Shadowlands

The current moment  

Dissolves almost instantly,

And yet also

Belongs to an adventure story

Stretching beyond measured days

Into the fullness of existence.

Life is made of such bits of progress.

A friend sends a message, just to check in.

A filtered sunbeam peeks through the blinds.

Dry oak leaves scurry inside 

To invade the house like lost friends

When I open the door.

These are part of a larger account;

They all preface the Great Story.

We are not isolated,

But live expectantly

Here in the Shadowlands.

Each small detail defines real time

As well as the future,

By continually introducing

The Story Without End.

Aslan turned to them and said: “You do not yet look so happy as I mean you to be.” Lucy said, “We’re so afraid of being sent away, Aslan. And you have sent us back into our own world so often.”

“No fear of that,” said Aslan. “Have you not guessed?” Their hearts leaped, and a wild hope rose within them. “There was a real railway accident,” said Aslan softly. “Your father and mother and all of you are—as you used to call it in the Shadowlands— dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.”

And as He spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.

C. S. Lewis
The Last Battle

A Lesson

Our local wild swans swim back and forth in front of the house, tipping their tails in the air occasionally to feed, as rainy hours plod through the monochromatic day. Oblivious to the gray sky, the elegant birds seem unmoved by its violent tears.  From behind glass, I watch the hard pellets cry down from above, dimpling the surface of the lake. There is no pause in their onslaught.

Composed and content despite the drilling raindrops, the swans carry on as usual. Such behavior is instinctive for them in these conditions, we reason, and yet their example is unmistakable.  It reflects acceptance.

Matins

Three other women and myself (we're friends who are spread out geographically) define a small online Book Club.  We read a certain number of pages, and then report to each other via email every other week or so to share our perspectives.

Currently we're reading material about the individual day, our "immediate unit of time," as originally defined by ancient Eastern Christianity.  After soaking up the author's insights about Vespers and Matins (as well as the hours in-between), I decided to share my own recent experience of Matins with the other Book Club members when we check in next weekend.  I'd visited our nearby Orthodox monastery in early October for a couple of days, so the memory of the experience was still fairly fresh.

Here's a copy for anyone else who might be interested!

* * * * *

I’m typically NOT an early riser by any stretch of the imagination.  However, I miraculously crawled out of bed at 4:30 a.m. on my first full day at the monastery to get ready for Matins at 5:00. Dressed in my long black skirt and with a scarf over my head (already feeling a little more intentionally Orthodox), I flipped the main lock to the guesthouse and stepped outside into darkness. You could hear a pin drop on the tiles out there – well, of course I couldn’t, but someone with good hearing might! lol  Everything was hushed in the perfect stillness of night.

I walked the short distance to the church, and then paused to take a deep breath with my hands poised on the huge handle of its massive door. Okay Lord, here we go.

I stepped inside to discover…something like heaven.

A row of suspended candles flickered gently before the icons of the iconostasis, softly exposing each ornately painted face.  Otherwise, a hollow darkness hid the countless other icons on the walls and ceilings. Even though I couldn’t see Him, I knew Jesus was “up there” in the highest point of the dome, looking down from His incarnate position: divinity merging with humanity.  The church - grand, majestic, and full of ornate artistry - had become a mysterious paradise far away from the ordinary world.  Subdued, mellow beauty inspired tranquility, and I bowed inwardly in awe.  A quiet reverence fell over me.

There was only one other guest (we two ladies seemed so tiny in this vast darkness punctuated only by glimmering candlelight), and several sisters were already chanting off to one side with candles as reading lights.  Otherwise the church was empty and dark, and yet it seemed full – perhaps of the very presence of God?  Soon Fr. John (the resident priest) appeared front-and-center, and for the next three hours the service continued with various readings and chants.  

Eventually dawn began to break as gentle, grayish light peered through a side window.  It slowly intensified until I could see the outlines of treetops waving in the morning breeze.  Gradually the vast array of icons inside the church became more visible: of course the great cloud of witnesses had been there the whole time, quietly participating from every possible angle. As I watched the slow awakening of the day, I felt an unusual urgency to enter into it. 

During the entire Matins I couldn’t hear what was said due to my auditory issues in the midst of challenging acoustics, so I side-stepped spoken language and concentrated on internal stillness and attentiveness.  I can’t explain it, but the simple discipline of rising so early and dressing modestly seemed redemptive in itself.  Then just by “showing up” and “waiting on God” for several hours, something in me melted down – maybe pride, impatience, or self-absorption, or probably all three. I realized the virtue of simple diligence for its own sake. Obedience took on new meaning.

At the end of the service, “real life” was waiting outside to greet me.  The beautiful flowers, open sky, and fresh wind on my face seemed exhilarating. Matins had humbled me.  I felt as if I’d actually experienced the holiness of God – a reality that continues to linger in my memory.     

Simple Elegance

I love getting together with my local daughter-in-law to catch up on our lives: her five kids and feeding the masses and homeschooling and being-the-hub-of-everything-all-the-time (a busy-busy bee), and my continuing advances into seniorville (an explorer of uncharted depths).

When she agreed to join me for a dinner of soup and salad at my house, just the two of us, I decided to go girly with my mother’s antique blue china and “soft” table accessories. I pulled out an ancient linen tablecloth with hand-appliqued flowers (actually too small for the table, but it looked pretty cocked at an angle), and a couple of not-too-tall taper candles for ambiance.  But what about a centerpiece? My flowers in the garden were goners; any lingering zinnas and marigolds had recently been struck a lethal blow by freezing temps, leaving their blossoms either limp and lifeless or dead-brown.

But then I thought, I have fresh herbs that survived the freeze!  They were still green and aromatic, lovely and varied in appearance.  I cut a handful of sage, oregano, mint, and rosemary sprigs and arranged them in my favorite silver-plated vase, a relic from our wedding day in 1971.

Although sweet-smelling and visually interesting, they still needed something else for contrast….ah, a single flowering offshoot from a succulent I’d brought indoors!  The bouquet seemed “almost there” at this point, and yet not quite. I decided to explore our roadside, and returned with tall grasses that were drying into artsy curls, and tiny, leafless spikes dotted with miniscule pink buds – the perfect finishing touches.

I’ve heard beauty is in the eye of the beholder, which is true.  But even more essentially, beauty is everywhere, all the time, reflecting the Giver of it “who art in all places and filling all things.” (Trisagion Prayer) It’s a matter of having eyes to see the simple but elegant, real-time beauty of life-in-progress.