You come and go. The doors swing closed ever more gently, almost without a shudder Of all who move through the quiet houses, you are the quietest.
We become so accustomed to you, we no longer look up when your shadow falls over the book we are reading and makes it glow. For all things sing you: at times we just hear them more clearly. ~Rainer Maria Rilke from The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
God can be so quiet around us we scarcely think of Him tiptoeing around our distractions.
But then a moment of flash, a rainbow glow, a subtle sacred song in our ears
and we remember: He’s here watching knowing holding on to us reeling us back in when we drift away.
Birds afloat in air’s current, sacred breath? No, not breath of God, it seems, but God the air enveloping the whole globe of being. It’s we who breathe, in, out, in, in the sacred, leaves astir, our wings rising, ruffled — but only the saints take flight. We cower in cliff-crevice or edge out gingerly on branches close to the nest. The wind marks the passage of holy ones riding that ocean of air. Slowly their wake reaches us, rocks us. But storms or still, numb or poised in attention, we inhale, exhale, inhale, encompassed, encompassed. ~Denise Levertov “In Whom We Live and Move and Have Our Being“
God reminds us when we are at our most anxious and needy: He cares for the birds and feeds them, lifts their wings in the wind and their feathered down keeps them warm. He gives them air to ride upon and air to breathe.
If them, then He cherishes us as well.
We too breathe in, breathe out, ruffled and fluffed, surrounded by the air we need and the air that lifts us. Lacking down, it is His breath keeping us warm.
In a dry wind like this, snow and ice can pass directly into the air as a gas without having first melted to water. This process is called sublimation; tonight the snow in the yard and the ice in the creek sublime. A breeze buffets my palm held a foot from the wall. A wind like this does my breathing for me: it engenders something quick and kicking in my lungs. Pliny believed the mares of the Portuguese used to raise their tails to the wind, ‘and turn them full against it, and so conceive that genital air instead of natural seed; in such sort, as they become great withal, and quicken in their time, and bring forth foals as swift as the wind…’.
A single cell quivers at a windy embrace; it swells and splits, it bubbles into a raspberry; a dark clot starts to throb. Soon something perfect is born. Something wholly new rides the wind, something fleet and fleeting I’m likely to miss. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
Whenever we have a blowing northeaster, I assumed that our snow simply blew southwest and we were left with nothing but a skiff of white here. But I was wrong. The snow and ice are sublimated, disappearing into the air as vapor.
I wish I could be so transformed, blown into something wholly new and free, not tethered and earth-bound.
Our Creator God does just that: we are so very sublime through the power of His breath.
As a bird cannot exhaust the air in the sky nor a fish exhaust the water in the sea, neither can we exhaust the grace of the God. ~Charles Spurgeon
It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale. So many things have been shown so to me on these banks, so much light has illumined me by reflection here where the water comes down, that I can hardly believe that this grace never flags, that the pouring from ever-renewable sources is endless, impartial, and free. Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
This grace never flags, never exhausts itself, flows free and endlessly. And that is so– yet free comes at great cost. Freedom can never be free. Snow and ice melt, clouds deplete, emptying out their weight, transfigured into something other. There is sacrifice upstream and from the heavens. It could and has run red, it is so costly. Quenching our every thirst, we no longer lie panting and parched. Revived, renewed, transformed, grateful, Forever changed. Amazed and amazing, we are purchased and paid in full.
This saying good-by on the edge of the dark And the cold to an orchard so young in the bark Reminds me of all that can happen to harm An orchard away at the end of the farm All winter, cut off by a hill from the house.
I wish I could promise to lie in the night And think of an orchard’s arboreal plight When slowly (and nobody comes with a light) Its heart sinks lower under the sod. But something has to be left to God. ~Robert Frost from “Good-bye and Keep Cold”
The winter orchard looks cold and silent yet I know plenty is happening beneath the sod.
There isn’t much to be done this time of year until the pruning hook comes out and then the tree is shaped and shorn.
I too can appear cold and dormant, unfruitful and at times desolate. So my future fruitfulness must be left to God and His pruning hook.