Storm Home
December 22, 2008
Living artfully with time might only
require something as simple as pausing.
Thomas Moore
A Christmas candle is a lovely thing;
It makes no noise at all,
But softly gives itself away.
Eva Logue
On A Prairie Home Companion, Garrison
Keillor tells a poignant story about Lake
Wobegon life on the northern Minnesota
prairie, where children knew what it meant to
travel a great distance to school. And where
a sudden winter storm is life threatening.
In preparation for a winter storm emergency, each child is assigned a storm-home, a place nearer the school, where the child will go, and stay, if the weather becomes too treacherous for travel. On the first day of school, slips of paper are given to each child. The paper says: "Your storm-home is with the (blank) family."
Garrison tells of being assigned to the Krugers. The Krugers were an elderly couple and, as he recalls, very kindly. They had an impeccable house with a fence around a large yard. On normal school days Garrison would walk by the house and imagine what it would be like if he had to take refuge there. He imagines the crackling fireplace, a delicious meatloaf, and a quilted blanket on the bed. And Garrison imagines Mr. Kruger speaking to the principal, and pointing over toward him and saying, "There, that little boy over there - we would like him for our storm-child." All of this imagining made Garrison feel secure, even though, as it happened that school year, he never had to stay in his storm home.
Even so. Sometime in our life, every one of us needs a storm-home.
Today, on Vashon, we are not going anywhere. The ground is covered with over sixteen inches of snow (enough for me to use the verb trudge), a record of sorts, making it a "real storm" here in the Northwest, meaning that yesterday all islanders (unaccustomed to snow of any kind) high-tailed it to the supermarket (the store a frenzied clump of anxiety, like shoppers snatching cabbage-patch dolls, or i-phones, depending on your generational memory), their carts crammed with jugs of drinking-water, batteries, candles, and a bottle or two of good Syrah. Let's face it: There is no sense riding out any storm without some fine Syrah.
Our driveway is impassable, the main roads iced and precarious, and nothing on the day's agenda is worth the risk. These are days made for sitting inside, and looking out. On our patio sits a great chocolate-brown terracotta pot, home to our Russian olive tree. The tree is bowed, deferential and weighted from the snow. From where I sit, the pot looks like a perfect cupcake, frosted with over a foot of icing. Or is it meringue?
Our woodlands are silent. Outside our windows, it is a white Christmas framed with shadowed trees, a still life painting in black and white, unspoiled and ageless. The snow coats (blankets is a better word) the trees and shrubs and the stalks of spent perennials. On a nearby rose, I see two bubblegum pink rosebuds not yet spent, still tight-fisted, and though stooped by the snow, a picture of optimism.
The entire landscape allows a space.
For pausing.
Waiting.
Exhaling.
There is no work to be done now.
In the garden, it is time for fallow ground.
So. Today I spend the day-my Sabbath-in my storm home.
Yes, with fire in the fireplace, coffee and chocolate cake from the Monkey-Tree Bakery. The music of Chris Botti, Sarah Mclachlan, Kenny Chesney and a Celtic folk ensemble fill the air through the afternoon.
Books litter the couch. I am reading from three in the pile: Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals (Lincoln's leadership during the civil war), WS Merwin's poetry, and Jim Martin's My Life With the Saints. (Call me ADHD if you wish, and I'm sure the label will fit, but I still find great comfort in the variation.)
Or, if you prefer, spend the day with my son Zach, (who said of Sr. Maria-while watching The Sound of Music last night-"if I was one of those nuns, I'd think about doing video games to make it more interesting."), who is outdoors today, on a sled doing precarious runs down our challenging driveway hill.
This I know: Not all storms are weather related.
Life bears enough storms of it's own.
Grief perhaps (a church leader I respected and admired, died this week, and I am very sad).
Or conflict (I couldn't quite see eye to eye on a project dispute, leaving it difficult to avoid hard feelings).
Or melancholy (call it what you want, but there are days when we carry a sadness or heaviness for reasons we cannot explain).
And too often, we want to weather the storm on our own. We don't want a storm home. A place for resting up.
This is for me the power of Advent.
He shall be called "Immanuel," we are told, which means "God with Us." In other words, We are not alone here.
We have a storm home.
It is another way of saying (or knowing), "I am held safe here."
And I know if we're lucky, we can pass that gift on to one anther. So here's the deal. If you are passing by this neck of the woods, and have four-wheel drive, and a good pair of snow boots, you're welcome to stop in and sit by the fire for as long as you like. We'll sip some hot chocolate, or some of that fine Syrah, and let Aaron Neville's version of O little town of Bethlehem melt around us as this winter night descends.
CHRISTMAS NOTE TO MY FRIENDS: For your Christmas season and the weeks beyond. I would like to offer you these gifts.
(If the links do not work, simply cut and paste.)
ONE: A free MP3 download
Ron Noecker has a wonder CD of Christmas music, Healing Songs at Christmas.
Go to my home page www.terryhershey.com and click the mp3 download under Healing Songs on the homepage.
For Ron's music go to
http://www.healingsongs2008.com/Site/Healing_Songs.html
TWO: A special incentive on anything you may want to buy from our books, CDs, DVDs and posters.
