Kathleen Hirsch | 2017 December
Writing and musings by author Kathleen Hirsch.
kathleen hirsch, writer, spiritual director, boston, ma, spiritual writing
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December 2017

Witness

Yesterday, this beautiful poem landed in my inbox from Steve Garnaas-Holmes, who writes a daily poetry blog, Unfolding Light.  

Advent blessings!

The brook is not the light
but it reflects the coming dawn.
The geese are not the winter,

but it falls from their wings.

The wave is not the sea;
the note is not the song;
I am not the light
but I am made of nothing else.

Bear witness.
If not to the light within,
bear witness to the dawn.
To the song.

The candle isn’t the sun,
but sings its song.
I don’t have to believe this,
just sing the song.

 

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Generating Warmth and Light

“There are two ways of spreading light: To be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

Edith Wharton, Vesalius in Zante

 

One of the best ways we have of spreading light is also one of the oldest: by telling stories.

Each time a story of goodness or courage or hope reaches our ears, we grow a little brighter ourselves.

So here is a story that warmed me this dark and very cold Boston week.  It shows how very little it takes to transform our days and seasons so that we can see past the scrim of ordinary time to the deeper dimension that flows along within it.  In this case, all it took was a good idea, willingness, and the time to cut a few pieces of paper.  Really.

The village of Askrigg, in Yorkshire, England, (population 450), has created a beautiful ritual to mark the dark nights of Advent.  Everyone and anyone can participate, whether they are “religious,” “spiritual,” or “none.”

Beginning in late November, children, older singles, and families, begin the annual project.  They create cutout scenes from black paper.  Some choose the numbers of the Advent days.  Others create silhouettes of secular themes like pine trees and stars; still others, conventional religious motifs like angels or wreaths.   The more artistically-minded carve elaborate creatures from well-loved carols.  These shapes are then covered over with layers of colored tissue paper to become “windows.”  When they are finished, the “windows” are taped to shop or a home windowpanes.

When Advent arrives, each night a different window is unveiled, the light from the room behind them illuminating them for the whole village to enjoy.  As the days go by, and more windows join the pageant, families take to walking together through the streets to enjoy the display.

Three women – an artist, a teacher, and a real estate agent in the town —  got the ball rolling in 2009.  In the article in which I discovered this initiative, the artist acknowledged that at first people needed a bit of coaxing.  She offered workshops at the local church.  It didn’t take long for the villagers to fall in.  These days, the “windows” project has become a community wide event, and even beyond, with visitors dropping in to view the creations.  The organizers field new ideas and volunteers each season.  The art work, too, has only gotten more ambitious and well-executed with each passing year, and the village walks are now a time everyone looks forward to, to meet up with friends and neighbors, in might be an isolating time for some.

It is so simple.  It returns the season to its core story, replacing consumer anxiety and excess and frayed nerves with inclusivity, wonder, and light.  All it takes is construction paper, scissors, tissue paper, and a willingness to spread a bit of joy.

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Hope is a Many Feathered Thing

For two days the female cardinal has sat on the bough outside the window where I write, with her back turned towards me.  She reminds me of my cat who, when displeased (usually by the absence of food in her bowl) makes an art of shunning.  I see her substantial backside until I relent – which never takes long.

Truth is, I’ve been preoccupied by the larger two-footed creatures in my life and neglected to fill the feeder for more than a week.  Snow has arrived.  The bird baths are frozen, seed from the grasses in short supply.

The cardinals nest in the privet below the feeder each spring.  Her suede and russet flanks, her little tuft of berry red at the tip of her head, are as eloquent a posture of disappointment as any I’ve been subjected to.

Finally in a fit of shame, I put on my coat and carry the large plastic bin of sunflower seeds outside.  I climb onto the upturned flower pot that doubles as a step ladder, unhook the feeder, and pour a cascade of seed into its cylinder.

Within less than half an hour, I am forgiven in spades by two brilliant males who frolic in and out of the hedge, taking turns tucking into the fresh supply.

I suppose that the arrival of food is always emblematic of a hope fulfilled.

The mother of one of my son’s childhood schoolmates once told me that keeping a quart of ice cream in the freezer gives children a sense of security.

I am well aware these days of all the insecurities that present themselves.  Plenty of articles and books analyze the current political landscape far better than I can.  But two things should be noted, I think.

The first is that the insecurities many of us are feeling today — on the national political stage, in our cities — are new only to us.  Many have lived whole lives, and indeed generations, in the daunting shadow of insecurities and bitter disappointment that most of us have not seen with any awareness worthy of the name.

The second thing to be noted is that history maintains a narrative far more at home in chaos and insecurity than in stability and predictable, orderly progress.  That many of us have lived so many years without war, revolt, famine or long-term economic debilitation, is a fluke.

Perspective is everything, which is why birds give us one of nature’s finest lessons.  Viewed from a high bough, our lives remain more secure today than did the lives of first century — or for that matter, present-day — Palestinians.  To say nothing of the slaves, those who survive in refugee camps, and segments of our own population.

