Category Archives: transitions

Sunrise

You missed it if you slept late, seduced by the warmth of the covers, waiting for the heat to slowly warm up the house.  There was a ribbon of red in the  eastern sky, the bare tree tops forming an uneven silhouette in the distance, their leafless branches reaching and twisting, waiting for first light, and soon, spring.  There is a pattern there, ancient secrets, chill morning air, fresh wind, light growing softly.

And you would not believe how brightly Jupiter burned in the western darkness!  Cold and beautiful.  It too looked back towards the east, acknowledging the coming of a new day, yet reluctant to leave its post, king of the predawn quietness.

Across the field I saw a light go on in the window of a home.  All over the neighborhood covers were being pushed back, feet were touching cold floors, yawns and stretches and first thoughts were emerging from a deep world of dreams.  Soon coffee would be brewing, sleepy eyes might glance at the headlines of a news paper.  Tousled hair would be combed, clothes chosen, bread toasted, or perhaps a special treat for breakfast on a cold morning – cream of wheat?  Oatmeal?  As the light of day grew stronger, the trees began to look ordinary, with just the faintest hint of their former magic.  Even Jupiter dimmed, turning in for the day.

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Filed under liminal moments, mindfulness, neighborhoods, seasons, transitions, Uncategorized

A New Year’s Eve Psalm

The dog never noticed, so intensely interested in the ground as he was, the damp grass and the smells and secrets it held.  As he sniffed from spot to spot, decoding a brief history of our backyard, what animals (and possibly people) had passed through it this New Year’s Eve, he would occasionally pause and look out into the distant darkness.  Perhaps he sensed a late night reveler, some wandering fox or deer wending its way home in the first hours of the new year.

For my part I was impatient, my mind already rushing, wanting bed and a few hours of sleep before the day dawned and tomorrow arrived.  Responsibility lay in that tomorrow, crouching, waiting for me, as sure as the daylight that would inevitably seep over the bare trees and soggy fields.  Time was already pressing, calling and whispering and rustling, even in that quiet darkness.

The dog had no such qualms.  No doubt he would have stayed out for hours, wandering, welcoming the new year in his own way, checking the various spots that he regularly inventories, keeping track in his mind of the comings and goings of other dogs in our neighborhood, the location of old scraps of food and interesting sticks that might be chewed.  He did not know that some arbitrary number had been reached, some intercalated measure of human time.  His way of sensing time’s passage is subtler and deeper.  He knows what lies ahead.  The cold days and colder nights, the chilly winds, perhaps falling snow and the quiet it brings.

Just then it was that I looked up.  The entire sky was draped in cloud, but magically a gap appeared and I could see the blackness of space.  There was the Big Dipper, just above us. Implacable, unknowable, untouchable, the infinite distance, the cold whiteness of its seven stars.  Too high for the dog, nothing to smell there, nothing even remotely as interesting as dirt and leaves and the roots of trees.  But I did pause for a moment, considering in my tired mind the majesty and mystery of this vast universe we call our home.  As deep as the earth, as high as the heavens.

Here a paraphrase of the 148th Psalm –

In praise of God, the sun and moon, the shining stars, the highest heavens;  the great ocean depths, teeming with life, the fire and hail and snow and storms;  the hills and mountains, trees, singing leaves, growing fruit;  beasts, wild and tame;  winged birds and creatures of the ground, men and women, young and old.

And this, from the 19th –

Day after day the word goes forth, night after night the story is told.  Soundless the speech, voiceless the talk, yet the story is echoed throughout the world.

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Filed under dogs, liminal moments, mindfulness, nature, Rabbi Steven Schwartz, seasons, transitions, Uncategorized

Blessings of Early Rising

The quiet calm of early rising.  First stirrings.  A creak on the steps, always that same spot.  The dog rustles in his bed, sniffing the air to know what the day will bring, stretching his legs, wondering about food and weather, sensing his master’s mood.  A moment to stop and think, to consciously embrace a new day, its challenges and the gentle grace it brings.  Breath and life, an old song rattles in the back of my mind.  When did I first hear that, those artful notes, that plaintive melody?

He is older now, our pooch.  Almost venerable in his doggish ways.  He patiently sits by the window and waits, looking out, scanning the yards, his domain.  He knows every inch of it, every corner and crack, every twig fallen from a tree.  We slip out of the door from the warmth of home to another world.  A red light slowly, softly, gently, yet inexorably rises in the east.  Street lights begin to sputter and go out, like giant candles whose wicks have run down into melted wax, agents of their own destruction.

