Convent Tuesday, February 5, 2013

It's an uncertain day here at the convent; neither cold nor warm, not quite rainy, nor is it snowing. There's no anticipation in the air, no expectation at all. Just a nagging sense of disquiet, as if I've forgotten to take my vitamins.

I went outside in search of a small blue thing, something to remind me of the soft, still voice that I was having trouble hearing above the quiet of winter.

Almost immediately, a tree whispered to me. I stood under it and listened for a bit.


















I discovered some directionally-challenged moss growing on the southwest side of a brick.












I passed a wheelbarrow having a smoke behind one of the outbuildings. It tipped its hat as I went by.

I sat for a bit with an order of crocuses napping among the trees, their wimple clad heads gently nodding.

I think it was their snoring that finally drove me back inside.

Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?" Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply. "Perhaps they did not hear," I said; "I will inquire again. Whose are the beds, the tiny beds So thick upon the plain?" "'T is daisy in the shortest; A little farther on, Nearest the door to wake the first, Little leontodon. "'T is iris, sir, and aster, Anemone and bell, Batschia in the blanket red, And chubby daffodil." Meanwhile at many cradles Her busy foot she plied, Humming the quaintest lullaby That ever rocked a child. "Hush! Epigea wakens! -- The crocus stirs her lids, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, -- She's dreaming of the woods." Then, turning from them, reverent, "Their bed-time 't is," she said; "The bumble-bees will wake them When April woods are red."                                            Emily Dickinson

Small Blue Thing

My son and his friend are on Hour Two of an epic Jim Gaffigan search on YouTube while I sit here trying to ignore them and put to keyboard my first written thoughts on the imperfection of life and the perfect presence of the infinite.

But I can't. Because Jim Gaffigan is funny. Especially when he's riffing on religion.

Therein lies the rub for me. I have always had a deep interest in the question of Why. However, I have found that the more difficult question to discern is of Who, or furthermore, of What. And the possibility of an absence of Who, the nonexistence of What.

After all, "Why?" can simply be answered "Why not?".

But Who. That's a toughy.

To explain the unexplainable is a difficult task. Yahweh, God, the Divine, Godhead, Brahma, El, Mother Nature, we humans like to use language to conceptualize something that is not available to the usual five senses.

Monotheism, multitheism, animism, atheism...That's a lot of isms.

I was raised Roman Catholic and have a strong connection with many of the practices, traditions and beliefs of this community. In my younger years, I used this faith as a jumping off point to explore other communities connecting with the Other. I've explored Unitarianism. I've had the great honor of taking part in Jewish Saders and Muslim Ramadans. I've practiced yoga for years. I tinkered with Atheism.

Through it all, I always found my greatest joy wasn't experienced during large outward expressions of faith in the Divine. Instead, deepest joy always seems to be found in the smaller, more internal moments. Prayer after Communion, Shavasana at the end of a yoga practice, meditation during a Unitarian service, these are places where I've connected with the self, or soul, or Other.

To me, God is not hugely infinite. God is endlessly small. When I see a mountain I may think of God, but it is in the realization of the amount of sand, rock and dirt that make up this mountain that I feel the Divine.

With this blog, I hope to access the endlessly small. For the next year, I will try each day to find a new place withn myself, to identify small joys and recognize flaws within my soul.  Within imperfect moments I hope to find perfection.

For I don't think the Devil is in the details. I am.

God is a small, blue thing. Perfectly round and found within. If I bother to look, I'll see I'm perfectly reflected.

Today I am
A small blue thing
Like a marble
Or an eye

With my knees against my mouth
I am perfectly round
I am watching you

I am cold against your skin
You are perfectly reflected
I am lost inside your pocket.
                                               Suzanne Vega