But perspective also gives us the opportunity for self-compassion.  We have entered a new time, one that has exposed lots of empty or broken feeders that we’ve neglected to see until now.  The anger and disappointment, the finger pointing and figurative acts of shunning should not be surprising. Ice cream won’t fix this.  But it is incumbent upon us to be gentle with our new state of being, as we move through the new darkness.

Self-compassion is the basis of our hope.  Self-compassion will lead us, sooner or later, out of the trap of reaction and towards constructive new imaginings.

Yesterday, a kind of brokenness was rejected in Alabama’s special election.  This week, my city newspaper is running a series exposing the structural racism that we have all ignored.   New seeds will come from this, I am certain.

Hope, I learn again from my lovely cardinals, comes softly, and in many ways — not least, when in a dark pass, when my benign neglect, or casual indifference, or silence is jolted into action.

 

 

 

 

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The Nature of Kindness

A second installment on hope:

There are times when stamina runs out.  It’s just flat out not there anymore.

One day many years ago, I was in the trough of one of those times, too exhausted to even know it.  My son was very young.  My husband was much-occupied with a new and demanding job.  And for reasons that only the stars may someday tell me, my closest women friends had all moved away in the space of a few months.

I felt more deeply alone and unsupported than ever in my life.

Money was tight enough that extra child care, or even a massage, or a few days away was a distant dream.  But by that time I’d lost the energy to dream.

The hours spanned without end, the house grew tight, the garden was a disaster.  Despite my intense love for my son, I experienced a kind of spiritual and emotional claustrophobia that I suspect only another mother can understand.  The ongoingness of care, the myriad daily details of tending to a young one, and the sudden sense of invisibility — even if one has stepped onto this path most willingly — that come from the lack of positive feedback, can batter one’s faith.

Parents — not only of children, but of troubled adolescents — and those who care for chronically depressed or ill relations — all know the isolation and chronic overload that shadows our caregiving.

This level of sacrificial service deeply challenges the message of self-giving that lies at the heart of every major religious tradition.   When women (mainly) hear the message that the way to illumination and God is to forego their egos, to “pour themselves out” for others, it’s all too easy to go numb.

Egos? we ask.  What egos?

They’ve gotten lost in the relentless demands of the days.

I hope to delve into this knotty churchy/Buddhist message in future blogs.  For today, though, my own story of grace and hope, a mirror image of yesterday’s reflections.

In the midst of this time, one afternoon as I stood at the kitchen window, I saw my neighbor Phyllis in my backyard.  Phyllis had moved into the house across the street several years earlier, marrying the bachelor doctor who lived there.  Childless and in her fifties, she’d transformed the uncultivated shady lot that ran from their stone house to the edge of a small footpath, into a glen of extraordinary plantings and pathways, created a marvelous urban sanctuary.  Word of her gifts spread.  Cars paused as they drove past Phyllis’s garden.  Others came down our lane just for a look-see.

That afternoon, I assumed that Phyllis was just venturing off her property for a break.  But when I looked again, I saw that she’d brought over her rake and edger.  Slowly and with a master’s touch, she started to take my depressingly unattended yard in hand.  In little over an hour, it looked more like its old self than it had in years.

On her way home, she stopped by the back door.  Words couldn’t convey my gratitude, relief, and sense of being cared for.

“It’s nothing,” she said.  “I need something to do, and this gives me pleasure.”

The next day, she returned with graph paper and a measuring tape.  She mapped out the entire yard, and left.  Several days later, she appeared again, this time with a design plan.  We would do this together, she suggested.  We’d drive out to the nursery, select the plants, and I could supervise her plantings.  With her landscaper’s discounts, a modest but vastly improved overhaul would be affordable.

I felt as if I’d just been handed back my life.  That spring and summer, the garden gradually morphed into a place where I could take my son and feel a new contentment.  More than that, I felt a new connection to life, to beauty, and —  most importantly — to my own sense of agency.

In our garden project, Phyllis taught me something invaluable about the freeing heart of kindness that I have carried with me ever since.  She gave me what gave her joy.

This isn’t always possible in life, but it may be so more often than we realize.

More than offering to help me juggle laundry and nursery books and put away the magnetic letters for the millionth time, she offered me her own deep gladness, something so out of the box that it shifted me out of my own rut.

The horizon grew much, much wider again.  And in the space created by her good taste and skills and gift for beauty, gave me an opening to recognize these in myself again too.

Kindness, if it is real, is always about the life of the soul, and sometimes this means it’s about the unexpected, and sometimes what we’ve mistaken for the icing on the cake.

 

 

 

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Strawberries in Winter

Lately, I have been thinking about hope.

For years, I’ve loved these lines from Hebrews 11, Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

 They ratified, across the generations, my confidence that we are surrounded by a kind of love-intelligence that sustains us, even when we are not fully conscious of it.  Indeed, that the life in time depends upon “things not seen” for its full coming-into-being.

