Bread of Life, Feast of Corpus Christ

My heart breaks from not being able to attend Mass these days, so I offer this.

Father's Day

I never met my father, which on one hand was a real drag and the cause of a lot of confusion in my life, but on the other hand, being born with a broken heart set me on a search for healing ("there is nothing as whole as a broken heart" - a great Yiddish expression) that resulted in finding my Father-God; a priceless gift that I wouldn't trade for anything. Ultimately, I did find my father - in my hand-work skills that I inherited by way of his violin-maker's hands - in my music, especially in my violin - and the way he has spoken to me along the way: playing my violin back to me on the wind on a visit to his grave (true story as God is my witness), in his love letters to my mother, and recently, in the little violin brooch I dug up out of my garden. I see him in my older son's eyes and receding hairline, and in Ethan's dimpled chin. Being found by and meeting some of my father's family for the first time last year was the frosting on the cake. I am most especially grateful for the strength and knowledge as well as the gift of faith I have gained as a result of this particular journey. Happy Father's Day, everyone.

Annunciation

I'm behind in my writing these days, not that I don't have anything to say; but rather, I have so much to say I don't know where to begin, so I'll simply say some of it via a song I composed back in December, inspired by the readings of the day. The same Luke reading came up again yesterday for the Solemnity of the Annunciation of Our Lord, which was my inspiration for sitting down and recording it. It's about saying yes to God and trusting His plan. Not all that easy, most days. Full disclosure: still recovering from a nasty cold, so the voice is not exactly where I like it to be (but inspiration waits for no-one).

Sara on The Journey Home

How Can I Keep from Singing

This hymn says it all. (a quick take, recorded in my living room)



My Life flows on in endless song, above earth's lamentations
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear the music ringing
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing!

What thought the tempest 'round me roars, I know the truth it liveth
What though the darkness 'round me close, songs in the night it giveth
No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I'm clinging
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing!

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin, I see the blue above it
And day by day the pathway clears since first I learned to love it
The peace of Christ restores my soul, a fountain ever springing
All things are mine since I am His, How can I keep from singing!

Composed by Robert Wadsworth Lowry

Epiphany

"What star is this, with beams so bright,
more lovely than the noon-day light?
'Tis sent to announce a newborn king,
glad tidings of our God to bring."


This is the view from my window, looking east towards the center of Edgartown (brought closer by my telephoto lens). This star has been shining on top of the town clock (above what was once the town's Methodist church, my grandmother's church) every Christmas for probably 60 years or more. When I was a little girl, I thought it was the real star of Bethlehem. Actually, I still do.

All That Is Hidden

Yesterday afternoon found me with twenty-or-so empty minutes, which chagrined me at first, since I'm more of a do-er rather than a waiter, but once I made up my mind that I would make the best of these twenty minutes by taking a walk - who knew, I thought, I might even find something to photograph (but doubting it a little since the sun was so bright, and I didn't think I'd find anything particularly new or interesting in that familiar neck of the woods) - I settled into the perfect September afternoon that it was.

The first treasure I happened upon was the group of bicyclists that had stopped to snack on the wild grapes that were growing alongside the bike path. As I stopped to chat, the tallest member of the group, the only one who could reach the high vines, generously handed me a small, perfectly shaped cluster of the dark purple fruit; another day and they'd be over-ripe, but today they were as sweet as sugar. Pleasantries were exchanged - they were from Chicago; city folk who were delighted to be on the island for the first time and partaking of nature's bounty, as well as being somewhat intrigued by having met an authentic native - after which I set out once again on my merry way.

Within another five minutes I noticed a narrow, almost-hidden path that led into the woods. I was curious because in all my years of bicycling this route - almost every day in the summer; or driving the nearby road - almost every day in the winter - I never saw this path. I thought at first that it might have been an impromptu "rest station," and that it would end abruptly in a smelly pile of human waste, but was instead intrigued to find a small bridge over a stream (where we used to catch frogs, as kids, I realized), that led to a path that meandered in twists and turns; up hill and down, through the sunny woods. It was a pathway that was neither heavily trampled; nor, apparently, was it a deep, dark secret, as the trail was well-defined, and some of the trees bore a white paint marker.

I couldn't help but be amazed by this find - not because it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World - but because it was something that had been there for quite some time, in a neighborhood I thought I knew fairly well. But until yesterday, I never saw it; it was hidden from my sight.

Which makes me wonder: how much more am I missing because of my break-neck pace through this life?







September light.