Flowers at Home

If this is how nature looks while it's "groaning"  (Romans 8; and we live in a desert, so we do see nature groan at its worst!), how much better will heaven be?

BACKYARD: Prickly pear cacti, African daisies, sunflower (another not blooming).

green bean plant (base of sunflower), pumpkin plant (foreground), marigolds (foreground)

OLD ROSE (bred for desert life):  Closer to "wild rose."

Related to fruit tree family (plum, apple, cherry, etc.)

From St Patrick

God, my God, omnipotent King, I humbly adore thee.

Thou art King of kings, Lord of lords. Thou art the Judge of every age.

Thou art the Redeemer of souls.

Thou art the Liberator of those who believe.

 Thou art the Hope of those who toil.

Thou art the Comforter of those in sorrow.

Thou art the Way to those who wander.

Thou art Master to the nations.

Thou art the Creator of all creatures.

Thou art the Lover of all good.

Thou art the Prince of all virtues.

Thou art the joy of all Thy saints

Thou art life perpetual.

Thou art joy in truth.

Thou art the exultation in the eternal fatherland.

Thou art the Light of light.

Thou art the Fountain of holiness.

Thou art the glory of God the Father in the height.

Thou art Savior of the world.

Thou art the plenitude of the Holy Spirit.

― St. Patrick 

“For that sun, which we see rising every day, rises at His command… - Greg Tobin, The Wisdom of St. Patrick from St. Patrick’s Confession”

The Winter's Spring

The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please--no bees to hum--
The coming spring's already come.

I never want the Christmas rose
To come before it's time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love it's piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumbling snow
That hangs on everything.
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzing light.

It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring--the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his poises bring,
Nature's white sporuts of the spring.

John Clare (1793 - 1864)

From Old Narnia to New Narnia

[technically prose;  a reflection on the passage of time and of all things as this year draws to a close]

     "So," said Peter, "Night falls on Narnia.  [Narnia is destroyed; comes to an end.]  What, Lucy!  You're not crying?  With Aslan ahead and all of us here?"
     "Don't try to stop me, Peter, " said Lucy.  "I am sure Aslan would not.  I am sure it is not wrong to mourn for Narnia.  Think of all that lies dead and frozen behind that door."
     "Yes, and I did hope,"  said Jill, "that it might go on forever.  I knew our world couldn't.  I did think Narnia might."...

     "Peter, " said Lucy, "where is this, do you suppose?"
     "I don't know," said the High King.  "It reminds me of somewhere, but I can't give it a name.  Could it be somewhere we once stayed for a holiday when we were very, very small?"
     "It would have to have been a jolly good holiday," said Eustace.  "I bet there isn't a country like this anywhere in our world.  Look at the colours.  You couldn't get a blue like the blue on those mountains in our world."...
    "If you ask me, " said Edmund, "It's like somewhere in the Narnian world.  Look  at those mountains ahead... Surely they're rather like the mountains we used to see from Narnia, the ones up Westward beyond the Waterfall?"
     "Yes, so they are, "  said Peter.  "Only these are bigger."
      [They compare some of the other Narnian mountains to what they are seeing.]
     "And yet they're not like," said Lucy.  "They're different.  They have more colours on them and they look further away than I remembered and they're more...more...oh, I don't know..."
     "More like the real thing," said the Lord Digory softly...
     "Kings and Queens, " [Farsight the Eagle] cried, "we have all been blind.  We are only beginning to see where we are.  from up there I have seen it all---Ettinsmuir, Beaversdam, the Great River, and Cair Paravel still shining on the edge of the Eastern Sea.  Narnia is not dead.  This is Narnia."....
     "The Eagle is right, " said the Lord Digory.  "Listen Peter.  When Aslan said you could never go back to Narnia, he meant the Narnia you were thinking of.  But that was not the real Narnia.  That had a beginning and an end.  It was only a shadow or a copy of the real Narnia, which has always been here and always will be here...  You need not mourn over Narnia, Lucy.  All of the old Narnia that mattered, all the dear creatures, have been drawn into the real Narnia..."

