“O star of wonder, star of light, star with royal beauty bright, westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light.”
I am feeling a little sad today, not just because the Yuletide officially ends on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, but because I am not baking a kings’ cake nor am I hosting an Epiphany party, something I have done faithfully for several decades (except last year). With the Omicron virus out of control right now, it would be irresponsible to gather in person and so I must celebrate virtually, or simply in my heart, this special day in the year.
Parties on Twelfth Night I have had in the past are remembered with great joy: baking a tiny plastic baby in the kings’ cake, donning crowns, moving the three Magi closer to the Christ child, giving little gifts of stars, and chocolate coins to my guests. All these activities have great significance to me, I suppose because my primary love language is gift-giving, and I am grieving the lost opportunity.
But it is a bright, sunshiny day in Southern California. The light this time of year is so brilliant that it reminds me of the star of Bethlehem and a dream I once had: It was the dead of night but suddenly a great light appeared in the sky and everyone woke up, came out of their homes, and walked down to the beach following the radiance. When we arrived, we were enveloped in warmth, unity, peace and joy. We were one in the love that enveloped us, emanating from the trinitarian love song that plays at the heart of all creation. Best of all–we all recognized it!
On this Twelfth Day of Christmas, I plan to leave little gifts anonymously on the doorsteps of my neighbors. I not only want to follow the light, I wanted to be a light for someone today. I hope and pray you are too.
“I wish I had a river I could skate away on; I wish I had a river so long it would teach my feet to fly. . .I wish I had a river I could skate away on. . .” from “River” by Joni Mitchell
No secret revealed, libraries and bookstores rank high on my list of favorite places and I have skated away on a river of books since I was old enough to read. Novels, nonfiction, classic literature, children’s books, well, I love it all. My children and grandchildren are well aware of this facet of my personhood. One of their Christmas gifts every year is a book I think they need to read. To my delight On Christmas day, I had quite an in-depth conversation with my twelve year-old-grandson about the book True Grit (my gift to him) and about Charles Dickens, an author he said he had never heard of. (I had to do some deep-breathing during that statement because Dickens is one of my favorite authors).
This past year, I did something I never pictured myself doing–I decided to listen to audiobooks. I began by borrowing classic novels from the library and listening to many titles long checked off my list. One of the first was A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I have read this novel at least five times as well as seen the films but when I heard a distinguished English voice read Dickens, I was mesmerized. The words came alive, the scenes even more vivid, the story clearer than ever before. I also listened to Middlemarch by George Eliot (almost 900 pages), and Promised Land by Barrack Obama, which he read himself! Now I am listening to the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis and enjoying the voices of the familiar characters in a way I never thought possible. Because I tried something new, I have been immensely enriched and abundantly gifted.
I fear that kids today do not read for escape and pleasure like I did and that does not settle well in my soul. Having seen and listened to many anxious and depressed young ones, I know they need a river to skate away on sometimes. Unfortunately, that river is most often social media, texting, or internet cyberspace environments that do not transport them to a land of enchantment and beauty. My youngest daughter is a high school English teacher and we have many conversations about how to raise and nurture a next generation of readers. While challenging, perhaps we elders need to make the effort to share our wisdom without judgment and teach our young ones how to skate so they will feel the glorious freedom flowing from the river of books right at their fingertips.
“All that I come from, all that I live for, and all that I’m going to be, My precious family/Savior/Jesus is more than an heirloom to me.”(“Heirlooms” by Amy Grant)
“Your house is like a museum,” remark those who first step over the threshold, “there’s so much to look at.” I never know how to take that statement these days when the minimalist movement reigns supreme. Usually, I just smile and usher people into my home, full to the brim with antiques, old photographs, books, and family heirlooms. I am unabashedly sentimental and a keeper of memories. Resisting the urge to become a packrat, I do purge every year, but not everything. Marie Condo’s suggestion to let go of what does not bring joy is not all that helpful to me. I only keep what I love, and I love a multitude of beautiful things, especially when it comes to Christmas.
Dismantling my decorations this time of year is always a bittersweet chore for me. Each ornament has a story; the Nativity figures are the carriers of childhood memories. I always wonder what the state of the world will be like next year when the boxes are unpacked again; if I will be granted another glorious Christmas with family as I have had for so many years. I remind myself to enter each moment and keep telling the stories behind the heirlooms that bind us together in a faith that looks through the trappings of possessions, prestige, and power. This is not about material things at all, but about what they represent.
