Smiling in the dark...
Cold feet, cold coffee, and stardust...
This morning I stood barefoot on my deck, neck arched, head back as if I was trying to swallow the sky; drink it in star by star. I've had a headache for days and the cold feels good on my skin, but then I've always liked the cold and I've always preferred being barefoot, put those two together and, oh, is it magic. If you've never gone barefoot in the snow, or at least in an early cold morning, you are missing out on one great reminder of being alive.
Hot coffee in my favorite Noche de Paz mug in one hand, eyes to the sky, I spread my vision wide to take in the early morning mysteries. Being human, it is incredibly easy to forget the whole wide universe--tucked away as we are against the night under our roofs, behind walls, and muffled against the dazzle of stardust as we sit dazed by all the other things we look at, but never really see.
My head clears, my body wakes to the air, and I relax into the silent, still sleeping outdoors. A few more moments and impatience drains away. I stop scanning the sky to settle my eyes and mind into the bigness of it all. Maybe I'm merely being reminded of just how small I am? Then I see it-a quick flit of light just over the house ridge that is gone in a literal flash. Giddy, I am riveted, standing barefoot in the dark, smiling.
Almost immediately I am greedy for more, to prove I really saw what I saw. Noticing a steadily advancing, unblinking glow, I realize it is a faraway satellite. I’m curious how many of these celestial contraptions are out there? My next thought is wondering what someone from 200, or even 2000, years ago might have thought at the sight of this slow-moving star that never flares out. Would they be confused, perplexed, or terrified? In my wondering and wandering through time I see another curve of light, brighter than the last. I whisper thank you and think of certain shepherds in long ago days. Did they smile in the dark too?
A faint shuffle of leaves lets me know I'm not alone. The delicate syncopation leads me to believe it may be a mouse, perhaps disturbed by my presence, or the scent of my now cold coffee. All goes quickly quiet, there is nothing to be afraid of here. I see another streak and begin to speculate how many of these would one need to see before they lose their magic, before the wow factor wanes and it's just another meteor crashing through the atmosphere. I’ve seen three so far and the thrill of each eclipses the last. Mid thought a brilliant blue streak evanesces overhead-so clear-so bright-so brief yet present a whisper longer than the others. I feel a lifting in my belly, the sort you get atop the steep drop of a roller coaster when it lets go its hold on gravity and sends you plummeting in a thrill of delight. No, I don’t think four is the limit, and I don't want to wait and see if five is-I want to walk through the rest of this day with that falling feeling, that barefoot, black night, roller coaster, stardust feeling, and smiling.
He often works in the dark, or in hidden places, the less impressive spaces, and people, and not always the way we think he ‘should’.
Small thing really, a shooting star, at least from this distance. The Geminid meteor shower has been on display a couple of nights now, but I tend to be asleep at peak viewing hours. This morning I was awake well before it was reasonable to be so and figured I’d at least have look. The older I get, the harder it is to muster a feeling of awe, or magic, or mystery. The closest I get is looking in my grandchildren’s eyes-- that falling feeling is right there-every time. I hadn’t expected to see much of anything as I tiptoed onto the deck, but it is always a treat to stand outside in the dark, alone. The sky rang a clear deep blue-black and the stars were out like they had something to prove. I was impressed, and felt no compulsion to do anything other than be right there. I’d like to say I had some deeply moving moment of prayer, or spiritual epiphany, but both have been few and far between of late. I had only hot coffee and dim hopes of a typical weekday morning , forgetful that small ordinary things can have deep significance. That God uses the unexpected, the overlooked, the unplanned for, and even the unreliable to accomplish his desires is frequently overshadowed by more institutionally acceptable means. He often works in the dark, or in hidden places, the less impressive spaces, and people, and not always the way we think he ‘should’.
There is a stack of advent devotionals I have been fervently trying to work through, but this season not one has added the sense of wonder I have been longing for. I have a couple favorite books that are hearty companions but even those have the softened edges of long knowing. I tried a new one this year and as pretty as it was designed to be, pretty was all it would be. It did move me to pray but “you have got to be kidding” was probably not what they were going for. Barefoot on a cold morning, in old plaid pajamas, in the dark, leaning on the rail of my deck wasn’t how I expected to find what I was seeking.
In the end it wasn’t about the meteors. It was about rediscovering that sense of wonder, reconnecting with mystery, and about brushing up against the sublime and coming face to face with an old friend. It was thrilling to look deep into who He is. I didn’t have my bible, no apps were running, and I am sure I didn’t do it the ‘right’ way, or follow the rules, but I’ve never been good at that. Funny how He showed up anyway as I stood there, smiling in the dark.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written here-- it was back in early summer and I had just planted Julie Andrews alongside the back path. Don’t worry, it’s only a rose. I am happy to report she survived. Not unmolested though-the deer appear to enjoy tender young rose leaves, so she had a rough start. I wove an intricate web of garden twine and trellis to shield her but that didn’t stop them nosing between the twine. With any luck she’ll have a few more leaves, and a few more thorns to protect against future snacking. In the months since that post, I have started half a dozen times to post only to get a couple of paragraphs in and toss the whole thing. What direction did I want to go? What purpose, if any, did this Substack serve?
Even so, have been writing a lot. Just not here. Just not anywhere really, though recently I began posting on a private network-nothing big, but a beginning. I have hopes of putting together a new collection of poetry in the coming year. I’ve had a couple of book ideas over the last couple of years but for one reason or another they fell to the wayside. Lack of focus maybe, or wanting to do a shared project that never panned out—doesn’t really matter because, in the end, it was good nothing came of them. Turns out I needed time for other things.
It’s the new, yet to be poetry book that sparked an idea-that and a couple of deep conversations about living into the creative life along with the reality of that decision. The Writist (click for more info)will be launching in January and will be paid subscriber only here on Substack. I have a few free subs I’ll be giving aways so leave a comment if you are interested in being a part of The Writist and I will draw names before the launch in January!
Subs I’ve been reading-
by Shawn Smucker. His post, Forget the Audience, is a must read. writes Stories Along the Way and her recent post, In Praise of Slow Work and Choosing Presence Over Production is spot on. by Laura Boggess is overflowing with beauty.This years Christmas poem…
Please accept a small gift of words. This one is called Put Away-
Put away, long ago Childish things, some Wrapped in tissue paper With their crinkled recollections Some, in places, Echoed cathedrals of belief, And all things God, And all thing as They were supposed to be, Packed away on an oh, so holy Night, seven years old When awe still mattered. Let bells peal their noise, And old prophets stop to pray, Each calling down luminous dust, our universal borealis of All things new, Let it come, Let it come, Let it come coalescing across Parous space, consigning Darkness to the outer reach, Entering in silence, To begin with a wavering wail Day, a timeless age, as awe is birthed anew.
Wishing you comfort as the old year closes, and peace on the cusp of the new-
Susan
Oh, and pls, pls, pls, put name in the hat for the subscription drawing! So excited to hear about this!
I usually forget to step outside for a meteor shower. And when I do, I never have the patience to let my eyes get accustomed to the dark. Sigh. I feel like I was out there with you, though.