Peripheral Ponderings

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
― John Keats

In the late 1980s,  attempting to supplement household income, juggle the needs of young children, and going back to school, I cleaned houses.   It was the most flexible of choices, and it was a privilege to get to know people like Viola and Allan in their retirement years.   It proved to be good arrangement for both of us.  Their little black pug, Rudy, would follow me around, or confront me nose to nose as I washed the kitchen floor.   Allan would say, “The dog  hasn’t seen anything move that fast all week!” Time has moved on, and I cherish this picture taken there one day with Viola.    It makes me reflect on someone who has been part of my life, and on the different roles I have played.

A friend told me that her little granddaughter, catching sight of herself in a mirror, cooed and laughed at the image.   That same week, my mother’s nursing home posted a photo of a resident overcome with a fit of giggles when she saw herself in a mirror.  I’m beginning to relate.  At times, I can’t recognize the aging person who looks back at me either.  Especially when, on the inside, I can still feel like a girl of twelve.

There comes a time when reflection needs to be on a less superficial level.  Pity the poor beauty who clings desperately to the appearance of youth, like the fairy tale queen who constantly seeks reassurance from her mirror that she is still the most fair.

We are reflected in far more than our mirror.  The world around us, the  plays acted in the theatre,  the faces of our children, reveal our humanity.  What young parent isn’t convicted by the little one who has clearly mirrored her behaviour?  And it feels nightmarish when we find ourselves lost in a hall of distorted mirrors, confused about who we are.

Memories can be helpful then, because they also are reflections.  As time goes on, they continue to yield new insights, like a diamond’s facets catch the sunlight when you turn it.  They are great gifts, even when what you see isn’t always flattering.  You learn to accept who you are, even with imperfections, to look yourself in the eye.    What is now free to emerge is a kind of inner beauty that you see sometimes in older people, a joie de vivre that is so attractive.  Not necessarily because life has been easy, but that there’s been a choice to reflect on truth and goodness.  Over time, our faces become accurate reflections of  our thoughts.

The Bible is a mirror that uncompromisingly shows us our nature.  But it also points to what God considers timeless, “the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.”  And it speaks to the necessity of looking in the right mirror to know our true worth in God’s eyes.

“Finally, brothers and sisters,
whatever is  true,
whatever is noble,
whatever is right,
whatever is pure,
whatever is lovely, 
whatever is admirable—
if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—
think about such things.”       Phillippians 4:8

 

 

 

 

 

For the last three months, we have been unable to venture out to travel, and some of us were greatly disappointed because long-awaited dream trips had to be cancelled.   Our wanderlust has had little opportunity to be indulged, so here’s a little taste of exotic in riddle.  You can add your own stanzas and locales if you are so inclined!

Where Am I?

Lofty pyramids built in the sand
Camels with their humps of two,
The Nile flow irrigates the land
Where am I?           (Egypt)

Palm trees wave and Disney World
Brings flocks of winter snowbirds.
To the sky, the space shuttle is hurled
Where am I?           (Florida, USA)

Clomp along in a pair of wooden shoes,
Watch windmills, their arms a-spinning
Taste cheeses – Gouda or Edam – you can choose.
Where am I?           (Holland)

Strange creatures here, a kangaroo
With a baby in its pouch.
Traveler, stow your port in a car boot.
Where am I?           (Australia)

Double decker buses grinding gear
The chiming of Big Ben
Elizabeth reigns as monarch here.
Where am I?           (England)

Listen: the bagpipes sound loud and clear,
Or glimpse the monster in the loch,
Aye, indeed, poet Robbie was born here.
Where am I?           (Scotland)

Dressed in saris, the women are lovely
Crowds fill the streets of Bombay
See a tiger, ride elephants for a fee.
Where am I?           (India)

Pilgrim, follow the Santiago trail
Runner, bolt from the bulls in Pamplona.
From this country, Columbus did hail.
Where am I?           (Spain)

Tick, tock, clocks keep the time
The chocolate is dark and delicious.
In the Alps, Heidi and Peter did climb.
Where am I?           (Switzerland)

Now we’re south, as far as we can go
Blinding snow and biting cold
Black and white penguins ride an ice floe.
Where am I?           (Antarctica)

Paddle your canoe in five great lakes
Traverse mountains and forest and prairie
Speak both English and French, s’il vous plait.
Where am I?           (Canada)

Trudy Prins

 

Click on the link below to enjoy your trip!

“>https://www.jacquielawson.com/sendcard/preview?cont=1&hdn=0&fldCard=3463508&path=105741&pmode=init“>

Abou Ben Adhem
BY LEIGH HUNT

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

In times like these, in clashes of race, gender and class, it becomes so clear that we’ve forgotten that we all have been made by a designer God.  Each of us is made in His image, so that when we disparage or mistreat any of God’s bespoke creations, we deeply insult the Artist.

