we sing, the day turns, the trees move...

Today felt like autumn had peeked its head around the corner and arrived. It was

cool, wet, dark and restful. I spent the better part of the day writing for my Sunday morning live streaming gig on Face Book. It has come to be an important part of my week. Not only does it put me in touch with a variety of people beyond the walls of our semi-monastic existence - a select group of whom I know and love deeply - but it also redeems my commitment to liturgical time. For nearly all of my adult life I have made peace with time by being immersed in the seasons of the church year. During the first few months after my retirement, however, I realized I had no idea where we were in the sacred calendar. Indeed, I discovered it was Ash Wednesday completely by accident. I was hosting an early morning breakfast meeting at a local coffee shop when one of the artists said out loud that later that day she was singing for an ecumenical gather. I was stunned. So, as the meeting closed, I slipped into the Roman Catholic church next door and joined the gathered faithful for the noon imposition of ashes and Holy Communion. And when I got home, I made myself a HARD copy calendar so that I could monitor my journey through the seasons of the Spirit.

This commitment become more complicated when the self-isolation protocols of the covid contagion took us all by surprise. I thought I had been doing reasonably well until yet again I realized that I had not bothered to look at my hard copy calendar resource since June. Three months had passed in this silent sameness. I updated my calendar with new purpose last night and began again to reacquaint myself with ebb and flow of the liturgical seasons. Today, writing about how the Paschal Mystery is writ large upon the cosmos and star dust and matter begin with the death of a super nova yet bring new life into being over millennia, the season encouraged me to listen to the wisdom of the forest. Tomorrow I will hone my reflections on the way special trees have drawn me deeper into God's grace. I had no idea how many other mystics have been blessed by these gracious, strong and silent friends, but it is a rich collection of companions. Wendell Berry opens his Sabbath Day poem collection like this:

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,

mute in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing,

the day turns, the trees  move.