Words of Keeping

It is light now when I rise, a pearly haze of pre-dawn glimmer that lets me see shapes without needing a lamp.  By the time I come down into the garden the day has broken fully, but no sun to be seen, just a blanket of grey filling the sky and the lattice of trees.  It is so wet everywhere, puddles and pools on any surface that will hold them, and drops lining every branch.  Each day we think Spring might start to approach there is another flurry of sleet or snow, another blast of air from the Arctic.

The birds aren’t put off by it, the morning is filled with their song.  And crocuses are pushing up regardless among the scattered brown leaves in the wet lawn.  Was this once the norm?  We have got used to milder winters, and bees buzzing and blooms appearing at the end of February.  If we lived in Canada we would have adjusted to long winters, but here we struggle, longing for the breakthrough of warmth and the rolling back of winter.  It is as if the winter has parked itself in our souls, and we feel as dreary as the grey days.

What is to be done?  Let’s light fires to drive away the grey.  We have a wonderful wood fire newly working this winter that cheers as well as warms.  And there are books to be read, people to be loved, long stripy socks to be worn, indoor projects to be done, all lighting inner fires of joy that will see us through to Spring.

The sun on the bare branches of the oak tree brings out all its colours so that it shines, yellow-green and bright against a blue, blue sky.  None of it could be called brown, yet that is what we might call it if asked.  It isn’t a simple colour, or a simple being.  It holds a covering of algae next to its skin, lifting it high so it can find the sun.  It supports branches of ivy, and a multitude of insects we’d know how to find if we were birds.  We call it tree but it is king and servant of a community and looks as alive now as it does in full-leafed summer.

Winter is about finding a different kind of life to the one we miss from the summer, different colours of soul that we do not notice when full-blown and bright.  As the trees go bare we add layers of clothes to our bodies but the dark can lay bare our souls.  This is the time of year when deaths and breakdowns can peak, when we are vulnerable to the footsteps beyond our walls.  In winter we need to be held by the network of love our lives have woven.  Love that warms the winter cold and lights fires to burn the dross we have carried through the year.  Love that faces our mistakes without losing its smile.  Love that links us to our own strengths when we struggle, to friends when we are alone, to God when we are afraid.  Love that fits our size, the smallness we feel in the large space of world. Love that wears the clothes of this bare season, not a sugar covering that dissolves in the dark.  Winter is the time to find the bones of love.

The moon is still ruling the sky in the west, a bright white light in the inky blue, and it is only when you look to the east you can see the blue is fading, a thin strip of pale sky showing below the grey-gathered clouds.   Yet you would know it was the hour of dawn before you ever looked east, for walking through the dark garden there is such a clamour of birdsong.  What a wonder that they wake and welcome the dawn each day, no matter the hour or the weather. 

The garden that at first seems a dark, alien place is warmed by their sound, and the far rumble of cars and trains, and the distant light in a bedroom window.  I have been here five minutes and already the sky has changed, the light is diluting the dark and the blue at the edge has been washed away by pale pearl grey.  It is changing fast enough to see the difference but slow enough that you can’t notice the changing.  It is still, there is no obvious movement of light or colour, just a steady increase of glow. The clouds have disappeared, and now there is a hint of yellow at the horizon, smiling at the still-sailing moon behind me.

We often resist change, the noisy destruction of what is known and the clumsy erection of what is to take its place.  But each day we live through these subtle changes that our lives revolve around without noticing, a rhythm of body and earth.  Each day brings the gift of new held in the arms of the familiar.  I am sitting waiting in the womb of the day, and there on the horizon is Tuesday coming to meet me.

The sun is shining on my face and glinting off the snow.  Yes, we have real snow that shines white and bright.  It outlines the twigs and branches with highlights and hangs heavy on the leaves.  It squeaks as you walk over it, crunching into compact layers that hold your prints.  It transforms lawns into cake-tops, thick, sweet and smooth, but thins on paths and melts from hot roofs.  It clumps and collects as it is swept from windscreens and walkways, and along the edge of the road it gathers our dirt to itself like a nurse.

Last night the flakes were falling fast, chasing us home to shelter from the wild.  Now they have finished their job and we are invited to look and to play.  Can anyone go past and not look, not notice the dark way into the wood lit bright with beauty, the branches arching overhead dressed up for the occasion, the fields stretching nearer in the light, and all linked, all made one with this blanket from heaven that muffles our busy sounds, that reflects the sun into our eyes, and fills the cold air with the present of peace?

Christmas Day.  The church bells are ringing, a plane is still flying overhead and the birds sing and soar as normal.  The sky isn’t closed and grey today, it is open with delight, brightness shining from the still hidden sun.  What a thing it is to think about God becoming man.  A folly or impossibility to some, and a matter of common knowledge that fails to thrill for others. Let’s mix them up.  Let’s imagine what it means, what it was like.

It means the easy discourse I have with God, the awareness of spirit in my being and my world, wasn’t always there.  God as distant, other, fearsome Lord would be what was known and worshipped.  Let’s think of that God becoming human, and not just perfect, authoritative man but small, vulnerable child.  Because for God to become human meant sharing in all our weakness and vulnerability, not just our strength.  And it wasn’t like acting, slipping on a persona while you visit earth for a season.  It was a real becoming, like awaiting the birth of a precious child in all their newness, but this time the child was yourself. 

Did it feel like coming home, filling the shoes where previously you had only shone in the heart?  Did you enjoy the ripple of muscle and the tingling of skin?  And the knowledge and love that comes hard won?  Did you want to scoop us all up to heaven with you?  How did you cope with letting us go and trusting our freedom and inner compass to bring us home in the end?  I’m glad you had friends, real friends who were men and women you could live and laugh and argue with.  I would hate to think of you being alone, or of a God who couldn’t make friends.  And you were true to them although they frustrated you and let you down.  What a wonder we celebrate today – the birthing and earthing of God.