Two Sabbaths and some love

A mild synchronicity; photos; a prompt; a poem

Starting quote

Escapism seems like a mindless waste of time until you open the newspaper and consider the alternative.

David Brooks, “Confessions of a Middle-Aged Fanboy,” NYT Nov. 24, 2022

Check in

Go slow now. Take time, feel gratitude, forgive.

Remember what matters: Spirit, authenticity, justice, words.

Every day: Watch things grow. Live with silence. Reflect.

In winter, we seek light and color. Photo © Fran Gardner

Synchronicity of the week

~Something you’d never heard of before appears and reappears~

OK, it was a weak week for synchronicities. I wrote recently about obituaries and mentioned the founder of Virago Press, a British publishing house for women authors. I had never heard of Virago before, but apparently an old high school friend of my husband’s who writes as Dr. Metablog knows of it. So his reference and the obit are linked.

Here’s the tongue-in-cheek bio from his blog. The (spurious) connection with Virago is at the end.

Dr. Metablog is the nom de blague of Vivian de St. Vrain, the pen name of a resident of the mountain west who writes about language, books, politics, or whatever else comes to mind. Under the name Otto Onions (Oh NIGH uns), Vivian de St. Vrain is the author of "The Big Book of False Etymologies" (Oxford, 1978) and, writing as Amber Feldhammer, is editor of the classic anthology of confessional poetry, "My Underwear" (Virago, 1997).

Of course I know who Dr. Metablog is, a retired professor of English at a big university in Colorado. But I like keeping the mystery alive.

The last full moon of fall. With camera phones you take what you can get. Photo © Fran Gardner

Sabbaths

~Days of wonder and delight~

A few years ago, when I was still living at home, doing freelance editing, walking (with my walker) in the neighborhood, I described a situation more honored in the breach, an idyllic retreat: Sundays without messages from afar—nothing electronic. Sadly, I couldn’t keep it up the electronics fast. Maybe no one could.*

*Except for many of the old folks I share assisted living with, who have never joined the digital age, who are proud of not owning smart phones, or even cell phones. They have missed the greatest change in communication since Gutenberg, but they don’t know that. … And except for scrupulously observant Jews, who don’t have to be Orthodox to avoid email on Saturday.

I wrote about the Sabbath I knew then:

At first Sunday was a day of rest. Go to church, meditate, read the papers. Just don’t “work.” No freelance, no cleaning up email or clearing off the desk, no reconciling bank statements or writing checks. Just rest. Watch the ball game.

But now it’s more than that. It’s a day away from electronics. The only exception is the daily writing exercise. (Which I’ve always done at the computer, as I can’t write longhand—MS tendinitis.)

The new Sunday is a day with less verbal input.  A minimum of reading. No input of any sort, actually. I knit but without listening to audio books or streaming old TV shows. I walk and wander. There are hours free for reflection, for the state of being that I have come to call prayer.

I cook, handling the ingredients with wonder, admiring the perfection of an eggplant or the incredible complexity of an egg. I cook, but from my heart, not a cookbook. I play the violin, solitary and brooding like Sherlock Holmes.

A day with no time

The day passes rapidly. I am aware of the change of hours, the movement of the sun, the shivering of leaves or bare branches in the wind, depending on the season. Outside, pedestrians walk dogs or push baby carriages. Crows peck; squirrels scamper.

Each moment comes with wonder. A car stops for a jogger in a blue jersey. A cat slinks by. A neighbor rushes to his car. Every moment, frozen in amber, melted into the one Moment that is all time.

I have no time for Sunday, but Sunday has no time. It’s beyond the strictures of the Fourth Commandment. I don’t just keep it holy, I make it holy. Wholly mine.

There! A squirrel runs up the neighbor’s steps, and a crow lands on a bare branch. I wrote about them, called them forth, and they are here.

I am drunk with writing. It’s Sunday and maybe I shouldn’t be writing, but the wholeness of being is that I don’t have “shoulds.”

Most Sundays, it’s right to — fly away, crow! — to be quiet, knitting and reflecting, walking and observing. Sketch a leaf lying on the back deck. Take a picture of snowdrops in situ. A day of holding my breath, then breathing in Spirit.

Do less. Live more.

The situation today

Now, in 2022, I have the felicity of two sabbaths. Rose Schnitzer Manor is a predominately Jewish community where the food is kosher and there are no activities (other than services and Torah study) from sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday.

This means I have another whole day where nothing has to happen. I sit in my recliner and read and sometimes write a poem.

What a great gift these two Sabbaths—Jewish and Christian—are! My life is overflowing with creating: words, music, quilts, friendships. And with daily duties and activities.

So these two weekend days are a welcome breather. I can’t entirely eschew electronics, because I need my laptop to write. But I so welcome reflection and quiet.

Outside my window, squirrels and quaint dark-eyed juncoes frolic. My pet cedar, Ulm, keeps quiet watch. (A few years ago, another resident, soon to be a close friend, asked me if I had a pet dog, I said no, but I have a pet tree. I chose my apartment because of the stately cedar. I call him Ulm because that’s his name. It just came to me.)

I breathe in Spirit. I breath out the possibilities of nothing, of everything.

Ulm, taken through my apartment window. Photo © Fran Gardner

Try this

Just one Sunday, step back. Consciously make simple. Leave shopping for another day. Attend services, if that is your bliss. Listen to music. Read wisdom literature: the Bible; the Quran; the Tao Te Ching; Shakespeare; books on spiritual topics by Kornfield, Chödrön, Hahn, Butterfield and endless other writers; poetry.

Start with just one Sunday.

Maybe spend it away from home, say at the beach. Make it a day to walk and reflect.

This is your retreat, your time to reconnect, to rest, relax, reset, reboot, refresh, reorder, recharge, recreate, re-create, renew, revive, reserve, regroup, and remember.

You may find, like me, that you want to make it a weekly retreat. It is so energizing that the rest of the week falls seamlessly into place.

Poem: From a Window

~I wrote this on a spring Sunday, at a retreat for Unity prayer chaplains~

Daisy-sprinkled lawn,
Wild forest beyond.
Old trees, knowing, bow to the sky,
Their vernal, unfolding leaves a chartreuse offering to the wind.

A single cedar squats, a gnome at the edge, 
smiling sagely for all its youth,
proud of its thick coat
untainted by the moss that coats
the black branches that arc and strive, 
pushing ever higher to the sky
pushing the sap of life
up, up. I wish
a deer would appear.
That would make the scene perfect.
Which is a ridiculous notion,
because the forest—oh, did I mention
the young sapling with its bluer leaves,
bluer than chartreuse,
striving in its miniature way 
to reach beyond the branches of its elders?—
the forest, then,
is perfect as it stands
In this moment,
in all moments.

Check out

Please, keep writing. It serves your soul.

Here’s another idea for writing

~Some people like prompts!~

Think and write. Pause and breathe between questions.

What do I want?
What do I REALLY want?
How long have I wanted it?
What do I have to do to get it?
Will I still want it in 10 years? In 20 years?

Next...
Think about what you wrote. Let it marinate for a few hours, for a day.

Then...
Read it again. Ask yourself:
Do I still want it?

And finally, importantly

Tell people you love them.

I think of Louis Armstrong:

I see friends shaking hands
Saying how do you do
They're really saying
I love you
                Songwriters: Bob Thiele (writing as George Douglas) and George David Weiss

Or in the words of another famous song:
Moonlight and love songs 
Never out of date

I love you.

—30—