timeless moments

I opened my eyes, and rolled over to check my clock, certain that I had mere minutes before my alarm went off. Nope. Five A.M. Why was I awake this early? The only time all year my 8 A.M. class was cancelled, and here I was, wide awake even before the sunrise. What a waste of a Friday morning. All week, I envisioned sleeping for a glorious extra hour before my next class. But it wasn’t meant to be.

I closed my eyes again and lay very still, hoping that I would drift to the space between sleeping and waking for the rest of the time I had left. No luck—I wasn’t even drowsy. Slowly, the pale beginnings of the sunrise crept in. I parted my curtain just enough to let the early morning light fall across my half of the room. My roommate slept soundly, and so I reached for my copy of The Complete Poems & Plays of T. S. Eliot. I lovingly fingered the pages as I meandered through the poetry, careful to keep loose leaves in place. A few pages from “Burnt Norton” and “East Coker” had broken off entirely, though I had only owned the book since January. I like to think its worn condition resulted from being loved too well, but perhaps cheap binding had a role to play in its premature demise.

Years of reading by flashlight and streetlight had trained my eyes for dim conditions, and so I turned to The Four Quartets, my homework assignment for the week, and began to read movement by movement, book by book, in hushed voice:

A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England…

***

I dropped my bags by the nearest bed I saw. The days had been so long and weary. England had been everything I dreamed it would be, but on this night I found myself a little tired of living out of a suitcase. Weak heating in the bedrooms detracted from the rustic charm of Little Gidding, despite strategically placed space heaters and closed doors. My bones ached from the bustle of the city. Anyone who believes, like Samuel Johnson, that people who “tire of London tire of life” must not value peace and quiet very much. My harried soul craved rest. I fell asleep more quickly that night than any previous night on the trip.

I woke to complete stillness and cool winter light. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep for a few precious minutes, but to no avail. The two other girls in the room were still fast asleep, and I wished, not for the first time, that my body wouldn’t always wake up before its time. But then it occurred to me—we had arrived at Little Gidding long after dark, and we only stayed inside. “What must the outside look like?” I wondered.

The curtains hung over the window to block the waking light. I slipped behind them, and my breath caught in my throat. Beauty. Pristine natural beauty. Unbroken snow lay across the fields. I could see for miles without a single housing development or building blocking my view. The sun rose in pastels, shades of baby blue and pink. One lone tree stood, reaching naked branches to the skies; a solitary blackbird glided through the scene. I looked down to see tracks of all kinds—rabbits and some kind of bird—and a huge, pigeon-type bird I’d never seen before. I peered beyond the frozen glass and fixed my gaze on the horizon. I don’t know how long I stood there, but those moments of quiet simplicity nourished my soul more than days of manmade grandeur.

I cannot remember whether that day at Little Gidding fell on a literal Sunday. Regardless, it was my Sabbath. We did nothing that day but read poetry, drink tea, eat home-cooked meals, and wander around the English winter countryside. No tours, no deadlines, no trains. No TV, no internet, no phones. Time froze. Every few hours I would return to my place behind the curtain and refill my soul. The light changed with the passing hours, from cool blue to pale yellow, and finally a blazing vermillion sunset that sparkled off the snow. I knew it must be beautiful in the spring when the world would come alive; but I dared not imagine anything that could surpass that landscape, in that moment.

At the end of the day we took Holy Communion together; after conversation of grace around the fire, I returned to my bed. The room was warmer now, or maybe I had warmed from the inside out. In my last moments before sleep I reached into my backpack, and from the scarves and pamphlets I pulled my brand-new copy of The Complete Poems & Plays of T. S. Eliot. The trip culminated in a revelation this day: Somehow in the last semester, I had learned to love poetry. And so I read silently, pencil in hand:

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing the laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality…

***

Time froze that morning at 5 A.M., just as it had that day in Little Gidding. I do not know how long I read, only that I whispered The Four Quartets in its entirety. And right as I got to the lines,

Quick now, here now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)…

I heard the sound of rain. A usual sound in northern Pennsylvania, so I thought nothing of it…until I looked out my window and saw that the sun still rose. Sun and rain—two of my favorite things, usually antithetical, existing in the same moment. Not only existing together, but enhancing one another.

I grabbed my ID, rolled up my sweatpants, and ran barefoot into the morning. The hard, frigid rain mixed with the warm air so that all was awash in a misty glow and the earth smelled sweet. Each rain drop served as a prism, magnifying the light that shone through it and brightening every color in jewel hues. The world sparkled.

The rain sped into a torrential downpour. By the time I reached the chapel doors, I was soaked through. I stepped inside and dripped a puddle of rain on the floor, marveling that the colors outside were more vivid even than those in the stained glass windows. I only stayed inside a few seconds to clear the rainwater from my eyes—who knew how long this moment would last?

