Easter, 2011

EASTER WINGS

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

   Though foolishly he lost the same,

      Decaying more and more,

        Till he became

           Most poore:

           With  thee

        Oh let me rise

   As larks, harmoniously,

  And sing this day  thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow   did   beginne:

   And still with sicknesses and shame

      Thou didst so punish sinne,

         That I became

           Most thinne.

           With thee

        Let me combine

      And feel this day thy victorie:

   For, if I  imp  my  wing  on  thine

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.[1]

Two quotes from Emily Dickenson:

“On the subjects of which we know nothing, we both believe and disbelieve a hundred times an Hour, which keeps Believing nimble.”

“Unless we become as Rogues, we cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”[2]

From Susan Ludvigson's “Letters Back: God Responds to Emily Dickenson”:

Today someone asks you

to define the soul.

It is what remains, you say,

when strength has left

the arms, when the muscles

are too fatigued to remember

their old grace.

It is what remains,

though no one can guarantee

that its wings are not like arms.

No one can say for certain

that it will carry itself

out the doors of the body

and back to its home.

It is a sparrow, you say,

sometimes weighted with ice.

But I tell you, it is not

a sparrow.  The soul is a hawk.

It makes shadows ripple over

the earth.  It writes boldly

against the light, its form solid

in what you claim is flimsy air.[3]

From David Whyte:

EASTER MORNING IN WALES

A garden inside me, unknown, secret,

neglected for years,

the layers of its soil deep and thick.

Trees in the corners with branching arms

and the tangled briars like broken nets.

Sunrise through the misted orchard,

morning sun turns silver on the pointed twigs.

I have woken from the sleep of ages and I am not sure

if I am really seeing, or dreaming,

or simply astonished

walking toward sunrise

to have stumbled into the garden

where the stone was rolled from the tomb of longing.[4]

Heartfelt prayers for comfort, courage and healing go out to Linda Clapp, her husband Stephen, and their family, and mysterious Easter blessings to all the rest.

---

[1] from The Temple (1633), by George Herbert.  Poem and image found at:

http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/Easterwings.html

[2] As cited in Susan Ludvigson, Trinity. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1996.

[3] Ibid., p. 45.

[4] David Whyte.  Where Many Rivers Meet. Langley, WA: Many Rivers Press, 1993. p. 76.