The Bible reserves its harshest judgment for those who piously attend worship, but then neglect the causes of the needy.  Jesus talks about the separation of “sheep” and “goats” on the last day.   It’s a difficult story to accept, until you glimpse that it’s not an arbitrary separation, it’s not based on words or even professed beliefs.  Talk has always been cheap.  It’s based on their recognition of their common humanity and affinity with those who are suffering:  hungry, thirsty,  ragged of clothing, lonely strangers, those who are sick and in prison.  Even more fundamentally, how we treat every person is how we treat Christ.

Jesus considered that human beings are so valuable that he was willing to die for the whole world.  He stood with all of us in complete humanity, which meant identifying with the sin he absolutely abhorred.   Where we refuse to get our hands dirty, Jesus is there, considering each person a treasured child of God.

The poem doesn’t address one thing:  the source of love that Abou Ben Adhem shared with his fellow human beings.  Because of course, all genuine and generous love comes from God in the first place.  When we accept that unqualified love, we don’t ask others to jump through hoops to be worthy of our love either.

We have work to do in addressing the systemic and personal injustices of the world so that each person is encouraged in their potential.   Start from the top with just laws, or start from the bottom by treating everyone you meet with respect and kindness.

We are on record.  We need to start now.

 

 

i thank You God

i thank You God for most this amazing
day for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any – lifted from the no
of all nothing – human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

E.E. Cummings

Springtime in Canada can come in fits and starts, but when it truly arrives it feels as if all creation bursts out in rejoicing.  Within a week, bare branches bud and then boldly spread their leaves to the sun, drawing a green curtain across our ravine for another summer season.

The birds call out their mating songs and build their nests to prepare for young.  This year, before we could get the eavestroughs cleared, we found an energetic bird sweeping the old fall leaves over the edge with the enthusiasm of a spring-cleaning housewife.

And my favourite flowers burst into bloom:  the magnolia, the lilac, the ground-covering lily of the valley that’s under our deck.  I can count on lilies of the valley being part of a Mother’s Day posy bouquet,  in a card or even virtually (as in our present pandemic circumstances).  It is a gift I receive each year with gratitude.

In this resurrection of life in spring, we catch a glimpse of what it will be like for our senses to be fully awake, to live abundantly.   In spring, there is new hope, so vital to our full participation in the world.

Hope depends on observation of the beauty around us and the ability to imagine beauty and life in the future.  Faith undergirds that Hope:  we trust that even if we can’t see what lies ahead, God’s Spirit ever hovers over creation.  It is always at work beyond “all we can ask or imagine” (Eph. 3:20).  It’s a brooding that nurtures our world and brings forth Love’s infinite variety.

 

Although our grandchildren are getting older, there are still toys in our house, and  I am loathe to give them up.   I prefer to keep them in case there’s something novel to discover for a little visitor, and perhaps there’s more than that.  It’s difficult to leave childhood behind.

It isn’t only the young who find joy in novelty, in giving imagination free rein.  It seems a creative spirit thrives on playfulness all our lives, and for me it’s certainly there in poetry.

Poets can be mischievous and mysterious, they play games of metaphorical hide and seek.  The smallest of details contain signs to follow into profound watery depths, secret attics, and mysterious trapdoors.  Rhythm and alliteration delight us with their sound, so that poetry can be pure joy to read aloud.   Its’ imagery creates structure and helps us to remember.

I once took an evening poetry class, and at that late hour the students’ energy levels could flag.  Perhaps it helps to bring more life experiences to the table, because even then I would find it hard to restrain my enthusiasm.  “How come,”  I once overheard a student say, “the mature students always have so many questions?”  And when students participated, the classes came alive, so that I wondered how they had gained so much wisdom at such a young age.  Inspiration caught fire as you suddenly saw something new.

Poetry at Play

“A sudden click inside my head
The tumbler falls in place;
The golden door now swings ajar
Just look at where we are!

Abracadabra,  a magic word
Contains the perfect key
A poem is like a toy
It’s living playfully.

Because it is so very true
There’s hidden jewels to be found
In mazes, maps, and riddles
In spinning a top round and round.

Rocking dolly with lullaby, or
Thrilling march of prancing horses
When music box begins its lilting rock
Who can stay the dancer’s courses?

Slinky syllables slowly slide
And jack-in-the-box jumps to take a peek
And look, just hiding over there
Is the very clue for which you seek.

Kaleidoscopes of colours
Light up an ordinary thing
3D and optical illusions
Open our eyes to discovering.

It speaks of long ago, and far away
And days to come with lots to do.
Treasures more precious far than gold
When their message is revealed to you.”

Trudy Prins