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!

St. Nicholas Dawn

Feast of St. Nicholas the great Santa Claus himself today...
Always reminds me of that one morning I was privileged to encounter him some years ago...

St. Nicholas Dawn

On the sixth morn of the
month that's dark,
while walking in that hallowed park,
and breathing deep the icy air
I felt the grace of Nicholas there.

I stood a moment in the frost
and felt the yearning of the lost
on land or sea who wandering go,
whose minds and hearts are often low,

as, gripped within by sadness grey,
they stumble through another day
and
long to feel the gift of light
break in upon their inner night.

Then feeling deep their dark and pain
I vowed to ne'r come there again,
until I felt him standing there
all bright against the freezing air.

A bishop robed in red was he,
who looked with kindness upon me,
while leaning on his gnarled staff
his beard it shook as he did laugh,
and said in tone of deepest cheer,
"Why, what on earth do we have here?"

"A little friar out in the cold,
whose failing heart is not so bold,
for overcome with grief is he
for those whose lives in darkness be,
and those who know the belly's wail,
and those who sit alone in jail,
and those whose hearts know only pain,
and those who sleep outside in rain,
and those who fear the stronger power,
and those who nearer feel death's hour!"

And scarce he spoke, but I replied,
"Tis true you see what lies inside!"
"But what can I do next to you,
who dwell above the azure blue,
and as a saint may do so much
to bring the light and healing touch
of Heaven' s blessing earthward sent,
to those whose lives by pain are rent?"

At this, his face it darkened then,
as though despairing of all men,
like me who seek a grace to flow,
but far too often still say no
when called to be a mirror through,
the poor, the lame, the sickened too,
will see a glimpse of heaven's light
that lifts them from the pit of night.

Then as I stood before his face
he touched my heart and blessed this place,
and said, "It's right that this you know,
that saint I am and saint I go,
throughout the world both night and day,
to hear the cries of those who pray
and then I bring their yearning strong
to Him who seeks to right their wrong,
and sent am I by His right hand
to all the hearts within the land,
who gentled are by graces dear
and shed their sweet impassioned tear,
that they would know their call is this,
to enter into Heaven's bliss,
by healing, helping, lifting, raising
listening, watching, minding, saving
the weak, the poor, the little child,
as I did here before I died."

"For this they call me Santa Claus,
I who kept sweet Heaven's laws,
and now I pass them onto you
O little one, who now dares to
extend a hand that helps and heals,
and so the light of God reveals,
to let each poor one deeply know
that Christ their saviour bowed so low,
that babe he came in frost and cold
our Shepherd King, who serves the fold,
and in His mother's arms did cry
for all the sheep, for you and I,
and none He lost, and none forgot
not even those who choose the lot
of greed, and pride, and selfish gain,
for them He offered every pain."

"So come my friend and stand with me
beneath the branches of this tree,
and we shall watch the dawn arise
and light grow in the eastern skies,
and pray, and psalm, and praise again
the One who is the light of men!"

At this the old man smiled at me,
standing 'neath the ancient tree.
As in my heart again I vowed
to cry to all with voice aloud,
of Him who loves us deep and well;
to be a Christmas tolling bell,
that rings and calls both one and all
to heed that ancient Yuletide call,
to light each other's gathering dark
and share within the healing spark,
which He first kindled with His breath,
The One who broke the power of death!

Then as the light grew all around
I seemed to hear a merry sound,
of bells, or chimes from out the air
and laughter deep that saints do share,
and gone he was, my Bishop bright,
there at the dawning of the light,
So I was left once more alone,
filled with a song of Heaven's tone,
that flames within my heart so bright
I fear not now no lack of light!
And forth I went to sing this lay
of the light that shone on Nicholas' Day.

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
of a Sun too lazy to truly set,
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 vigiling
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 and
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 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
and 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 last year 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!

St. John's Eve: A poetic contemplative reflection

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
of a Sun too lazy to truly set,
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 she
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 vigiling
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 and
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 healing 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 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
and 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
“Behold the Lamb of God!”