Up ahead a raccoon crosses our path, pausing for a moment to stale balefully at us with his bandit eyes.  Everything is heightened.  Each bird’s song can be heard.  The wind, only in the upper branches of the trees, murmurs of summers past and springs to come.  Stars and planets shine brightly.  There is Venus, there Jupiter, there red-tinted Mars.  A sickle moon presides over the heavens, almost austere in its dignity, its endless rounds of waxing and waning.  There is a quiet in these moments that is restful and  pregnant at the same time, soon to be released, but also precious.

Lights flicker in homes along the way, others rising to a new day.  Soon the phones will be ringing, the highway in the distance humming, the emails dinging, all of the noise of modern life in its constant cacophony.  But not quite yet.  Dawn still stubbornly clings, refusing for yet another moment (or two) to relinquish this early morning sacred time to the sun.  With gratitude we’ll wait patiently, and walk on.

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The Turning – A New Year

There is a lovely phrase in Genesis 24 that describes the moment when Isaac walks out into the fields, just before he sees Rebecca for the very first time.  “Isaac went out to wander in the fields, לפנות ערב, just at the turning of the evening.”  There is an English word which captures this same sense – the gloaming, meaning dusk, or twilight.  That moment when it is neither day nor night, but for an instant or two, somewhere in between.  Or perhaps impossibly both at the same time.

Of course there are many turnings.  From youth to old age, from summer to fall, from night to day, from waking to sleep and back again.  And from one year to the next.  All different, but each with a sense of shifting, or perhaps drifting is a better word.  Between two states, or worlds, or times or seasons.  All with the sense that there is a flow, some great river-narrative that we all are riding, with foaming rapids and quieter eddies, with rocks and branches, its powerful current implacably moving us along.  It is a narrative less of words and more of moments, of winds and mountains, of laughter and tears, of feeling and deep blue skies and cold snow and fish swimming in clear water.  The ‘turning moments’ remind us that we are part of a grand story, ancient and wise and beautiful, that has gone on long before we entered it, and will continue long after we leave.  And there is awe in that thought, and perhaps comfort too.

A last thought, from the music always cluttering my mind.  The Grateful Dead were masters at finding the ‘turning moments’ of the musical journey they wove when they played on that great stage of life.  Order emerging from chaos, from a cacophony of notes a melody, from deep space a recognizable place to tread, to rest one’s weary soul.  When did those songs emerge?  How?  One song bleeding into the next, keys and scales clashing impossibly, but somewhere one note and we all knew.  A gentle swell of recognition, a new song, a new moment, a new place.  We arrived together.

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Filed under Bible, Genesis, Grateful Dead, Torah, transitions

Transitions of Fall (the Movers)

A tell tale sign appeared, just in the middle of a front lawn in our neighborhood.  White post, sunk about 8 inches into the ground.  Cross post at the top, for-sale sign hanging down and swaying in the breeze.  It had rained in the early morning.  The wet drops clung to the sign, waiting for a sun that was running late.  Neighbors were preparing to move away.  A new place, a new stage.  Downsizing?  Upgrading?  Whatever the reason, they would soon be gone.

The truth is we know people, but not that well.  A wave on the street, a handshake, a ‘how are you today?’, even if sincere, means only so much.  Moving takes planning.  Thought, discussion, realtors.  Something the family must have been processing for a long time, many months at least.  Serious conversations, pros and cons.  And I, living just two doors down, had no idea.  Walls come in many shapes and sizes.  Some intentional, others unintentional, others just there.  And others that suddenly apppear.

There were other signs too.  The sprucing up of the landscaping.  Work on the walkway and a new street light.  I’ve always thought it strange that we’ll live in a home for years and years, and suddenly, just before selling it, we put the work into it to make it nicer than it was before.  Probably many of the things we always thought we should do.  Paint the dining room, clean the carpets (or install new floors!), update the kitchen, redo the bath.  And then we move?!  Why not do the work when we can live in the house and enjoy it, why not make the home more like we would like it to be now?  It seems so strange to make it beautiful and then say goodbye.

But so it goes.  Time and again, house by house, neighborhood by neighborhood.  Families come and go.  We share space, a street, a wave, a few years.  The children grow and leave, off to their own lives.  The trees, not so long ago mere saplings, now tower above the homes, spreading their leaves over entire yards in the fall.   A new family comes and the cycle begins again.  New furniture will come, new colors of paint, new appliances and window treatments and posters and paintings.  But the old house remains.  It is frozen in time, a photograph, even a movie, always there to play, in the minds of the people who lived there and shared their lives.

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Filed under neighborhoods, transitions

Dusk

I love this shot.  A young woman and her baby, just at dusk.  The long and winding road.  The distant ocean.  Beyond that rolling mountains.  And captured in her silhouette against the sea the smallness of each of us and the vastness of the universe in which we dwell.  But a boat is there, just off the shore.  There is a way to travel in that universe, despite its size, its unimaginable distances, its stars, planets, its space and time.  And at the end of the day we are all travelers. IMG_3027

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