Tuesday, December 26, 2023
The Second Day of Christmas
Feast of Saint Stephen, first martyr
(click here to listen to or read today’s scriptures)
Diving into Christmas Day
At the edge of the pond
At the edge of the pond you can
be forgiven for thinking you’re at the edge, not the
center of things. Demurely, a bit cool, the
ducks acknowledge you, but don’t
engage. Other birds sing distantly, or
fly overhead like songs. … But listen:
gathered here, at the center, in this nest, this
home, is everything. Tropical worms and polar
ice caps are all here, from farthest nebulae to your own
jawbone, here. There is only one thing.
Kneel in the grass. Let it all in. Expand.
Let the whole of it enter you, the night-sky-deep
mystery fill you till you become the world.
Nothing is missing. Nothing declines to attend.
Open yourself to the whole company of it. Let it
pour itself into you, the scent of the woods, the
quiet cry of far-off orphans, all of it. It
resounds in you, a chorus of a million voices, a
symphony of stars and sea grasses. Let it
tell you who you are, how you belong to everything,
undivided, present, susceptible to beauty,
vulnerable to light. Let this be your
wisdom. But don’t think it. Breathe it. Inhale and
exhale. Notice the supple arms of the beech tree, the
yellow dandelions and their bees, the glory hidden among the
zinnias. Look at your hands. The universe is there.
I only slept about four hours on Christmas Eve. Sudden but short searing pain hit me over and over at a particular spot inside my skin, just behind the inside of my left ankle. This pain has awakened me before, and kept me awake. I can’t predict when it will hit, and each time it shocks my whole system.
But we spent twelve hours at Andi’s on Christmas Day, and it was wonderful. We acted out parts in a nativity play, cooked fun foods from countries unfamiliar to us, opened a ton of presents, and we took naps and walks too. During dinner we shared facts about our countries and our foods, and then after dinner we took turns praying for the people in those countries, including the Palestinians eating lamb in Bethlehem.
And my job all day, and into the evening, and right now in fact, is to put my pain into perspective. The poem helps:
Let the whole of it enter you …
Nothing is missing. Nothing declines to attend.
Open yourself to the whole company of it. Let it
pour itself into you … all of it. It
resounds in you, a chorus of a million voices … let it
tell you who you are, how you belong to everything,
undivided, present, vulnerable to light. Let this be your
wisdom. But don’t think it. Breathe it.
Inhale and exhale.
It’s the breathing. That’s what will move me into acceptance, and guide me to pray and pray and pray. Thank you God for everything.
Not a moment of my life has a guarantee on it that all will be comfortable, only that, as Julian of Norwich wrote in the 14th century, “All will be well.”
Stephen, filled with grace and power, was working great wonders and signs among the people. But some could not withstand it. They cried out in a loud voice, covered their ears, and rushed upon him together.
Stephen died, and so will we all. Inhale and exhale.
(Acts 6, Psalm 31, Psalm 118, Matthew 10)
(posted at www.davesandel.net)
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