returning thanksgiving...

Today felt grounded: open, real, honest, quiet, connected, alive and in-sync with

my heart. We had the chance to Zoom-visit with our family in Worcester. For most of our time in the Berkshires, they have lived in the rolling hill country just 25 minutes away. This summer, well in advance of the contagion, they made plans to move into the city both for reasons of work and creativity. Given the lock down, we have not seen them (except for Zoom) since March 13th. It was delightful to visit and we will plan to head over to their new place for an afternoon visit on the deck soon.

After my Sunday morning live-streaming reflections, Di and I visited out on the deck and then did gardening and yard work. As she noted, the garden is starting to pop now that it is August. And the flowers that surround our property are showing mini-hydrangeas along with gladiolas. The "fire" bushes have just begun to offer up a few red leaves and the wetlands are hinting that an abundance of golden rod is just around the corner. A baby hawk continues to make its presence known, young blue jays are "cawing" all about, too and both red wing blackbirds and gold finches flutter by from time to time. Our small corner of creation is restorative and is beginning to tell us that autumn will be here soon. It is already cool at night. For the next few weeks the days will be bright - sometimes even stiffing - but the sun is shifting in the sky as we journey towards summer's end. Soon the purple asters will dance with the bright yellow golden rod and the tips of our tallest trees will show off their vibrant autumn reds. Christopher Hill wisely notes that:

August is summer that has heard a rumor of fall. It doesn't sparkle with the liveliness, motion, and lightness of May or June or the high, festive brightness of July. It shimmers away toward the horizon in a hot blue haze. I know a painter who says she sees a distinct kinds of light in August, different from both summer and fall... Blue shadows hide in the corners, like the patches of cobalt light after a flashbulb goes off. A still-ness falls, like one of those lapses in conversation around a dinner table. We're aware only in the vaguest way, but summer is already looking ahead to its end. (Holidays and Holy Nights: Celebrating Twelve Seasonal Festivals of the Christian Year, p. 187)

One of the reasons I know that I feel newly "grounded" again has to do with my decision to renew my "associate member" vows with the Community of Iona. It has been almost three years since moving into retirement - and so much has changed - even if we have remained centered in our old home. We left decades of life in community which was both liberating and somewhat unsettling. We took up the novel slack by travel. And then my time with a musical project as well as my involvement with the community of L'Arche Ottawa. There were grandchildren to visit, birthdays to celebrate, travel to the jazz clubs of Montreal as well as our forays into the countryside of Quebec's Eastern Townships. But now that the US/ Canadian border is closed and will remain so for the foreseeable future - now that my time playing in the band is over and travel is out of the question - now that we are unable to connect to the rhythms of the Christian year through worship with our Brooklyn family: I have discovered the need to be connected in community in a way beyond myself. I require some external boundaries to help guide and shape my journey in faith. I need a bit of order, a "rule of life," and some resources, too.

Our recent marking of the Celtic festival of Lughnasdh or Lammas- the festival of corn, wheat, and bread baking that roughly falls on the Feast of the Transfiguration - was a catalyst for me to get off the dime. Ordinarily I would have baked fresh bread, celebrated the shift in the seasons, and started to ready my heart for the wisdom of autumn. Not this year - it just came and went - and left me feeling adrift. We've been eating an abundance of local sweet corn - and attending to our garden and flowers - but I revel in the festivals of the church year that link my soul to the seasons. Feeling the blues, clearly a part of nearly six months of living in solitude, was the emotional/ spiritual kernel that needed to fall to the earth and die so that I might respond with deeper focus and appreciation. Iona posts a daily interactive morning prayer liturgy - and a newly revised Book of Worship, too - that helps me move into this new way of being grounded during the contagion. The late, Denise Levertov, put it like this in a poem:

As swimmers dare to lie face to the sky and waters bears them, 

As hawks rest upon air and air sustains them; 

So would I learn to attain freefall, and float into Creator Spirit’s deep, 

Knowing no effort earns that all-surrounding grace.

The United Church of Christ has a lovely rendering of the "Phos Hilaron - O Holy Radiance, Joyous Light" - the candlelight hymn used monastically for the early evening prayers of Vespers. In the United Church New Century Psalter this text is changed to the Tallis' Canon tune:

O holy radiance joyous light, O splendid glory shining bright

Immortal Father, heavenly One, O blessed Jesus Christ, the Sun. 

We see the sunshine fade tonight and welcoming the evening light,

To Father, Son, and Spirit raise our hymns of wonder, love and praise.

Unceasingly our tongues shall laud your worth, Begotten One of God.

O Breath of life; let all proclaim the glory of your wondrous name.

Now it is time for me to roast some chicken, prepare some pesto, and return thanksgiving for a sweet day and ripening within.