The Rough Ice of Life

If God gives you ice, go ice skating.

Thus my paraphrase of the classic lemon phrase.  Allow me to pause there for a moment, however, and suggest that rather than make lemonade with one's lemons, it might be more suitable simply to drink them in hot water or tea, as that is an excellent remedy for fighting off colds, as a former Russian roommate of mine once taught me.  Hence, if life gives you lemons, it might just be that you need them as a remedy against illness.

In context of that, let me return to my paraphrase with ice.  The thought arose yesterday because once again freezing rain fell upon the Northwest.  Now previously, I had discovered the marvels of roads being turned into an excellent place to ice skate, so I was determined that should such weather return, I would certainly take advantage of it again.

Road conditions, however, as you may perhaps be able to discern from the above picture, differed substantially from the previous thick, smooth layer of solid ice that seemed designed for anyone who happened to have a pair of skates.  Snow had fallen first this year and melted irregularly, leaving rough layers in stripes across the road.  The ice had further been torn up by the chains of vehicles that had driven by already that morning.  Furthermore, many places had not frozen sufficiently, but remained more snow than ice.  It looked quite treacherous.

Stubbornly, I insisted upon venturing out, determined that I would once again ice skate.  As I did, it occurred to me that most people would have given up at once simply from looking at the state of the icy road.  Any who had failed to assess accurately might have been the less cautious sort and therefore found themselves fallen upon the ice, leading them to quickly abandon their eagerness.

I, however, took it slowly, learning how to work with the rough ice.  Much of the time I had only one skate on solid ice while the other broke through, still providing leverage forward.  Sometimes I had short bits of smooth ice where I could really skate.  Yet I always had to be on my guard for the next place where the tire tracks crisscrossed the road with ice pebbles.  I kept low, ready to flail my arms about to catch my balance when I hit a place with more friction.

Miraculously, I returned to the house without having fallen once.

While I skated, though, in this unconventional manner, I thought of some of my favorite lines of poetry from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" that seemed to apply in a similar fashion:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

For I had taken that way less traveled (even though that is not in fact the point of the poem)—the way that few, if any, would have taken.  Yet that also seemed to me an analogy for the proper approach to life.  All too often in our lives we wait for the perfect smooth ice.  If I had done so, however, I would have missed a good morning of exercise and the excitement and adventure of doing what no one else would have done—and the story to tell of it afterward.

The Tenth of February

The Web of Life

For Grandma

Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat ei.
Requiescat in pace.
Amen.

How swiftly death strikes silent

The certitude of tomorrow

For her, for you, for us all

Who strive with grasping hands to hold

What life gives freely, to store

Treasured gains that never last.

Swiftly death uproots the heart

From soil of expectation, melts

Blinding judgment's bonds.  The seeds

We sow we may never reap; flawed

Words may seem to do more ill

Than good. Yet Love shines through the mask.

Swiftly death shadows our days,

Divorcing heart from hope that claims

Neat-tied perfect denouement.

The unfinished must go beyond

The grave, her untied strands weave

Into the web that you and I still spin.

Buried Gold

There is so much to bury these days:
Old friends, old loves, dreams, the lamp
At the end of the lane, petals soft and damp
From sweaty hands, voice so loved, so dear,
Expectations of what may be, and fear
Of what may not, the pursuit of happiness
Spent in toil and grasping, fingers that hold
Riches that turn to dirt and grime and mold...

Mound it all up in the dust, pack it down,
Stamp the ground with your boots,
Water it with your tears. Somewhere roots
Will grow. Somehow the seed that dies
Will sprout forth—somehow warmth will rise
To touch the dead hard soil—wither lies
That a bud may blossom and keep tryst
For all that is buried in the heart of Christ.

Mirror of the Soul

In honor of a certain obscure Franciscan dear to my heart whose feastday happens to fall today, my patron Blessed Jacopone da Todi (to learn the story there read the post from two years ago here and for last year's post go here), I want to share with you a few stanzas from one of his poems:

HOW THE LIFE OF JESUS IS THE MIRROR OF THE SOUL
(Lauda xxxix)

Life of Jesus Christ!
Mirror of Verity!
Mine own deformity
I see in that clear Light.

