Having known the grace
that for so long has kept this world,
haggard as it is, as we have made it,
we cannot rest, we must be stirring
to keep that gift dwelling among us,
eternally alive in time. This
is the great work, no other, none harder,
none nearer rest or more beautiful.
-from Leavings, Wendell Berry
It was a dream so vivid, so beautiful, so ethereal; the kind of dream you mourn the loss of once roused out of your unconsciousness; the kind of dream you desperately wish to return to like the reappearance of a long-gone friend. I was outside in the night. The sky was an inky black and the stars shone brilliantly as they do only away from the lights of the city. I was awestruck by how the stars dazzled as I sat on a hill. I began to search for the Big Dipper hoping to locate the Great Bear of which it is borne. To my left, a shooting star whisked by. With a twinge of regret, I slowly opened my eyes submitting to the reality of the day, thankful for the gift of the dream.
It was late, too late and a more level-headed individual would have long ago made their way to bed. But I am not that sensible. Already an hour had passed since Jared, clearly the more reasonable one amongst us, climbed the stairs up to our bed. I was alone, and the quietude afforded to me by our house finally at rest and the stillness of the fiercely cold night, was too much of a temptation to resist, and so I succumbed to temptation, and remained sprawled out on our couch, book in hand. I had chosen a book on Celtic spirituality from our shelves to peruse through on this eve of St. Brigid's feastday. Again and again, this ancient writing accounted the saint's life of generosity, how she chose to give to the poor, to the stranger, not from her surplus but rather giving away all she had because she was "unmindful of the morrow" and trusted in God to provide. That phrase, so simple, so complex. Unmindful of the morrow. It is stuck in my head. It has stuck in my heart.
It has been a week uncharacteristic to the typical workings of our family. A week which makes me hopeful that we are on the cusp of change, a return to our former way of existence complete with days where dinner is more or less ready on schedule and there is time beforehand to sit down at the table with a cup of coffee and squish play-dough through my fingers and create delicate desserts for Russell's restaurant, French Meal; a return to evenings dedicated to family reading and game playing. Don't be fooled, there is plenty of bickering, whining, yelling, and general chaos as we live out our days so closely enmeshed with each other. My eye is still twitching, and Elliot and I are still more often than not pulling out a glass container of lavender oil to breathe in and help us calm down. (A glass of red wine in the evening never hurts either.) Still, I am cautiously optimistic that the return of a familiar, more consistent rhythm may be just around the corner. And again, as we go about the routines of our day - sitting together at meals, standing together in prayer, making beds, doing laundry, cleaning up, building Legos, reading books, marveling at birds outside our window, laughing with one another over silly jokes - I am reminded anew that, in the words of a wise priest given to me many years ago, I am exactly where God wants me to be. To steal from Berry yet again, "And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear. All I need is here." Peaceful week to you.
For the record, after a vigorous workout, Thomas had to disrobe a bit and Lucia insisted that she too wear a white, sleeveless t-shirt. Also, we began a new tradition for the Feast of the Meeting of Christ in the Temple (a.k.a. Candlemas): We made candles out of beeswax.