I hope my grandchildren will want some of the heirlooms I have saved in my home for them. However, what I hope the most is that they know their worth is far more precious to me than anything I own. Love is the heirloom I most want them to give to the next generation.
“Some children see Him bronzed and brown, The Lord of heav’n to earth come down. Some children see Him bronzed and brown, With dark and heavy hair.” from the Christmas carol, “Some Children See Him,” by James Taylor
When I was in fifth grade, the movie “West Side Story” was released amidst great fanfare. News of this modern version of “Romeo and Juliet” even reached my tender ears in small town Minnesota where I lived. My brother and I pooled our babysitting and lawn-cutting money to purchase the record album together. And then we played it on the stereo, over and over and over again which drove my parents crazy. By the time the movie finally came to our little hamlet, we knew every lyric, fingersnap, and syncopated instrumentation by heart. When written on the memory at such a young age, one never forgets.
Since 1961, I have probably seen “West Side Story” a hundred times, both the movie version and on stage. I was even in a production when I was in college. When I heard about a redo of this timeless classic, I was both excited and dubious. I am not a big fan of attempts to update classic films but I was willing to give this beloved one a try. One of my Christmas gifts from my daughters was the promise to see the film together which this year was a momentous event. We had not been in a theatre since the onset of the pandemic and so we went the very next day.
I was enthralled from the first aerial shot of New York City tenements and heard the familiar startling notes of the overture. With Stephen Spielberg as the director, I anticipated some creative surprises and was not disappointed. He stayed true to the music and dancing but added some intriguing twists and turns that I really did love. What really stood out was the appearance of so many LatinX performers. They lent an authenticity about the story that was missing from the old version. The gangs were much dirtier, grittier, and more believable, even when they were pirouetting through construction sites. Rita Moreno singing “Somewhere” in the drugstore as the Puerto Rican widow of Doc, the Jewish proprietor, brought tears to my eyes. A poignant and powerful statement about the prevalence of prejudice throughout many generations, this scene is one I will never forget.
Sometimes I feel very naive when it comes to understanding prejudice, having grown up in a town that had absolutely no diversity. When I moved to California in the 1970s, I learned lessons from living in several barrio neighborhoods in Santa Ana. Suddenly surrounded by Spanish-speaking friends and neighbors, I ate homemade tamales and burritos, and went to quinceañeras and posadas. I also experienced angst about my undocumented friends who always seemed to be doing everyone’s dirty work. I grew painfully aware of drugs, gangs, and the shadow side of immigration with a permeable border only sixty miles away.
What does the movie “West Side Story” have to say about the state of prejudice today? I hate to admit it but it seems like we have not made much progress. We still have gang members killing each other on the streets. We still have poor people pushed out of their homes in the name of gentrification. There are still stigmas about marrying outside racial lines. Recently, someone asked me if I thought women are better off today than they were before the 1960s. Yes, I answered, but we still have a long way to go. Perhaps the same can be said of prejudice. We still have a long way to go.
Don’t miss “West Side Story” on the big screen. You will be swept away by its electricity and drawn into the timeless struggle of learning what it means to truly love our neighbors.
“I wonder as I wander out under the sky why Jesus our Savior has come for to die for poor orn’ry people like you and like I; I wonder as I wander out under the sky.”
The Appalachian folksong, “I Wonder as I Wander,” has haunted me since I was a young teenager. One of the Dominican sisters who taught English sang it at our high school assembly before Christmas break. Sr. Caitlin was a witty, wise-cracking young woman, full of mirth and practical jokes. When she stepped up to the microphone, no one expected the emotional “wondering” that came from the depths of her powerful voice and beautiful soul. She forever changed my perception of wonder that day.
I generally do not make resolutions on January first. In the olden days, I would take my three daughters to the beach and we would each make a list of prayer requests that I would tuck into my bible and then not look at until the following New Year’s Day. We were always filled with wonder when we opened the list again. Soccer games had been won, and math tests conquered. Squabbles with friends were long forgotten and sick dogs and cats well again. It was always amazing how many prayers got answered, which was a good lesson about seeing life full of abundance and grace.
