Laurel Massé

All shall be well: Julian of Norwich

And in this vision, God showed me a little thing, the size of a hazel-nut, lying in the palm of my hand, and to my mind's eye it was as round as any ball. I looked at it and thought, 'What can this be?' And the answer came to me, 'It is all that is made.' I wondered how it could last, for it was so small I thought it might suddenly disappear. And the answer in my mind was, 'It lasts and will last forever because God loves it; and in this same way everything exists through the love of God.' In this little thing I saw three attributes: the first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God cares for it.  Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love

Julian was the first woman to publish a book in English (in what we now call "Middle English"). In it she tells of the visions she had in 1373. In it she describes Christ as a mother. In it she assures us that "sin is necessary, but all shall be well. All shall be well; and all manner of thing shall be well."

Today the Episcopal Church celebrates dear Julian's feast day. Eat something wondrously good, with gratitude. She would like that. Remember that C.S. Lewis said her book was dangerous. I think she would like that, too. Stories about her suggest she had a cat. I like that.

There is more information about Julian here , and here is the podcast of a talk (the transcript's there, too) given by Rev. Mimi Dixon, Presbyterian pastor, about her experiences of Julian.

This extraordinary icon was written by Mihai Cucu. This, and his other exquisite icons, can be seen here.

It was Madeleine L'Engle who introduced me to the writings of Julian; for that, and for so much more, I am always grateful.

A song in my heart, and a cold in my nose

Gustave Doré, Angelic Host (because, sometimes, singing with a choir feels like this).

One might think that, living in a more isolated area as I do, and staying in a lot while my arm heals, as I have done, that I might not catch (or be caught by) any of the foul cold contagion that has been swooping through grocery stores and malls. But alas, whatever little I did out there in the populated world was the wrong thing to do, and I have spent this day with chills and sniffles and sneezes. Tired of hearing all that, I have been listening to music of all kinds. Here is today's favorite.

In February two years ago, I flew to Chicago to be part of one of the most deeply moving projects of my career, a live recording session for Roman Hurko's choral Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. This Ukranian Catholic work is the first in that tradition to be written in English (rather than translated into English). The work was premiered in New York two months later, and again I was privileged to be in the choir.

I cried a lot over this music, and still do, though not because of its complexity. In fact, it is disarmingly simple to sing. Any congregation with the habit of singing in parts could manage the choral pieces. But it touches something very profound in me, deep in the bright dark place from which I say, "Lord, I believe!" and then right after that, "and... help my unbelief." The rising, swirling Alleluia is particularly beautiful. The whole liturgy is sung without accompaniment, and, as one reviewer said, "From the very first “Amen,” one knows that the Kingdom has come in power (see Mark 9: 1)."  

This is one of several recordings I turn to when I need to feel stronger, more hale, hearty, and human; even when the music soars,  it has the unique earthy quality of mortal voices, and it reminds me I am not alone.

You can read more about this music and the rest of Roman's work, listen to some tracks, and order the CD, here.

While you do that, I'm going to make tea.

 

Circling, circling

No matter how many wings we have, if and when one breaks, we circle.  My own broken wing, my arm in a sling, has reminded me that Advent is neither a journey from here to there, nor a path from this day back to then. It's a spiral, toward the center. Now is then, there is also here. And here is everywhere.

All we, in the darkness, circle what light we can find. That's where we tell stories, and listen to stories, big ones, because each of us needs a bigger story than the story of self.

A lion roars creation into being, a rat looks on a god, a hobbit saves the world, the boy who lived defeats that which could not live. All of these draw from deep myth, and so do many elements of the story of the birth of Christ. As people feel they must remind me, every year. As if myth means untruth.

Any writer, mystic, or mathematician will tell you that what is true sometimes does not fit into what is known to be factual. We must not forget that music was being made long before there was music theory to dictate how one could or could not make it. Languages were spoken long before there were systems of grammar, and I am pretty confident that theos preceded theology. We start so big, and then, in the process of categorizing things, we get small.

I remember being taught, in primary school, that we humans were different and special because we used tools. But as it turns out, so do ravens. Or because we made songs. So do whales. Or have dreams. Ha! Ever had a sleeping, twitching cat on your lap? Or because we just knew stuff. Homo sapiens. Please. We don't even know how to be polite half the time, much less be fully human.

