I leave for work, which is quite far afield, when it is not quite light. Lately I listen to the Missa Gaia from door to door. I sing my head off, I think about how I did/will interpret it, and I arrive to work feeling better than I would if I had been listening to the news. I look for red tail hawks. I marvel at how the horse fence keeps in morning mist. Occasionally I witness the flutter-flutter-glide pattern of a butterfly or two. This morning a white spider decided it was a good time to wander around my steering wheel towards my left hand. Really, St. Francis, do I have to honor all the creatures?
The sky was absolutely lovely --- its colors straight from a Monet. But the thing that had me mesmerized was the early morning moon! The road dips and twists and sometimes it was on my left, sometimes my right, sometimes above the line of pines, sometimes below. When it was out of sight, I actually began to miss it. It brought to mind the thoughts of my teens....
When I was 15, 16, and 17, summer mornings were spent in a small chapel in my home town. I was a daily communicant in the place I biked to every morning for mass. My closest friend at the time also attended. It was us and a handful of pensioners. For most of my life, I have wanted to get back to that habit. When I had cancer and felt I was in danger of losing my mind, I did. I conveniently lived within walking distance of a church at the time, and a loving co-worker who is himself battling cancer now went way out of his way to pick me up after mass to bring me to work each morning which made this possible. I often thought that during my sabbatical from teaching a few years back I would attend daily mass again, but I never did. These days, if you read this blog enough, you know that my early mornings are spent elsewhere. I communicate with the sea as close to dawn and as often as possible.
It was during those adolescent mornings, though, that I began to think of the sun and the moon as the presence of the holiest mystery. They were cosmic manifestations of the immortal and almighty. When I looked into the sky and found them, I felt drawn to the eucharist. When I pedaled down my parents' driveway towards the pews of that tiny church, I looked at the sky and whispered a sort of 'Good Morning ... I am coming.' When I recall that now, it is difficult to imagine that kind of fervor. I miss it. Life is cushier with that kind of faith.
I think my church is genius. I get a charge out of the very word transubstantiation, for example. In those days I thought it was the coolest thing that the communion wafer had the mottled look of the moon. These days, of course, I see the shape itself as a perfect metaphor. Beginning and end; alpha and omega. The calendar. The hour. A life.
So in my car these days I follow the bouncing ball ... I look for it, on the horizon, peeking out from a line of trees, on my left and on my right. There's a bit of that certainty left when my eye rests on it. Like when you see the face of an old friend. You know that every moment we change. You know they have had moments as you have had moments between when your eyes rested on them last and now, but their visage still brings a peace. Good Morning. I am coming. You know me. I have my self to share. And I sing a familiar song. A song I have been singing for thirty years... because, lucky for me, you don't necessarily have to be on fire to sing!
The sky was absolutely lovely --- its colors straight from a Monet. But the thing that had me mesmerized was the early morning moon! The road dips and twists and sometimes it was on my left, sometimes my right, sometimes above the line of pines, sometimes below. When it was out of sight, I actually began to miss it. It brought to mind the thoughts of my teens....
When I was 15, 16, and 17, summer mornings were spent in a small chapel in my home town. I was a daily communicant in the place I biked to every morning for mass. My closest friend at the time also attended. It was us and a handful of pensioners. For most of my life, I have wanted to get back to that habit. When I had cancer and felt I was in danger of losing my mind, I did. I conveniently lived within walking distance of a church at the time, and a loving co-worker who is himself battling cancer now went way out of his way to pick me up after mass to bring me to work each morning which made this possible. I often thought that during my sabbatical from teaching a few years back I would attend daily mass again, but I never did. These days, if you read this blog enough, you know that my early mornings are spent elsewhere. I communicate with the sea as close to dawn and as often as possible.
It was during those adolescent mornings, though, that I began to think of the sun and the moon as the presence of the holiest mystery. They were cosmic manifestations of the immortal and almighty. When I looked into the sky and found them, I felt drawn to the eucharist. When I pedaled down my parents' driveway towards the pews of that tiny church, I looked at the sky and whispered a sort of 'Good Morning ... I am coming.' When I recall that now, it is difficult to imagine that kind of fervor. I miss it. Life is cushier with that kind of faith.
I think my church is genius. I get a charge out of the very word transubstantiation, for example. In those days I thought it was the coolest thing that the communion wafer had the mottled look of the moon. These days, of course, I see the shape itself as a perfect metaphor. Beginning and end; alpha and omega. The calendar. The hour. A life.
So in my car these days I follow the bouncing ball ... I look for it, on the horizon, peeking out from a line of trees, on my left and on my right. There's a bit of that certainty left when my eye rests on it. Like when you see the face of an old friend. You know that every moment we change. You know they have had moments as you have had moments between when your eyes rested on them last and now, but their visage still brings a peace. Good Morning. I am coming. You know me. I have my self to share. And I sing a familiar song. A song I have been singing for thirty years... because, lucky for me, you don't necessarily have to be on fire to sing!
It lives in the seed of a tree as it grows
You can hear it if you listen to the wind as it blows
It's there in the river as it flows into the sea
It's the sound in the soul of a man becoming free
And it lives in the laughter of children at play
And in the blazing sun that gives light to the day
It moves the planets and the stars in the sky
It's been the mover of mountains
Since the beginning of time.
Oh Mystery, you are alive
I feel you all around
You are the fire in my heart
You are the holy sound
You are all of life
It is to you I sing
Oh, Grant that I may feel you
Always in everything
And it lives in the waves as they crash upon the beach
I've seen it in the gods that men have tried to reach
I feel it in the love I know we need so much
And I know it in your smile, My Love,
When our hearts do touch
And when I listen deep inside
I feel best of all
Like a moon that's glowing white
And I listen to your call
And I know you will guide me,
I feel like the tide
Rushing to the ocean
Of my heart that's open wide
Oh Mystery, you are alive, I feel you all around....
-Paul Winter
(You can hear a snippet of it here:
All photographs and text, unless otherwise noted, copyright (c) 2010 C.M. Carroll
