On a dark, black night, love lights a lamp.
You can’t hear the voice of the One whose
love carries your
Forests, marshes, and frightening swamps,
where one fears tigers
with every breath.
Those whose love is perfect, Bahu, cross
deserts, seas, and jungles.
Responding to the first flowers and the extending light of early March, we anticipate with joy “the things and creatures of spring, resplendent with desire and affirmation, ephemeral no doubt, but immortally reiterant.”
(Painting: Ruth Mordecai, “Dance/Landscape Series #1” 60”x40”;
Photograph: Winston Swift Boyer, “Pomegranates and Mackeral”)
Winter is a time of loss and the emblem of loss in art and myth.
Its harshness deprives us of necessities and comforts, and drives us to confront past trials and losses.
As mid-winter strains our mettle, we long for change, wish for strength, pine for restoration, crave movement, require warmth, need others, mourn what is gone, and hunger for the sustenance of a new spring.
And as we feel our loss and longing most keenly, we affirm most strongly our sustaining bonds with others, our love for those dear to us, and fellowship with all living things.
(Image: untitled, Charlie Carroll, limited edition pigment print)
The silence after snow: all night its fall
of soft stars, cog-wheels and compass roses,
its random heaping of baroque medallions
has created air pockets that muffle sound,
and I see that I don’t own this land, am only paying
the taxes for these others, my signature
on the checks as meaningful to possession as
this itinerant leaf’s scribbled autograph. Before dog,
before me, an early coyote passed with a hint