Saturday 23 June 2018

Meditation for St. John's Eve

Meditation for St. John's Eve:

Now, as Vespers sings itself
to dusk’s silent sitting,
the beacons begin to burn.
Men watching for the moment
of Moon’s waning,
in twilight midsummer sky lit
by a Sun too lazy to truly set,
so to kindle flame for the Forerunner;
John.
He whose element is fire.
Both lamps now hanging
in cloth of such deep blue
that the world seems enfolded
in the mantle of one
who midwifed his birth,
even as she joined her magnificat
to old Elizabeth’s pangs,
and doubting Zechariah’s silence,
beneath the shining stars of desert sky.

Now, as Matins touches midnight
of Monks long vigilling,
the herbs are gathered.
Women seeking
the helpers and the healers
in wood, and dell, and garden bed,
where, blessed by dew and moonlight
and the long warmth of Sun’s summer,
the Yarrow and the Bracken,
the Fennel and the Rue,
the Rosemary and the Foxglove,
always the Elder and
the great yellow flower of the Forerunner
willingly give up
their essence on the night
that marks the first whisper
of the Word’s healing breath,
breathed through the one
who is His herald Voice;
John.
Dried, and hung,
and laid upon the Lady Altar
to become more than they are
they will bestow divine healing.
Twice gifted and graced
by Summer’s picking
and Autumn’s
Assumption blessing,
they reveal the medicine
present always, beneath.

Now, as Lauds’ psalms sun skywards
the pots and pans
and ancient drums are beaten.
The children sing the old songs
and the rhymes long lost to meaning,
as young men and women, harelike,
leap heedless across the
dying flames together.
Recalling he who leapt with joy,
filled with fire, even in womb’s waters,
so near was the One who first kindled flame,
rendered the rivers holy and made the wells
vessels of new birth.

Now, as Mass bell tolls dawn’s daily resurrection
monks and men,
and women, and children all
hear the summons of the Sanctifier
and His herald
loud upon morning’s breeze
as embers die down, and herbs are hung up.
Beneath the vaulted stone they gather
to join their voices to praise
that vastness veiled
in simple bread and wine,
and hear again the word first spoken by
the herald,
the lamp,
the flame,
the leaper,
the prophet,
the angel,
the voice,
the Baptist,
whose birth they have
blessed anew,
cry across the ages
“Behold the Lamb of God!”

I wrote this in 2016 to illuminate so many of the customs we have lost that wove the wisdom of the wild and the faith together so beautifully. On St. John's Eve, (The Vigil of the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist), the last official day of the solstice, bonfires were set burning to commemorate the fire of the Baptist's faith and the facing into the waning of natural light after the longest day.
Couples leaping across the fire was an old betrothal custom. This was also the traditional night for gathering the herbs that would be used as medicine for the year to come. Gathered tonight and dried until Assumption Day they would then be blessed in the Monasteries at the first Mass at Our Lady's Altar... The songs and noise making around the boundaries of the hills and the fields was to frighten away evil and stagnancy so as to refresh the fields and prepare for the Harvest... Our faith was and is both holy and holistic and we must return to such deep knowing again... May the Baptist pray for us on this the feast of fire!


Tuesday 12 June 2018

Sacred Heart:

I remember still, with the sharp light 
of a child's knowing of newness, 
my Gran's bedroom. 
Spartan, yet equipped with things 
of a quality we do not have 
in many places now.
Long used. Loved. Meant to last.
Her carved bed seemed enormous to us 
as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread, 
sliding across it to thump, 
giggling, on the hard floor.
A mirror, a brush, a comb, all laid out 
upon the dresser as carefully 
as a surgeon's tools, 
heavy and cold to the touch,
but glowing with the warm barley sugar 
inner light of polished tortoise shell.
An old clock that worked, sometimes, 
its numerals glowing in the dark 
a faded ghost green. 
And there, upon the dresser too 
he stood, in stone stillness. 
Flaking slightly, but still royal 
in his red robe revealing the love 
that is at the heart of all things. 
and seeming huge to my small hands.
I would climb into the bed beside her 
as she whispered her prayers 
in his direction;
she would hand him to me then 
and he would sit comfortably 
upon my knees,
as I, entranced, traced the thorns 
entwining his poor heart, 
and tried to pull them out;
feeling his heart a flame, 
a fire for me, for her, for all!
I would whisper to him then,
my childish news and secrets
and I remember (can you believe it?)
sometimes, he whispered back
words of such love
they exist now only as 
scattered shards of light 
within my own heart's memories,
there and then I promised, I would 
one day, pull out those thorns.
Gran smiled when I told her this
"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,
the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers
in the morning's ritual,
"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two 
in there too; don't worry, we all do from time to time, but never forget He loves you still!" she said, smiling sadly at my stricken face.
Then I kissed him hard as children do
and made the foolish promise
of a child to ease his heart a little.
A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,
though no shortage of thorns 
have I added to his crown.
Devotions done she restored him to his place upon the dresser,
and I,  sliding off the bed,
now thought only of the day before us: 
of buses into town, bookshops, 
and Bewley's cafe!
Then we went downstairs 
to breakfast on tea and toast,
always, me going first,
she coming behind,
her breath, 
her voice as one, 
whistling upon each step,
the background music
of her life;
"Sacred Heart of Jesus,
I place all my trust 
in Thee."