I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him...
- Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven
One of the difficulties of life is it can only be properly understood in retrospect, but it must be lived in prospect.”
In my corner of the Northern Hemisphere the days are lengthening. Forsythia and fruit trees around this high desert city have suddenly burst into bloom. Elm trees are temporarily, inordinately neon green, ripe with seeds about to be loosened and flung wide in a warm gust of wind. And it’s raining, raining….
If there was one word to sum up my experience at the One Project, it would be “uncomfortable”. Not the kind of uncomfortable where you pack up and leave because you don’t enjoy it. The kind of uncomfortable where you know that this is good for you and, though your inner little kid doesn’t like it and is squirming, your inner adult tells you to stay.
A tree, like man, is born to toil,
As leafage falls, lies for a time
In dormancy, then makes the climb
To start a life, through crust of soil.
If nature's kind (at least is fair),
The sapling usually will thrive;
Takes what it needs to stay alive
From earth and water, sun and air.
Through countless seasons, start to end,
The searing heat and bitter cold,
The wind and blight that make it old,
And topple many a fellow friend;
Stitched across the front of the onesie was the slogan: Daddy’s Little Feminist. “Okay, that’s pretty awesome,” my husband said. We were about to have a baby girl, and we had been inundated with pink, pink, pink, and with princesses. Here was the antidote, available in sensible black or white. We didn’t buy it—we had too many onesies already—but the phrase resonated.
This is my liturgical calendar, my rhythm of worship and practice and remembrance—the seasons, solstices, cadences of sunshine and rain. My faith is informed by observing and interacting with the patterns and dynamics of nature. [i]Life, death, life again. Always again … life. Eating, being eaten, transformation of light into sugar and detritus into nutrients. Nothing goes to waste. This is a story of resurrection.
Spectrum seeks submissions for our Spirituality blog.
A broad definition of spirituality: the human act of seeking after and experiencing God or the sacred.
Personal reflections or reviews along these themes are suggested:
· Spirituality books or authors
· Spiritual practices (e.g. prayer, formation, celebration, Sabbath, etc.)
· Intersection of individual and communal spirituality
Whoa-up, there, horsey! You’re movin’ too fast. I had another birthday four days after Christmas.
My parents called to send their good wishes. Four-year-old Max, looking for his grandpa, had said, “Where is that old man?” My mum laughed when she realized he was talking about her husband. “When your own parents are 87 years old, you feel young,” she said, adding, “But thirty-something was a great year.”
I appreciate her perspective, as I start to notice my own fine lines and marvel that my girl is about to turn 5 and my husband and I look like babies in our wedding photos.