Assumption Eve Medicine: a meditation poem

Assumption Eve Medicine:

For two months turning 

the old women, 

they who have the knowing, 

have watched their charges carefully.

Picked at the height of their power

on the short night, after the long day;

the feast of fire, 

that vigils the Baptist’s coming,

when lads and ladies leap 

like hares over flames 

and look with longing for love, 

as children sing the old songs

filled with mystic meaning;

that night they were gathered 

as grace and gift 

beneath the light of sister Moon, 

the Lady’s lamp and plucked

from garden and from forest glade,

by woman’s hands alone.

Now, they, the herbs for healing, 

hang in blessed bunches 

over the hearth of home,

or kept in kitchens 

above the range, 

or bound in byres

where the warming breath 

of the queen kine keeps them

charmed and waiting 

to release their medicine,

the healing pulse 

of sister Mother Earth 

and Brother Sun’s distilled light

mixed, and married, and greened,

in root, and shoot, 

and leaf, and flower.

So they, the healing herbs, 

have rested until tonight

when as dusk comes on 

and begins to breathe her

autumnal quickening, 

these wise ones take them down

and bring them now 

to the old places of prayer

to the abbeys and chapels, 

to the candled shrines 

of the sainted ones,

who themselves bore 

the fruit of blessing 

and were heaven’s healing, 

the salve of souls,

upon the earth.

There they find 

the Lady’s chapel,

and lay their leafy burdens 

beneath the linen cloths

upon the Altar, there to await

Assumption’s dawn,

and as the Mass bells ring

to have the holy words

said over them that render

them thrice blessed again,

and ready to release their

gentle healing gifts,

blessed once in very being 

from first beginning’s breathing,

blessed twice in the burning 

touch of Love’s own resurrection light

when all was made anew,

blessed thrice by the Lady’s prayers,

she who is the stock from which

all healing blooms, 

and in her gathering home raised all

that grows green upon this good earth

to become heaven’s healing help again;

Eden’s elixir restored in her 

and birthed anew as grace,

just as these sainted herbs

ground upon the mortar’s stone 

will give their essence up,

and become the holy way 

by which their medicine 

blesses bodies and anoints 

our souls to ready us 

in our own time,

for Heaven’s

homing.

Vigil of the Assumption 14th August 2019

In many places it was the ancient custom for women to gather herbs around the feast of St. John the Baptist (Midsummer) and then bring them to the Churches for blessing on the feast of the Assumption before they were made into medicine for the Winter ahead. The herbs were placed beneath the Altar Cloths and around the Sanctuary before the dawn Mass there to be offered to the Lord, through Mary’s hands, she who is the “first fruits” of His saving love, so as to receive her special prayers of healing and be blessed in their medicinal use in the year ahead.

The Ritual of the Church still provides for such blessings should they be requested.

 

(Pics in this post found as random uncredited images on the web)

June; the month of the Sacred Heart

A poem of old remembrances as we enter June, the month of the Sacred Heart:

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. 

He seemed huge to my small hands.

I would climb onto 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."

All Hallows Eve: a remembrance

For the night that's in it...

All Hallows' Eve

This was the evening
she swept out the hearth.
I helped,
sort of.
Once clean,
and perfect to her discerning eye,
(milky white, though the light behind them
was sharp and never dimmed),
she would set bread,
(brown soda always),
and salt
before the banked flames.
"For the visitors",
she would say,
whenever I asked,
as I did,
annually.
Her breath whistling
half heard prayers
she would go then
from room to room
straightening cushions,
flicking tables with tea-cloths,
to clear the last vestiges of dust from surfaces so well polished with age and use
they gleamed.
"The house should be clean when they call", she would say.
We would have tea then.
Waiting.
Sometimes she had cake or a ginger snap, (dunked to soften it for dentures.)
I had cake too.
Then she would sit in her stiff backed chair
in front of the fire.
Waiting.
I would sit beside her,
sometimes in the big green armchair
slowly sinking into the old feather filled cushions, so big my feet swung.
More often,
I perched on the stool
beside her chair
where I could watch the TV
with her.
But not this evening.
This was always different.
No RTE news.
No Crossroads.
No Coronation Street's plaintive trumpet.
Just sitting together
in the quiet.
Waiting.
Tonight there would be
just the fire,
and the bread,
and the salt
left out,
blessed and prayed over
and freely given
for the guests,
whenever they would come.
And then she would talk about them.
All of them.
Her mother and father, her aunts and uncles, and tales of Dublin so long ago
it seemed they should begin with
"Once upon a time!"
Her grandmother got special mention,
"They called her a sharp woman, wise, brought in for birth and death you know, she had the understanding", she would say,
and then say no more for a while.
Sometimes,
she would speak in a different voice,
reserved only for him,
of my grandfather Martin,
her husband,
gone an age ago to me,
but still so present to her heart;
and then her eye
looking across the flames
at faces I could not see
would bring to mind all those others too
who had already gone...
and she would go quiet.
"Where had they gone?"
I would ask.
"Home"
she would simply say.
But tonight,
they would visit.
Once,
just once,
it made me nervous to think of it.
She laughed then.
"Nervous of the dead?"
"Don't be silly."
"Aren't they family?"
"Aren't they friends?"
"Don't they pray for us!"
"Don't we pray for them?"
"You can fear the living," she would say,
a sharp smile playing about her wrinkled eyes, "but never the dead."
"A Christian never has to fear the dead."
"Sure don't we have the Blessed Virgin and all the saints around us too."
Then she would take my hand
and we would just sit.
Waiting.
She praying...
I wondering...
Feeling the wrinkled warmth
of her
loose skinned hand.
Safe.
Then she would say
it was time to go home.
So I would go then across the green.
Home to parties
and noise
and black bag wearing,
apple bobbing,
door knocking,
sparkler waving,
"Help the Halloween party!"
roaring fun.
Sometimes I would think of her.
Sitting in front of the fire.
Waiting.
But mostly I didn't.
Until the morning;
All Saints Day.
Off to Mass, a day off school too.
Then,
in the afternoon
I would drop over.
To find the telly on,
the chair turned now to face it once again,
The bread gone,
salt scattered to bless the house and garden.
"It's Richard, Gran!" I'd shout.
And I would hug her and tell her all about it;
the parties and the sweets, and the things we called wine-apples because we didn't know what a pomegranate was,
and the lady who always gave rotten Brazil nuts you couldn't crack,
(Christmas left-overs we were sure!),
and she would laugh and make the tea,
and we would sit again
side by side
and wait for "The Two Ronnies"
and then
I would remember and ask,
(During the ads of course)
"Did they come."
"Oh yes," she would say,
"They always come."
"What do you do when they come?"
"What does anyone do when visitors come?"
She replied, with a slow smile.
"You chat?" I'd say.
"Exactly", she glittered.
"Now be a good boy and turn up the telly."
And I was,
so I would.
A quarter of a century
has passed
since she went
home.
But still,
this night
always,
I welcome the visitors too.
Friars and family both now.
Sitting before the candle flame
breathing the blessed breath
of memory
and prayer.
Waiting.
Just as she
my first elder
taught me.
Waiting.
Until they arrive
once more,
and
she now
a visitor
too.