     It is as hard to explain how this sunlit land was different from the old Narnia, as it would be to tell you how the fruits of that country taste...The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more.  I can't describe it any better than that...
     It was the Unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling.... "I have come home at last!  This is my real country.  I belong here.  This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now.  the reason why we loved the old Narnia is that is sometimes looked a little like this..."

     The light ahead was growing stronger.. And then she forgot everything else, because Aslan [the Great Lion] was coming, leaping down from cliff to cliff like a living cataract of power and beauty...Then Aslan turned to them [after talking to other creatures] and said:
     "You do not yet look so happy as I meant you to be."
     Lucy said, "We're so afraid of being sent away, Aslan.  And you have sent us back into our own world so often.
    "No fear of that," said Aslan.  "Have you not guessed?"
   Their hearts leaped, and a wild hope rose within them.
    [Aslan explains that they died in their own world.   That they and the  Pevensie parents have come out of the "Shadow-Lands" and will stay in the New Narnia forever.]
     And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them...now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which on one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before."

--C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle.  (c) 1956

Journey of the Magi

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sorefooted,
   refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling and running away,
  and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out,
   and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty
   and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees* on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away
in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for
pieces of silver**,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information,
  and so we continued
And arriving at evening,
not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was
(you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt.
I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different;
   this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us,
   like Death, our death***.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old
   dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.


---T.S. Eliot, 1927  (c) by owner

* A foreshadowing of the three crosses, Jesus's and the two thieves
**Judas betraying Jesus for 30 pieces of silver; the soldiers gambling for his cloak
**Christ came to suffer death for our sins.  Death was haunting even the birth.

The Golden Morning [Sun]

(apropos for Thanksgiving, though originally German)

The golden morning,
Joy her adorning,
On us is gleaming,
Rays brightly beaming,
With her beloved heart-quickening light.
My head and members
Lay deep in their slumbers,
But now awaking,
All sleep from me shaking,
Gazing on heav’n, I rejoice at the sight.

Mine eye’s beholding
God’s work unfolding,
Made for His glory,
Telling the story
Of all His power so mighty and great
And where the Father
His faithful shall gather
In peace, whenever
Earth’s ties they shall sever,
Leaving this mortal and perishing state.

Come ye with singing,
Our Maker bringing
Each good and blessing
We are possessing:
All be to God as an offering brought,
The best oblation
Our heart’s adoration.
Songs meet and thankful
Are incense and cattle
With which His pleasure most fitly is sought.


Evening and morning,
Sunset and dawning,
Wealth, peace, and gladness,
Comfort in sadness:
These are Thy works; all the glory be Thine!
Times without number,
Awake or in slumber,
Thine eye observes us,
From danger preserves us,
Causing Thy mercy upon us to shine.


Though all decayeth,
God ever stayeth,Nor doth He waver,
He changeth never,
His Word and will have unchangeable ground.
His grace and favor
Are steadfast forever,
In our hearts healing 
Death’s pangs that we’re feeling,
Keeping us now and eternally sound.


Father, O hear me,
Pardon and spare me;
Calm all my terrors,
Blot out mine errors
That by Thine eyes they may no more be scanned.
Order my goings,
Direct all my doings;
As it may please Thee,
Retain or release me;
All I commit to Thy fatherly hand.

The good and healthful,
The harmful, unhelpful,
Thou my Physician,
Who know’st my condition,
Hast ne’er more chastened than any should be.
Griefs, though heart-rending,
All have their ending;
Though seas be roaring
And winds outpouring,
Thereafter shines the dear sun’s blessèd face.

Fullness of pleasure
And glorious leisure
Then will be given
To me there in heaven,
Where all my thoughts are directing their gaze.

--Paul Gerhardt, 1666.  Translation, composite.  (adapted)

Poem in October

 
It was my thirtieth year to heaven*
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heronPriested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumnAnd walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and seaWhere a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven* stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.                         

---Dylan Thomas, 1944 (Welsh)   

*A person alive 30 years, that far along his journey to heaven.