severe noon-light
Would cast our shadow clear.

When we love, that dawn-light
Would lighten our feet
Upon the waters.

As we grow old, that twilight
Would illuminate treasure
In the fields of memory.

And when we come to search for God,
Let us first be robed in night,
Put on the mind of morning
To feel the rush of light
Spread slowly inside
The color and stillness
Of a found word.

— John O’Donohue, “For Light”
as posted by Diana Butler Bass

   

image: San Leandro, December 2023. 

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Deep Callings

 I took a beautiful walk this morning just before the rain began. The wind came up, and the leaves that had hung on the branches surprisingly long began to let go, almost all at the same time. While leaves of various hues are everywhere, most of the vibrant pinks, blues, yellows and purples of our gardens are nowhere to be seen. We are all surrendering to the inevitable fall.  

   

As I walked past some large trees that line a street a couple of blocks away, I thought of a poem by Rumi that I had discovered earlier this morning. I then said hello to a neighbor. He has been ill and is still not looking well. May this poem be true for him; may his roots still be growing strong.  

   

"And don't think the garden 

loses its ecstasy in winter.  

  

It's quiet, but the roots 

are down there riotous." 

  

Rumi   

     

   

    

image: San Leandro, December 2023