In times of warmth and fat, when strawberries hang on the vine and those we love are blooming and bright as human sunflowers, eager to turn their faces to the sun, this is well and good.  When integrity can be observed in our leaders, and a spirit of service informs the work being done by and around us.

But life has its dark and bitter cold winters, and we or those we love come close to falling through the ice more often than we want to imagine.

Yesterday my newspaper carried an amazing story that pertains.  A hunter in rural Maine last week came upon a scene of agony by the shore of a large lake:  a deer had fallen through the ice and was thrashing, in terror, unable to gain traction to pull himself out.  The situation was critical.

A game warden had also seen the deer.  Together, the two men stood on the shore, debating what they might do.  It occurred to the hunter that his boat, long since covered and stored for the winter, wasn’t far off.  The two men hastened to uncover it, and dragged it down to the lake.  Using two-by-fours and a shovel, they painstakingly broke a way through the ice to the terrified and struggling animal.  One of them lassoed him by the antlers.

Ever so slowly, they drew him behind the boat to shore.  The buck touched solid ground and, exhausted, collapsed.

He lay there all day, just his eyes moving.  People who’d heard the story came to see him, but kept a respectful distance, as he recovered his strength.  As darkness fell, the warden came down to the shore to check on him.  At the sight of his rescuer, the buck rose on his legs and bounded back to his wild home, fully himself again, saved.

Hope is never abstract.  It isn’t raised through an exertion of will, nor as an exercise in a distorted mental construct that we call “faith.”  This is fantasy dressed up as virtue.

It is only possible to “hope in things unseen” when our hearts and minds and bodies are sustained by concrete gestures of affirmation, worth and  relationship.  It is possible because we feel seen and heard and valued.  It is generated when our essential needs are met and our efforts find a measure of effectiveness in the world.

A very gifted writer and artist I know many years ago said something so simple and penetrating that is has never left me.

“For me,” she said, “God is other people.”

In a week when Hanukkah begins, and others are putting the final touches on Christmas decorations and holiday menus, so many of us are in these lovely rituals fortifying the life of hope close at hand.  This is one of the best things we can do in these dark days — putting bright poinsettas on our tables and buying strawberries for breakfast.

But my own hope is that each of us remember too at least one creature who may be wandering on thin ice.  What if each of us sat quietly for a moment today, as we enter the second week of Advent and the verge of the Jewish holiday of light, to conjure some deer on the verge of our own consciousness who could use a rope to be pulled to safety.  How and where might we enable someone we barely know, or hardly ever see, to stand more balanced and sure-footed, buoyed by the passage we offer to a more solid shore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Advent, 7: Walking through Snow

Today we get our first snowstorm of the year.  This feels God-sent for so many reasons.

Snow draws a boundary.  Within an hour, the landscape is transformed, Pygmalion-like, from the austere beauty of towering trees upholding the winter nests, to a much younger presence, cloaked in ermines and ready for the ball.  Or so it has always seemed to me.

The first storm makes the world virginal again, sweet, wrapped in a silence in which anything can be imagined, where streams whisper and lone birds speak.

Today is a day for turning.  From the usual grinding deadlines to holiday parties.  Robotic routines to gift giving.

This is the week when I really begin to “feel” Advent.  The last great ancient prophet, John the Baptist, is heard crying across the centuries, urging us to make the crooked paths straight.  To “turn.”  To change.

What in the busy lives we are living needs turning?   What paths must straighten for us?  What broken bridges and failed links in our communities need mending?

It becomes easy to walk in circles.  Or to pursue each intriguing detour that takes us further from our true selves.  Do we say “yes” when we mean “no”?  Do we take the easy way out and refuse to engage with the pain and the needs around us?  Do we pile on the calendar to escape the essential quiet that alone can guide us home, to the light in the windows of our souls?

Because I do, yes, indeed, and far too often, I’ve taken up a book of Advent meditations this past week.  Watch for the Light is a rich compilation of writings from brilliant, thoughtful writers, from Thomas Merton to Annie Dillard and Sylvia Plath.  I recommend it.

The epigraph, an unattributed poem from the 15th century, speaks to my own hunger and need for quiet as the days grow shorter, in order to discern true path from the many, many tantalizing substitutes:

Lo, in the silent night

A child to God is born

And all is brought again

That ere was lost or lorn.

Could that thy soul, O man,

Become a silent night!

God would be born in thee

And set all things aright.

I will soon go out to walk in a world about to be transformed.  As I prepare to set out, I carry not only these lines, but the haunting words of Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

I know well, as did John centuries ago, that I have “miles to go” before I see more than a flickering glimpse of the light of home.  But it is good and necessary to be taking the first step, and to trust that the snow, and a good book of reflections, will keep my footsteps visible, should I be tempted to tarry.

 

 

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