But all is not lost, because we still tell stories. Perhaps someday, if we ever learn to be still and listen, we will hear all the stories around us. Day to day pours forth speech, says the Psalmist, and night to night declares knowledge. Trees might talk to us about community, rocks might teach us to take the long view. Cats have things to say about attention; ravens, about rollicking. Then, maybe, when something impossible and unfactual is nevertheless true, we won't need angels scaring us half to death by shrieking "FEAR NOT!" just to get our attention.

 

La lune

The moon was full a few days ago, and I caught glimpses between buildings as it rose in the sky. It was beautiful, and my heart sang a little song.

But once upon a time, I lived where a winter night's full moon looks like this...

Moonlight in the Adirondacks, by Rockwell Kent

... and shines so loudly that you can hear the light whispering to the snow, and the moon singing her own song.

It is a hard place to live, especially in winter, but you can see why one would try.

The long night

Dancing 'round the year, and blessed to be doing so again, because...

On the eve of solstice last night 33 years ago, my life was utterly changed in the slow blink of a tired eye, and I woke in St. Joseph's Hospital in Burbank, California, broken. 

This morning, so many solstices later, I wake in my apartment, with my cat, Mrs. Peel, snugggled close.

I can tell you a story of the times between. 

But first, listen...

AN ARCTIC SOLSTICE

Yes, friends, the darkness grows, but these
short days so celebrate the light:

today the lemon sunrise lasted the few
hours until sunset, all day the frost

glowed hyacinth and lilac on the trees.
Winter’s not a time of black and white,

the sun is not at war with night. Renew
your faith, my friends. We are not lost.

                                                                 by Patricia Monaghan

Not lost.

Solstice blessings to you, and hearts singing.

O come, Emmanuel.

Dreaming wings

This photograph - which is not a fake - is extraordinary in many ways, not the least of which is that is has countless layers of symbolism and story and the truth of dreams. Every time I look at it, I see more.

 

Tell me.  What do you see?

Wonder Sunday, courtesy of Science Friday

As Madeleine L'Engle once pointed out, there is a big difference between visible/invisible and seen/unseen. I believe that's why we don't see the kingdom of heaven though it is among us, and why Mrs. Peel is tippy-toe puffy-tail bouncing sideways across the room like a Halloween cat right now toward something I wouldn't know is there.

"We're behind the eight-ball,” says marine biologist Roger Hanlon, “if we think the world looks like how we see it. There's much more information there, and other animals see it very differently."

Here's why he said that:

Thank you, ScienceFriday.

Here endeth the lesson.

Or does it?

Oh, the places we'll go!

Once I have loaded my steampunk laptop (see previous post) into the gypsy caravan, along with my sister Babette, her dog, my cat, and a teakettle (of course), this is the map we will be consulting:

Map via danmeth.com

We'll be singing all the way.

Language skills, part 2

A friend directed me to a video clip of a secretly bilingual cat. Well, this covert cat skill comes as no surprise, and is in fact something I have long suspected in a creature that can turn invisible at will...

...and, after you've become frantic with worry, reappear with utter insouciance (I'm talking about you, Mrs. Peel).

Decades ago, Donovan Leitch sang "first there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is." His lyric was inspired by the following passage by Quinyuan Weixin:

Before I had studied Chan [zen] for thirty years, I saw mountains as mountains, and rivers as rivers. When I arrived at a more intimate knowledge, I came to the point where I saw that mountains are not mountains, and rivers are not rivers. But now that I have got its very substance I am at rest. For it's just that I see mountains once again as mountains, and rivers once again as rivers.

One has to practice meditation for quite a long while in order to attain the state of seeing what is/is not/is. Change the lyric from mountain to feline, though, and the show is up and running several times a day.

So, to summarize: Woof! Poof! Gone! ... oh, hi. Miss me?

Meow.

  

 

Beyond borders

 

At the junction of dreaming, myth, and The Little Prince is this brilliant piece, Born Like an Artist, on the Jellyvampire blog. Here is a link to the work.

Thanks to Stephanie, reader of Paul Overton's Every Day is Awesome, for recommending it in her comment there.