The year that was

 Well, that was quite a year, to say the least. Although I have been fortunate enough to have had a number of positive things happen in the midst of almost continual isolation, it seems appropriate to end the year on a sombre yet hopeful note.

This is an ancient Orthodox hymn in a modern rendition.

See him

I came across this hauntingly beautiful song at the beginning of lockdown. I have spent the rest of the year trying to remember where I found it - even though I had posted it on facebook (facepalm). 

I have found it again...  

See him in the manger

Swaddled in a cloth

Angel's words grown in flesh

Brought him to the earth.

See him in the temple

Making earth his home

Wisdom's child seated

Learning as he grows.

See him at the wedding

Heaven's gifts at hand

John cleans with water

He will heal with wine.

See him on a donkey

Riding as a king

To the man of wisdom

Palms and stones will sing.

See him on the hillside

Swaddled in a cloth

Angel's words piercing flesh

Take him from the earth.

Oh my heart, oh my soul

Tell how can this be?

Oh my heart, oh my Christ

Come again to me.

See him in the garden

Tending to the same

Though he's hid from our eyes

Yet he calls my name.

Riff on Martyn Joseph's tweet: 'Today I walked and listened while Autumn spoke'

A Poem for Advent

I joined a Secret Poet's Society in my workplace. We were asked to write a poem for Autumn which led to the first two verses. I had seen a tweet posted on Facebook by the singer Martyn Joseph and found the words so evocative I decided to run with them.

We were then asked to write poems for a Christmas Advent calendar and it seemed to me the existing poem lent itself to further verses on Advent. 

So, in my first blog post for five years, I've gone and got all poetic.

Riff on Martyn Joseph's tweet: 'Today I walked and listened while Autumn spoke'

'Today I walked and listened while Autumn spoke'

Called out in cinnamon and scarlet

To senses long parched of its kaleidoscopic hues

Dropped burnt umber, maroon, and gold at my feet

Spelled out the lavish exuberance of life set down

It told my eyes to watch and wait

To see beyond the constraints of nights drawn in

To feast and drink on the tonal smorgasbord

Before the lean, cool, meditation

Of a landscape, soulscape, stripped bare

It told my ears to listen with intent 

Not only for the coming bells, sleighs and carolling

But for the quiet knock, the inconspicuous event

Of divinity hidden in poverty, of splendour in the discarded

In the swept up, swish of russet glory trampled under the feet of those who pass

It told my heart to go and do likewise

Cast beauty and abundance freely, quietly

Not for likes, social experiments, appraisal points - but unmeasured

Cascading down, irrespective of person, unafraid of the apparent loss

It said: all will come around again in its time.

N W

The Lark Ascending

On Sunday night I was kindly taken to a concert. There was a slightly shaky start, a lovely rendition of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana with some sections that were outstanding (particularly the baritone), and then there was Hannah Roper playing Vaughan Williams, The Lark Ascending: this was stunning. She is still only in her early twenties, if that, and yet plays with such skill and sensitivity, it was actually breathtaking. I almost held my breath throughout for fear of making any noise and spoiling the performance (I was also terrified that my phone that was on silent might somehow override the command), there was a sense of being inwardly stretched as she played. Incredible.
      Sadly, I don't have a recording of it but there is a link of her playing the same piece five/six years ago here when she must have been in her teens. 

Here is another wonderful rendition: Iona Brown playing with St. Martin in the Fields.

Picture from here

Letter to a Hostage: friendship beyond difference.

Antoine De Saint-Exupery not only wrote the beautiful book, The Little Prince, but many other works including one named Letter to a Hostage, a small gem of a book which ponders existence. Near to the end of the letter he writes the following words which speak of a rare quality of friendship. The words are both timeless and concrete for his situation and the present troubled days. 

'That is undoubtedly why, my friend, I need your friendship so badly. I long for a companion who, above the disputes of reason, will respect in me the pilgrim of that light. I need to feel sometimes, in advance, the promised warmth, and to rely, beyond myself, upon that rendezvous which will be ours. I am so weary of polemics, exclusiveness and fanaticism. I can come to you without having to wear a uniform, without having to recite the Koran, without denying anything of my inmost world. With you I do not have to justify myself, to plead or to prove; I find peace as I did at Tournus. Beyond awkward words, beyond deceiving statements, you only consider the [person] in me. You honour in me the ambassador of special beliefs, customs, and lore. If I am different from you, far from depriving you, I augment you. You question me as one questions a traveller.
    As like anyone else, I need to be appreciated, I feel pure in you and come to you. I need to go where I am pure. Neither my sayings nor my doings have taught you who I am. But because you have accepted me as I am, you are indulgent, when necessary, towards those doings and sayings. I know that you are prepared to accept me as I am. What could I do with a friend who would judge me? When I welcome a friend, if he is lame, I invite him to sit down and do not ask him to dance.
     My friend, I need you as one needs a space where one can breathe... '

Listening

To listen, really listen, is an art which few of us cultivate, and to be heard--really heard---is a privilege few encounter, but when we do there is usually an accompanying transformation, if in no other way, then in the manner in which we feel about the one who listens. If I have any resolution for 2015 it is to listen more, at least to those whose words are spoken in generous truth and who aim to nourish by their speech--there is one who does that above all--and, to those are crying out to be heard, not to impress, flatter, deceive, dominate, manipulate, or suffocate with maligning or cloying words, but to be heard: to these I incline my ear.

Again--and without seeking it out--I came across some more art today that captivated. This is called Listening for Divine Instruction, by Shiloh Sophia McCloud, many of her other pieces weren't so much to my taste, but this, in my eyes, is stunning.

'Christmas' past and Christmas present

Although I have never been a fan of icons, in the last couple of days two religious pictures have caught my attention; they put in art form both the disquiet and the hope that I can only poorly express in words. There is a sense in which they depict 'Christmas' past and Christmas present. 

In the same time period I have also been introduced to a new artist by a lovely friend, somehow the music and the art align with one another. The first track with the former, and the second with the latter.

* "Virgin Mary Consoles Eve", painted by Sister Grace Remington, OCSO, of the Sisters of the Mississippi Abbey

"Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path" by Ain Vares