Somewhat, methought, I was;
Somewhat, methought, I seemed;
The Self of which I dreamed
I gladly did survey.
But gazing on that Glass,
The light thenceforth that streamed
On my true nature gleamed:—
Down in the depths it lay!
Needs must I weep and pray;
For, far as earth from skies,
Seeing from Being lies—
Distant as day from night.
…

O false esteem of self!
How couldst thou dare to bring,
As offerings to thy King,
These worthless works of thine?
Thy nature, all deformed,—
Ah, what an evil thing
To urge it, tottering,
Before that Light Divine!
These errors that are mine,
Must loose me from their sway;
Disorder must away,
Ere God with man unite.

...

I cannot be re-born
Till mine own self be dead;
My life out-poured, out-shed,
Sheer essence to renew: 
On glorious Nothingness
He only can be fed,
Whom God Himself hath led;—
Here man hath naught to do.
O glorious state and true!
In Nothingness to cease.
Desire and mind at peace
In calmness infinite.

May that light of Christ be mirrored in your own soul as you prepare for the celebration of His coming only a few days from now!

Fire

"Amen I say to you, unless you be converted, and become as little children...."
~Matthew 18:3

Oil light flickers red warning.
Pressing the gas, I lose power.
Smoke billows behind the car.

Seeking safety on the highway's side
Leaves a rainbow trail of oil.
Fire flickers under the hood.

Alone, I know I am not alone.
Calm, I call for help, which comes
In flashing lights.  Fatherly firemen
Clamber down across the ivy.

My heart beats like that of a child
Excited at the moment, unworried,
For the Father has all in His hand.

His Providence pours out in my Dad
Who comes to rescue me and wait
For a tow, while I, wrapped in love,
Go home, lips moving to our Lady.

Time to Bury the Past

A Man of Deep Love

I have little enough to add to my words of last year upon this date, December the 22nd, the feast of my patron and namesake, Blessed Jacopone da Todi.  (If you would like to read those words, you may find them here.)

Although there is so much I might reflect upon from the greatness of this man I know best through his poetry, now does not seem the time.  Therefore I shall simply share with you a poem I wrote in the spring of 2012 as I sat beside his tomb in the peaceful stillness—a poem that is also a prayer.

The tomb of Blessed Jacopone da Todi

To Blessed Jacopone at his tomb

To pray and go—should be enough;

Yet still I linger here and wait

For what I do not know. Perhaps

I hope some miracle will appear—

Some sign of grace to take my heart

And convert it to His love.

Pray for me—that is enough

To ask. Pray for me that I may bow

My will to His and serve not myself

But Him alone in those I meet—

Through His power then may my heart

Witness to the world of His love.

O Blessed Jacopone, is this enough?

To lay my prayers before thy tomb,

That what I cannot do alone I may yet

Accomplish through thy prayers for me,

For His grace poured out upon my heart

To convert all to His love.

Death Comes for Us All

Death has been on my mind increasingly of late, and not merely because we have just come through the intense commemoration of Christ's death in the Easter Triduum.  That mystery, however, casts its shadow upon every experience of death and every pondering thereof.  For where our Lord has conquered death by His death there must also be life.

The reality of death never affected me much as a child.  Even now I can count on one hand the times that death has touched me closely, butchery of chickens and viewing of murder mystery shows notwithstanding.

I think of a priest I met who shared with us words his mother had repeated to him about how where there is death there will come life.  That priest knew a couple who received a newborn boy after they had longed eagerly for a child they had been unable to conceive on their own and had prayed through the intercession of the priest's mother.  Their new child was born on the same day that the priest's mother had died.  Where there was death there came life.

I think of tulips planted in rocks beside the ocean with their roots sheltered by soil carefully patted around them.  As their bright colors caught my gaze, I found my heart reflecting on death contrasting with their bright and vibrant life, for I thought perhaps the tulips stood as testimony to some lost love.

Before the mystery of death I have no words, writer as I am.  Still, writer as I am, I must strive to put words where only silence can adequately respond.  I must speak out from my heart what I know in its quiet beating, even though in the end I will say nothing of what I know with all my many words, but speak only of all that surrounds it, of all the little petty details that seem to mean nothing.

Perhaps it is best to rely upon poetry whose imagery speaks what prose cannot.  Here a little piece from G.K. Chesterton:

The Skeleton

Chattering finch and water-fly
Are not merrier than I;
Here among the flowers I lie
Laughing everlastingly.
No; I may not tell the best;
Surely, friends, I might have guessed
Death was but the good King's jest,
It was hid so carefully.

