in memory, Dr. Vincent A. Das

psalm 84

How lovely is your dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, faints
for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and flesh sing for joy
to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in your house,
ever singing your praise! Selah

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,
in whose heart are the highways to Zion.
As they go through the Valley of Baca
they make it a place of springs;
the early rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
each one appears before God in Zion.

O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah
Behold our shield, O God;
look on the face of your anointed

For a day in your courts is better
than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
the Lord bestows favor and honor.
No good thing does he withhold
from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the
one who trusts in you!

a timbered choir: 1996, V
~wendell berry

Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
you are sitting under your porch roof,
looking down through the trees
to the river, watching the rain. The circles
made by the raindrops' striking
expand, intersect, dissolve.

and suddenly (for you are getting on
now, and much of your life is memory)
the hands of the dead, who have been here
with you, rest upon you tenderly
as the rain rests shining
upon the leaves. And you think then

(for thought will come) of the strangeness
of the thought of Heaven, for now
you have imagined yourself there,
remebering with longing this
happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
we are there, and there is no death.

from Frans Wright. "Arkansas Good Friday: III"

"And I have heard God's silence like the sun
now I long to return to it.
no matter my infantile clinging
to this gorgeous material of such early wisteria and
lilacs, the wind
in the redbud and light-giving new heart-shaped leaves
music visible if completely unheard, I'll return.
The angel's going to raise his wings and sing that time is
no more
nor tears: that numbered
sea of them is gone--
now there is a new sea, new earth, new sky--
And I will know what to say at the end: what end?
And I can add I found this world sufficiently miraculous
for me, before I'm changed."

mornings

(inspired by bob)

mornings are slow.
no longer the feast of competent productivity,
the rushing here and there from appointments, to jobs to tasks.
a class and conversations in between. attempting to manage many lists.

the morning starts with tea and my husband reading the Psalms.
it takes longer to get going.
held back by the natural order of things,
there has been loss--
priorities change whether i want them to or not.

misplaced identities stripped away.
a humbling time, this slowing down.
a time to carry very small things,
to live in between.
and to receive.

to take quiet walks hand in hand,
slivers of yellow leaves flying
on the warm autumn air.

praying with hands outstretched:
only You can supply what i need.
only You could have guided toward this very small
joy.

a few thoughts.

"I ask you right here to please agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived." Chris Cleave, Little Bee

Lauren, it must be said, is one of my favorite writers: "Everything seems deliberate when it could seem so aimless. The delicate fury in our desire to emerge from the most ordinary sorrows."

I need to thank her for sharing this song. Yes please. That lovely trail led me nicely to this one. I didn't know I could like a version as much as Neil Young's, but the strummy guitar, the harmonies of favorite voices, the beer bottles clattering on the floor in the background noise. It is just so on this fall night when outside it smells like woodfires burning, and inside the warm lights glow.

Coming soon: Saturday, October 16!

These branches are part of my contribution to Artists for Pakistan, a community wide fundraiser being organized by my friend Dassler. To find out more details about the event, go here. I also have a couple of mobiles that I will be contributing as well, but have not yet found a good way to photograph them.

I appreciated the invitation to be a part of this, and the opportunity it fostered for slowing down, taking time to create and taking the time to pray for those who have been and will be affected by the flooding in Pakistan.

equinox

We passed the day of equinox and somehow I missed marking it. Now the night is longer than the day, and our mornings hold a warm, quiet, late sunrise. Evenings, though I try to hold them, slip quickly away. We walk around the fountains in early dusk, we ready to hibernate.

I remember what I can and cannot keep.

***

I was talking to a friend about longing and hunger and grace. That something in us that attempts to take what we think we need, arrange our lives to dull the quiet ache of a heaviness that it was proved we could not carry, could never carry or fix.

Try to hold life and life. Try to make sense, and grieve what ends and give thanks always. Learn to receive what is new.

***

Even now, I think of the place far away, the place that I could not hold. The smell of incense as I walked home through the alleys in Tollygunge. Home from buying a coke at the corner store.

I walked by and saw the semi-circle of women sitting in the warm night air in their beautiful saris, singing. In the temple there, they sat most nights singing bhaktis with the accompaniment of a drum and the small finger cymbals. I looked in briefly and nodded to them, my neighbors. I watched a cat steal away into the maidan. I heard the running water of pans being washed in the narrow space outside Maya’s house, the single lightbulb shining, the voice of Momta talking to her little brother. The television flashed a bright Bollywood movie and mingled its songs with the singing of the women.

A Thursday night, community worship night. These times were some of my favorite. The singing together, sharing the word, a meal for hearts heavy and hungry. Bread of life. Dusk fell early there too, but the cold did not come. We sat on the rooftop smoking and talking. Memory and longing and hunger, joy and sorrow. A different equinox, a long time ago in another life.

I remember what I can and cannot keep.