Although we no longer participate in this exact ritual, (they are all mothers with children of their own) I still spend a fair amount of time ruminating over my personal prayer list on New Year’s Day. I call this “wondering.” I wonder why some prayers get answered exactly the way I think they should while others remain open-ended. I wonder why human beings are still so cruel to one another; why we do not share resources so that all people can have food and clean water. I wonder why we want to fight over images of God, of who is and who is not in heaven; why we quibble about doctrines and words to creeds. I wonder about the world-wide pandemic, when it will end, what good has come out of the devastation. The list goes on.
There is another kind of wondering I do on January first. I wonder over the beauty of nature, the perfection of a child’s face, the random acts of kindness that spill out of ordinary circumstances. I feel wonder arising when I think of so many friends who have loved and supported me when I was too busy to notice. I wonder that I have lived twenty-two years into the new millennium and can still feel enchanted by wonderful things.
Today, the prayer list includes a request for your New Year: may the next twelve months bring you many experiences of wonder.
“For auld lang syne my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne.”
Every December 31st morning, for the past ten years, I have been guiding others through a reflective prayer process called “Soul Collage.” For several hours, we come together to create an icon or holy card to express the state of the inner journey. Print images are chosen that picture the frequently hidden depths of the true self. The collages are mysterious to those who gaze upon them but to those who create them, represent very real depictions of the transcendent. More than anything, these collages record and chronicle the soul’s quest for meaning.
I began making collages out of magazine photos when I was very young, using the finished products as greeting cards, story-telling, and to scrapbook memorable events. Resources were tight then and so this was a cheap way to express myself. Many years later, after having completed the certification for the art of spiritual direction, I was thoroughly delighted to meet Seena Frost, author of Soul Collage: Evolving An Intuitive Collage Process for Self-Discovery and Community, who introduced me to an expansive way to use collage for spiritual growth. Since then, I have created dozens of soul collages, but the best ones are always on New Year’s Eve. This morning, nine women gathered on Zoom, including a new friend from Canada. No, it was not the same as being together in person (which we had planned to do until Omicron reared its ugly head), yet, the magic of the process prevailed. The sharing was deep, heart-felt, and inspiring.
I have entitled this year’s collage “Liberation,” and am still working on the finishing touches, including some lines of poetry. The little boy, freefalling into the lake, is how I feel since I retired from ministry. Far from regressing, he is the inner child which has connected with me again in this, my 73rd year. The other parts of myself, including the generative woman on the dock with a portrait of Mary, the flexible, balanced and disciplined Amazon woman, and the wise crone staring into a sunset at the beach. In the sky, the Beloved eagle soars, inviting me to fly high after I plunge into the waters of new birth.
Happy New Year everyone! May your souls soar into 2022 with hope, resolve, and a tidal wave of love.
“Oh the weather outside is frightful but the fire is so delightful; since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”
It might not ever snow in Southern California, but it rarely rains either, until it does, which is has, off and on these past two weeks. I love the sound of it, the smell of it, even the gray skies that beckon me to hunker down, bake something delicious, read my books, and tackle the puzzle Santa left for me under the tree.
My dog Wylie, being a wily sort of canine, really hates this weather. It cuts into his quality time outside, our daily walks up and down the hills of our neighborhood. We play catch in the house with his stuffed toys but he still looks at me with his soulful eyes as he stares longingly at the front door. My two cats, the feral not domesticated out of them, do not seem to mind the raindrops at all. They meander in and out of our cat door with their usual disdainful looks, dropping in for their daily repasts. Occasionally they curl up on the fleece blanket by the fireplace heater, always ready to high-tail out of here if a loud noise interrupts their reveries.
My herb garden on the patio just outside the back door is leaping for joy in the daily showers as are my succulents, roses, and all things potted. I know there is work ahead of me to clean up after the winter storms but I do not care. Have you ever seen such brilliant shades of green? This morning, a frog has been loudly croaking out a message just outside my window. I like to think he is grateful too for these raindrops of respite that force us to slow down and just be.
On the sixth day of the Christmas season, I am content staying home and sinking into the holy leisure of this hushed time. I hope you are too.
“For we need a little music, need a little laughter Need a little singing ringing through the rafter And we need a little snappy, happy ever after We need a little Christmas now. . .”