In Honor of Saint Patrick

From words he himself is said to have written:

The words are beautiful enough they need no pondering attached to them, but I will say simply that he knew the power of heaven and earth.  Written in the style of the druid's incantations for protection, the song he wrote binds the power of Christ, the power that Christ has given to us.  Here it is in full:

I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same
The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this today to me forever
By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;
His baptism in Jordan river,
His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb,
His riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom

I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of cherubim;
The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour,
The service of the seraphim,
Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,
The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord
And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the star lit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, His shield to ward;
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.

Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours,
Against their fierce hostility
I bind to me these holy powers.

Against all Satan’s spells and wiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart’s idolatry,
Against the wizard’s evil craft,
Against the death wound and the burning,
The choking wave, the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name,
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same,
The Three in One and One in Three.
By Whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

Beato Jacopone da Todi, prega per noi!

Todi, Italy

Today I celebrate—I say I for the mere fact that most people remain unaware of today's significance other than as Christmas Eve Eve Eve and therefore nigh to Christmas—the feast of Blessed Jacopone da Todi who has become my dear patron.  I first discovered him quite by accident in a way.  Of course all earthly accidents—coincidences one might say—are merely manifestations of the hidden power of God at work, but from an earthly standpoint it was an accident, as I was searching for a Saint Jack whom I expected did not exist.  That search led me to Blessed Jacopone.

Street in Todi

When I discovered that Blessed Jacopone was credited with writing the Stabat Mater everything began to come together in my mind.  I realized how long ago my Lord had prepared me for this discovery of his existence, for one of my earliest memories of being at church is of praying the Stations of the Cross and singing the Stabat Mater whose haunting melody and words have ever tugged at my heart.  How could I help but rejoice in friendship with the author of that hymn?

By the tomb of Blessed Jacopone

An amazing poet, Blessed Jacopone captures the struggle at the heart of our lives in much of his poetry: he writes of the burning desire for God and yet the pain of that encounter and even the rebellion that rises in our hearts against the Sea of Love.  He reminds me of Jacob who wrestled with God.  (And indeed the name Jacopone is derived also from the name Jacob.)

In memory of Blessed Jacopone

I was blessed to be able to visit Todi and the Church of San Fortunato where the tomb of Blessed Jacopone resides in the crypt.  The curator must have thought me odd as I sat or knelt on the cold stone in prayer or the writing of poetry.  There was such peace in being there, however, beside the final resting place of my dear patron.

San Fortunato in Todi

In honor of his feast today (sometimes alternately listed on Christmas Day), I would like to share with you one of his poems that speaks so powerfully of love:

The Soul's Over-Ardent Love

Love, that art Charity,

Why has Thou hurt me so?

My heart is smote in two,

And burns with ardent love,

Glowing and flaming; refuge finding none,

My heart is fettered fast, it cannot flee;

It is consumed, like wax set in the sun;

Living, yet dying, swooning passionately,

It prays for strength a little way to run,

Yet in this furnace must it bide and be:

Where am I led, ah me!

I once could speak, but now my lips are dumb;

My eyes are blind, although I once could see:

In this abyss my soul is stark and numb,

Silent I speak; cling, yet am held by Thee:

Falling, I rise; I go, and yet I come;

Pursue, and am pursued; I am bound yet free;

O Love that whelmeth me!

Maddened I cry:

'Why must I die,

They fiery strength to prove?'

Love, Love, of naught but Love my tongue can sing,

Thy wounded Hand hath pierced my heart so deep:

Love, Love, with Thee made one, to Thee I cling,

Upon Thy breast, let me sleep;

Love, Love, with Love my heart is perishing;

Love, like an Eagle snatching me Thy sleep,

For Thee I swoon, I weep,

Love, let me be,

By courtesy,

Thine own in death. . .

Also, I have only just now discovered one more amazing fact about Blessed Jacopone that makes him even more fitting as my patron (if Wikipedia may be believed, as I have not time to do further research at present): "He was an early pioneer in Italian theatre, being one of the earliest scholars who dramatised Gospel subjects."

Oh Jacopone, I look forward to meeting you in heaven one day!