I stopped at the bridge to watch the sun finish rising through the rain. As I soaked in the rain, the sunshine, the brilliant colors and the smell of the earth, the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins filled my heart with praise:

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

I returned to my dorm soaking wet, thoroughly exhilarated, actually grateful that my plans had been interrupted. The glory of that morning far outshone the sleep.

(written for ENGL 381: Creative Nonfiction.  Assignment: “At Peace with Beauty”.  copyright 2010)

the love of Jesus

O Father of Jesus,
Help me to approach You with deepest reverence,
not with presumption,
not with servile fear, but with holy boldness.
You are beyond the grasp of my understanding,
but not beyond that of my love.
You know that I love You supremely,
for You are supremely adorable, good perfect.

My heart melts at the love of Jesus,
my brother, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh,
married to me, dead for me, risen for me;
He is mine and I am His,
given to me as well as for me;
I am never so much mine as when I am His,
or so much lost to myself until lost in Him;
then I find my true [womanhood].

But my love is frost and cold, ice and snow;
Let His love warm me,
lighten my burden,
be my heaven;
May it be more revealed to me in all its influences
that my love to Him may be more fervent and glowing;
Let the mighty tide of His everlasting love
cover the rocks of my sin and care;
Then let my spirit float above those things
which had else wrecked my life.

Make me fruitful by living to that love,
my character becoming more beautiful every day.
If traces of Christ’s love-artistry be upon me,
may He work on with His divine brush
until the [c o m p l e t e] image be obtained
and I be made a perfect copy of Him,
my Master.

O Lord Jesus, come to me,
O Divine Spirit, rest upon me,
O Holy Father, look on me in mercy
for the sake of the well-beloved. 

[a late-night prayer, read in turmoil, from The Valley of Vision.]

sun & rain

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor & squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun & rain make april.

When I read the phrase "little church", I see a small, white chapel.  Nothing too big or fancy.  There are wooden pews, with cushions, perhaps – no chairs.  There is a piano, keys worn from use, but still in tune.  Worn Bibles and hymnals are placed in every row.  I see a stained-glass window in the front – not a large one, not very fancy, but the colors that stream through dance on the white walls.  Light fills the room.  There are lots of windows, and no dark corners.  It's the kind of small-town church I imagine my mother grew up in.  

This image contrasts sharply against my memories of the great English cathedrals I saw this year.  They are grand, indeed.  I got dizzy from looking up so much, examining the artwork painted across vast, far-away ceilings.  I remember the intricate stonework, woodwork, the floors so nice I almost feared to tread on them.  The windows were always my favorite part – so grand, so many colors, so much light. 

When I read of the splendor juxtaposed with squalor, religious connections of the little church still lingering, I remember Westminster Abbey.  The Abbey is by no means “squalor” in the typical sense, don’t get me wrong.  It’s one of the grandest buildings I’ve ever seen in my life – but cluttered, so full.  People milling everywhere, tour guides trying to keep track of their group, talking over one another.  Impatience grows when the group in front does not move fast enough, resentment threatens when rushed past a revered place.  Every step is a step upon a grave here, a memorial stone there.  And though there are prayers every hour…the place feels far from sacred.  There is too much busy to feel the holy ground in that place.  The hustle and bustle in that Abbey reflects the rush of the city. 

And so I pray that my life would be not like a historical landmark in a large city, but like a small, sunny chapel.  A place that people can come to and say "This is home.  This is quiet and peace."

“i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest” – How I wish that that were true!  I have grown up near cities, constantly aware of the pressured value of time.  Even more aware now that I am a college student, and deadlines multiply faster than they seemed on the syllabus.  There is never, never enough time.  And yet, who can add an hour to life by wishing for just one more?  And so I pray that God would teach me to number my days & give me a heart of patient, peaceful wisdom, so that when days grow brief(est) I remember in stillness: He Who neither slumbers nor sleeps knows my needs. 

“i am not sorry when sun & rain make april.” -  This line...this line is near perfection for me.  I complain about metaphorical rain far more than literal rain, I know.  It is not as pleasant.  But both the rain & the sun are necessary for growth, for spring-sweet smell, for brilliant jewel colors, for cool breeze, for radiant sunsets, for puddle-jumping and barefoot dancing.  Everything that is worth-while and beautiful, literal or metaphorical, requires some inconvenience - some disappointment, some thunder, some fallen limbs, some flickering lights gone dark, some cold, pounding drops.  And so, much as I sometimes complain of the rain...I am not sorry for it.  I am learning to rejoice in April.  


(This post started as a series on e. e. cummings's poem "i am a little church".  Then I realized I need to do more thinking, more mulling on the rest of the poem before I can write well on it.  It's a rich, beautiful poem - if you read it, let me know what you think of it [all of it, or just sections] in the comment section!)