The Celtic Daily Prayer (vol 2) included this poem by Wendell Berry in one of the recent daily readings. These last couple weeks I've been buoyed by many things, not the least of which is the coming of spring, the greening and the warming of the world. So when I read this poem, it felt to be just the right thing to read that day. May it be so for you today.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Something to do instead of worrying
In Marilyn McEntyre's book, Make A List: How a Simple Practice Can Change Our Lives and Open Our Hearts, she suggests making a list about nearly anything. I wrote about this book a couple years ago, which you can read here. She gives lots of ideas for lists, some serious and some fun, including: Things to let go of, What's new in the garden, How to cope with a steady stream of bad news, How to enjoy what I have, Books to read, Favorite films of the past five years. McEntyre writes that lists are mirrors of what matters to you, lists are a way of listening, a way of loving, a way of letting go, a way to practice prayer. One morning several weeks ago, while still lying in bed after a night of little sleep, having forgotten my practice of practicing not worrying, I remembered her book and her encouragement to make lists. Let's make a list instead of worry, I told myself. My brain started making a list of lists to write, and it felt joy to be occupied with something other than worry. Try it yourself: pick a topic and just start.
Practice not worrying
At the beginning of Lent and in response to worrying far too much about too many things, I decided to give up worry for Lent. About two minutes after coming to that decision, however, I realized the impossibility of that intention, and so I changed it to practice not worrying, with definite emphasis on practice. The "practice" part immediately took the pressure off and turned the Lenten intention into something creative and responsive. I've kept this intention past the end of Lent and am still practicing and hope I'll always continue to practice. Even so, I forget to practice and worry builds until I remember again the practice, and just the remembrance of it, the words alone (practice not worrying), brings release, reminding me there are alternatives to toxic rumination. Practice. Practice. Like practicing my scales at the piano when I was a child. Over and over. Missed notes, missed fingering, stumbling, no matter, keep practicing. Again. Again. Today, tomorrow. Practice.
Evidences of beauty and goodness, anything that prompts joy
I’ve been slowly rereading Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts. Perhaps you read it when it first came out in 2010. This popular book is known for modeling keeping a daily list of that for which you’re grateful, not meaning just “things” but evidences of beauty and goodness and thought and any sightings that prompt joy no matter how small. The book moves from gratitude to joy, with lots in between and beyond, and this second read has been valuable. This morning as I was reviewing the passages I’ve underlined, this one popped out and offers a clue regarding this newsletter’s first entry so I thought I’d post it here.
“Give thanks to keep eyes on heaven.”
Since starting to reread this book I've restarted keeping a gratitude journal. It’s a practice I suggest to you as well particularly during these strange days of uncertainty. Start a numbered list. Each day add 5 or 10 things. Keep it going. For what are you grateful this day? Where have you seen beauty or goodness or had a thought that calms or energizes? How and when have you felt joy?
Their eyes were watching God
The last several weeks a section from the book Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Thurston, a classic of black literature, has come to mind a number of times. I cited it long ago in Just Think, and since it’s been revisiting me recently I want to call it your mind here as well. The book is set in Florida in the 1920s, and the quote here is when Janie, the main character, and her husband are taking shelter as a hurricane, the “screaming wind,” is coming through their town.
“The wind came back with triple fury, and put out the light for the last time. They sat in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes straining against crude walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.”
Their eyes were watching God. I’ve always loved that line. It begs the question—regardless of who you are or where you live or the color of your skin or what storm is approaching or overhead (Covid perhaps?)—what does it mean be “watching God”? I think this question is key to hope. I’d love to hear your thoughts. What might it mean to be watching God from behind a face mask? From our couches as we watch the news each night sitting in company with others but from whom we’re isolated?
The Life of Another
My dear friend Jessica Brown sent a group of friends this new poem she’s written during the Covid-19 outbreak. With her permission I’m sharing it here for you to read as well. As far as I know, it’s yet untitled.
Could this be world war?
I see parallels:
Life severed
from what was before,
Death’s maw hounding us
more than normal.
But then. One difference airs—
We are not at war with each other.
Over small tracts of land
bullets do not shred flesh,
field hospitals built now
are not readying for wounds of war.
Heart’s wrung not by terror of weapon,
but by what we allow ourselves to feel
when cherishing the life of another—
The life of another,
This is the time for that.
–Jessica Brown. Used with permission.
Visit Jessica’s website at: https://www.jessicabrownwriter.com/
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Thank you for reading this post. I’m praying for all those who visit these pages.
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[Photo: Fabric bought who knows how long ago, now cut into rectangles and awaiting transformation into face masks.]
Caim, a circling prayer
Here’s a prayer you might want to pray. It’s called the Caim prayer, or circling prayer. It speaks to the presence and love of God that surrounds us, that encircles us. I wrote about it on my blog once years ago at a time when so many needs were being prayed over. It seems a good time to offer it here again. These two variations are from the book Celtic Daily Prayer. You can insert your own words within the parentheses. Its title in this source is “Caim prayer (When I do not know what to pray).” You can pray it for yourself, and you can pray it for others.
1.
Circle (name), Lord.
Keep (comfort) near
and (discouragement) afar.
Keep (peace) within
and (turmoil) out.
Amen.
2.
Circle (name), Lord.
Keep protection near
and danger afar.
Circle (name), Lord.
Keep hope within,
keep despair without.
Circle (name), Lord.
Keep light near
and darkness afar.
Circle (name), Lord.
Keep peace within
and anxiety without.
The eternal Father, Son and Holy Spirit
shield (name) on every side.
Amen.
The book suggests that you stretch your arm out and draw a circle clockwise around yourself as you pray to symbolize the encircling love of God.
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[Photo: A dreary day that was the first day of Covid-19 stay-at-home mandate here in Minneapolis. Even so, we're only weeks ago from this scene at a nearby creek, currently oh-so-brown, bursting into its green and blue color palette; more to come. There's always more to come.]