I need a little music, not just at Christmas time, but every day. Don’t get me wrong–attempts to be more comfortable with silence has been a constant preoccupation. However, after nearly forty years of sitting quietly in daily meditation, I must also turn on Mahler, Joni Mitchell, Native American flute music, or whatever matches my mood, to stir me into action each day. As I write this, I am listening to KUSC, my favorite classical station for “Mozart in the Morning,” which provides a rich background for my daily tasks. Music takes me to an inner silence and helps distract me from the worries that often plague me when all the demons of life fly into the darkness.
Having been silenced too many times in my life for being a woman, small in stature but with a curious mind and a gift for speaking up, I was often told (verbally and nonverbally) that I was too loud, too forceful, too intimidating. Frequently scolded to “tone it down,” when I was young, I learned to be silent when I wanted to yell out; to swallow anger, dismay, questions, and loud belly laughs so that I would not disturb anyone. It has taken many years of inner work to relinquish these engrained early messages. Music has always empowered me, comforted me, lifted my moods and allowed me to wallow in emotions for however long I choose. Music is the voice of God who repeats “I love you” in the notes, stanzas, crescendos, and lyrics of countless composers and musicians.
It is December 29th. The doldrums of the Christmas season have perhaps set in at your house and you just want to move on, be done with all the false merriment. Resist the urge. Put on some music you love today. Sit down, cover up with a blanket, and just listen to one great piece, or one favorite album in the space of your own personal silence, a forever gift flowing over the soundwaves of time.
“Let your heart be light. . .from now on our troubles will be out of sight. . .”
The winter solstice, the darkest day of the year, has now passed. Each day henceforth, the light increases, precisely the reason why celebrating the Incarnation on December 25th is so meaningful in the northern hemisphere. The Light of the World came to dispel the darkness forever. Mirrored in the landscape of Earth and sky, that hope shines brightly during the Christmas season.
In 1969, more than 500,000 U.S. military personnel were stationed in Viet Nam. There were 11,780 American soldiers dead that year, countless more Vietnamese. In June, I had just returned from doing a USO tour of the east-west Mediterranean, entertaining the troops stationed to protect our NATO allies, most having already served tours in Viet Nam. I was deeply affected by the casualties of war, having seen the desperate look in the eyes of so many young men. That December, I was asked to sing at a Christmas party for a large department store in my home town. I chose to perform “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” because I wanted to uplift the hearts of families who had sons fighting or killed in the war. We were hanging onto hope that “our troubles will be out of sight,” as this emotionally-packed song lyrics crescendo. There was not a dry eye when the song ended, a sign of a deep inner strength best expressed in this human “holy water.”
In March of 2020, the darkness of sickness and death due to a world-wide pandemic descended upon us. At first, there was nothing but fear and dread, no light in the darkness. Then came the vaccines which shot hope into our lives again. Like the waxing and waning of the moon, hope restores our faith and increases our love. This is life in all its complexities.
On this fourth day of Christmas, may we allow the light of this ever-present hope warm and inspire us.
Yesterday, the day after Christmas, I was walking my dog in the neighborhood happily listening to Christmas carols on my airpods when I passed by a couple in their front yard busily taking down their lights and decorations. No, no, no, I wanted to yell out at them. Christmastime has only just begun! I resisted the urge and said nothing but quickly walked to the other side of the street. Why are people so anxious to let go of the beauty of this season? My irritation was rising as well as my judgment. Maybe they are going on a trip and want this task done before they leave, suggested my better self. Still, a feeling of melancholy engulfed me. Then the song, “Christmas Time Is Here,” sung by Sarah McLachlan came up on my playlist. If you haven’t heard her version, I highly recommend it. It’s a moody song and hers is a very moody, jazzy version but seemed to fit the circumstance.
As I rounded the corner and headed up my street’s steep hill, I came face-to-face with an enormous holly hedge complete with crimson berries. I stood transfixed before it. I had forgotten that holly grows in California. Somehow, it seemed incongruous, as if snowflakes should be decorating its branches. Wait, were those sleighbells I just heard merely in my imagination? I felt my spirits rising like incense at this precious gift, a Christmas decoration that cannot be taken down at a whim. I said a prayer of thanks for this hint of Christmas, evergreen and stalwart, right on my street, all year long.
The song is right—”Christmas time is here. . .and beauty is everywhere.”
Seeking Wisdom 