Light in the Darkness

It has been raining some lately in the southwest corner of this verdant state, and gray a good bit of the time. But St. Helens is visible on Friday, for the first time in over two weeks; the dawn splits open a ribbon of sky at the horizon to reveal the snow-cold mountain in silhouette. On the way to yoga in Olympia, the sun shines through a hole in the clouds and illuminates the tops of the tall firs and casts cloud shadows on the road.

I don't mind the gray and rain (and contrary to what one might assume from weather reports across the country, it does not rain all the time). It does not make me feel dreary at all, at least not in the winter. But days like Friday, when the sun just shouts, "The hell with it, you clouds, I'm comin' through!" make my soul sing in a way that daily sun in the south never did. And God knows, Friday we needed something, anything, that felt like hope.

In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,

In the bleak midwinter, long ago. (Christina Rossetti)


Even as I watch for cloud holes revealing blue sky as I drive, I am listening to the news out of Connecticut. There is trouble in our garden. In our world, in our country, in our cities, in our small towns. And there always has been, since time began. But our easy connections with one another today, through the internet and television and our mobility that makes it possible to know people all over the nation and the world, bring the trouble close to our hearts and to our own lives and make a hole there. And that is a good thing; it lets the blue of goodness shine through hearts that have let the monochromatic gray settle in.

We hurt when violence happens, whether natural or unnatural. And there has been plenty of both lately. Our president sheds our communal tears on the international stage. His words and his tears reveal a little blue sky. Social media is full of people in pain. The debate about gun laws is breaking back into a gallop. It is always good when people are talking, even when it is heated and filled with 

disagreement about how to solve a problem that all of us desperately want to fix. Ideas about ways to help Newtown, today, right now, are bouncing about. We mustn’t stop. We honor the fallen when we stay in dialogue, searching for solutions. People are hugging their children. I read on FaceBook one person's cynical belief that hugging children won't help. I beg to differ. Every shred of caring and love is a part of the solution. The day we become hopeless about the future of this world, is the day we fail.

"Ring the bells that still can ring; forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." (Leonard Cohen)

I arrive at the yoga studio early. My mat and I get my favorite spot, facing the three tall windows overlooking Capitol Lake. I finish my warm-up stretching and sit in sukhasana (easy sitting pose) and look to the lake. The clouds have filled in the holes and the gray sky is once again unbroken. Suddenly, from the direction of the Puget Sound boat docks, a large flock of birds whooshes into view. I don't know what they are. Bigger than small; smaller than gulls, and black. They arrive together, then break into two groups and begin diving and rising again in unison, reversing direction and then swooping back and reversing again; dancing above the lake, staying within the frame of the three windows. Tears fill my eyes and leak down my cheeks. I don't count the birds. I know there are 28. Later I hear the children were in two classrooms.

At the end of the practice, our teacher arouses us from the stillness of savasana saying, "Imagine, as you come to your seated position, that the sun is shining." And so it is. Shining brightly. Glittering on the lake. The clouds on the drive home at dusk are both darkly ominous and pink with hope. Ground fog floats among the hills, drifts over the plain, fills in the nooks and crannies, softens the harsh street lamps, covers the fabric of the land in stillness.

In this season of Advent, we are heartbroken and hopeful. A baby came to bring hope to a broken world. This is a familiar place. Every major world religion has a central historical figure that represents hope. Every major world religion has a messianic prophecy that a Promised One will rise up again and unite all of humanity into one loving family.

Is it us? Are we the Promise?

"For someone on earth will see the star, someone will hear the angel voices, someone will run to Bethlehem, someone will know peace and goodwill: the Christ will be born!" (Ann Weems)