Vegistate Trinitate: On Brueghel’s The Hunters in the Snow

They hardly know we’re watching them,

Tired hunters crunching home at end of day.

Far less the women working at their spindle-whispy fires

Or the spindle-steepled trees.

They hardly know the hunters come trudging through the snow,

The spluttered skaters dizzy on the ice below.

Even less the swallows with their feathered spires

Or the homes whistling smoke-song into the frosty sky.

They hardly know we’re here at all,

The rising steeples made of rock, faces carved by God.

We repeat their upward-turning gesture

Even as we keep our frigid eyes on sod.

We hardly know they’re there,

The patterns that surround us,

The swirling, aspiring, uniform in all its forms,

The fingerprint of God.

The Pattern of Our Years

I’m old enough to believe in the cold,

Old enough that the snow does not surprise me,

But I hear the wonder in their eyes,

Surprise in toes that feel like broken glass.

I pull out sweaters when the calendar declares

The time is near

Because I know this time comes faster every year.

All the mystery has drained away,

Like the bottom of a bath,

Hair-curling dregs going past.

We pretend that we are masters with Climate Control,

But year after year,

Rain means mud, snow means shoveling.

We are puppets of the seasons,

Made to dance to the back of the closet,

Made to dance in boots.

And in the ritual exchanging of flip flops for sweaters,

We are prisoners,

Wrapped in, kept in, held like a beloved in

The patterns of our years.

A Proposal

When kingdoms fail and chaos wins the day,

Though I wear chains of desolate defeat,

And comrades of my youth be marched away

To die and sweat and bow a mean retreat;

When plague shall wipe from earth the sword and shield

And farmers leave the lonely plow to die,

The oxen lowing, kings in unturned field

Insentient ‘neath pale unfeeling sky;

When all the world is shrouded with a night

That poetry itself cannot abide,

An age from which the words have taken flight

Because the poets one and all have died:

            For you my love I still will always sing

            Till close of time the fire and ice will bring.

For M.

Roll the drums, and crash the waves, beat the time

And listen. Dirge the dance and teach my heart

its rhythm. Sing on, song and flute and rhyme,

Bring out your light, and flaunt your garish art!

Moon ring round the earth; earth around the sun,

You stars give rise and fall; All earthly things

With sightless eyes and wordless tongue

Go on about your seasons, sharing drinks

And cocktails with the splendour of the day.

Shine, you brash sun, on waters ever blue,

Bloom, you gaudy flow’rs; let your clock delay--

Be drunk on sunlit rainbows; dance upon the dew.

                   While you drink, dance, sing, I will hold the night;

                   Whisper I love you, sleep well, and goodnight.

Do Not Go Gentle

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Young tots should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though two-year-olds at the end know dark is night,
Because their words had forked some lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good boys, the last hug by, crying how bright
Their frail paints might have danced if they’d had fivemoreminutes,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild kids who caught and sang the ceiling fan in flight,
And learn, too late, they trapped themselves this way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave girls, after bath, who see with blinding sight
Bath-time was a cruel trick to end the day

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there from that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now, but my fierce tears will stay.
I will not go gentle into that good night.
I will rage against the dying of the light.

On Becoming

I was watching my two younger boys in the gray twilight hours of early morning. They had each chosen a puzzle to work—or, more accurately, the 4yo had chosen a puzzle, the 1yo had requisitioned it for himself, & the 4yo had moved to the floor with a different puzzle.

The 4yo was doing an alphabet puzzle, singing a song about the letters and their sounds as he made it up. The 1yo was standing in a chair, leaning over the table, taking a car puzzle piece & driving it along the top edge of the puzzle lid with "vrooms" & bumps. Each was so intent, so focused, they were oblivious to me there watching.

As I watched, I thought of all that raising children entails—the feeding, diapering, kissing ouches, math lessons and reading lessons...

But here they are, doing things without me, in spite of me, oblivious to me.

And I saw a new thing that mothers do: step back, give space. Let our children become.

It's so much more than a flower, but it reminds me of the process—of planting, watering, waiting for the seed that grows in the darkness. Watching the green sprouts curl upward toward the light. And for all we do with watering cans and dirt, there is a point at which you can see the Hand-of-God, the Not-You of it all, when you can see the bud break open and blossom.

More Undignified

After the birth of my last baby, I said something like, "Whew. Now to return to some level of dignity."

The L&D nurse (who was amazing, by the way) got this look on her face that I'll never forget. She started lecturing me about how dignified childbirth is, how honored she is to attend women during that time, etc. I don't remember her exact words, but the look on her face was: "THIS. THIS is dignity."

I hadn't meant to insult her, but let's face it. No matter how beautiful or spiritual the advent of new life, it's not exactly a state in which you want to interview. There are no photographs that come out of that that you'd want on a business card. My feelings afterward?

Pardon me for that.

The indignity of birth has been on my mind lately, as I look toward another labor & delivery. It's all very shocking & inappropriate, & I do wish somehow it didn't have to involve an entourage.

Besides the birth itself, there's the indignity of the number that this one represents. (It's number 6.) Culturally, I have passed from unusual to insane. When they're all clean, their clothes match, & their behavior is great, it's not too bad. I mean, people gawk, but trying to turn in the grocery store IS like waiting behind a duck crossing.

On the other hand. Well...they're NOT always on their best behavior, & sometimes they pick out crazy clothes or I overlook a hole, stain, dirty face. Oops. I usually notice all of this at once, while standing in the check-out line, the checker's goggle eyes lacking any sympathy. He's likely wondering why I brought a circus to the grocery store and not because he wants to buy tickets. *sigh*

There's indignity to motherhood. We almost never look like those Victorian pictures or Hallmark cards or even Other People's Christmas Cards. You get puked on, pooped on, assumed to be a walking tissue/burp cloth. And I don't mean at home.

So, yeah, given all that, here comes number six. Whee!

But this morning, in the middle of anticipating the "dignity" of L&D, I heard the words of David to Michal when she criticized his worship of the Lord:

"And I will be even more undignified than this, and will be humble in my own sight." (2 Sam 6:22)

Before that, David clarifies—it was before the Lord—that he danced and played his music. It was not FOR Michal or anyone else watching.

And that's how I see this whole motherhood gig: it's an act of worship, offered to the Lord, not to the checker at the grocery store or anyone else observing—for good or ill.

To the goggle-eyed, I say: I will become even more undignified than this! But in my heart? I'm praying, Lord, help me. Because I'm not really quite as brave as David, and I’m pretty sold on being dignified.