Until January 15, 2009, EVERYTHING is 40% off.
Go to http://www.terryhershey.com/specials
THREE: New Terry Hershey videos.
Go to http://communities.faithstreams.com/Author/TerryHershey/tabid/26822/Default.aspx
In preparation for a winter storm emergency, each child is assigned a storm-home, a place nearer the school, where the child will go, and stay, if the weather becomes too treacherous for travel. On the first day of school, slips of paper are given to each child. The paper says: "Your storm-home is with the (blank) family."
Garrison tells of being assigned to the Krugers. The Krugers were an elderly couple and, as he recalls, very kindly. They had an impeccable house with a fence around a large yard. On normal school days Garrison would walk by the house and imagine what it would be like if he had to take refuge there. He imagines the crackling fireplace, a delicious meatloaf, and a quilted blanket on the bed. And Garrison imagines Mr. Kruger speaking to the principal, and pointing over toward him and saying, "There, that little boy over there - we would like him for our storm-child." All of this imagining made Garrison feel secure, even though, as it happened that school year, he never had to stay in his storm home.
Even so. Sometime in our life, every one of us needs a storm-home.
Today, on Vashon, we are not going anywhere. The ground is covered with over sixteen inches of snow (enough for me to use the verb trudge), a record of sorts, making it a "real storm" here in the Northwest, meaning that yesterday all islanders (unaccustomed to snow of any kind) high-tailed it to the supermarket (the store a frenzied clump of anxiety, like shoppers snatching cabbage-patch dolls, or i-phones, depending on your generational memory), their carts crammed with jugs of drinking-water, batteries, candles, and a bottle or two of good Syrah. Let's face it: There is no sense riding out any storm without some fine Syrah.
Our driveway is impassable, the main roads iced and precarious, and nothing on the day's agenda is worth the risk. These are days made for sitting inside, and looking out. On our patio sits a great chocolate-brown terracotta pot, home to our Russian olive tree. The tree is bowed, deferential and weighted from the snow. From where I sit, the pot looks like a perfect cupcake, frosted with over a foot of icing. Or is it meringue?
Our woodlands are silent. Outside our windows, it is a white Christmas framed with shadowed trees, a still life painting in black and white, unspoiled and ageless. The snow coats (blankets is a better word) the trees and shrubs and the stalks of spent perennials. On a nearby rose, I see two bubblegum pink rosebuds not yet spent, still tight-fisted, and though stooped by the snow, a picture of optimism.
The entire landscape allows a space.
For pausing.
Waiting.
Exhaling.
There is no work to be done now.
In the garden, it is time for fallow ground.
So. Today I spend the day-my Sabbath-in my storm home.
Yes, with fire in the fireplace, coffee and chocolate cake from the Monkey-Tree Bakery. The music of Chris Botti, Sarah Mclachlan, Kenny Chesney and a Celtic folk ensemble fill the air through the afternoon.
Books litter the couch. I am reading from three in the pile: Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals (Lincoln's leadership during the civil war), WS Merwin's poetry, and Jim Martin's My Life With the Saints. (Call me ADHD if you wish, and I'm sure the label will fit, but I still find great comfort in the variation.)
Or, if you prefer, spend the day with my son Zach, (who said of Sr. Maria-while watching The Sound of Music last night-"if I was one of those nuns, I'd think about doing video games to make it more interesting."), who is outdoors today, on a sled doing precarious runs down our challenging driveway hill.
This I know: Not all storms are weather related.
Life bears enough storms of it's own.
Grief perhaps (a church leader I respected and admired, died this week, and I am very sad).
Or conflict (I couldn't quite see eye to eye on a project dispute, leaving it difficult to avoid hard feelings).
Or melancholy (call it what you want, but there are days when we carry a sadness or heaviness for reasons we cannot explain).
And too often, we want to weather the storm on our own. We don't want a storm home. A place for resting up.
This is for me the power of Advent.
He shall be called "Immanuel," we are told, which means "God with Us." In other words, We are not alone here.
We have a storm home.
It is another way of saying (or knowing), "I am held safe here."
And I know if we're lucky, we can pass that gift on to one anther. So here's the deal. If you are passing by this neck of the woods, and have four-wheel drive, and a good pair of snow boots, you're welcome to stop in and sit by the fire for as long as you like. We'll sip some hot chocolate, or some of that fine Syrah, and let Aaron Neville's version of O little town of Bethlehem melt around us as this winter night descends.
CHRISTMAS NOTE TO MY FRIENDS: For your Christmas season and the weeks beyond. I would like to offer you these gifts.
(If the links do not work, simply cut and paste.)
ONE: A free MP3 download
Ron Noecker has a wonder CD of Christmas music, Healing Songs at Christmas.
Go to my home page www.terryhershey.com and click the mp3 download under Healing Songs on the homepage.
For Ron's music go to
http://www.healingsongs2008.com/Site/Healing_Songs.html
TWO: A special incentive on anything you may want to buy from our books, CDs, DVDs and posters.
Until January 15, 2009, EVERYTHING is 40% off.
Go to http://www.terryhershey.com/specials
THREE: New Terry Hershey videos.
Go to http://communities.faithstreams.com/Author/TerryHershey/tabid/26822/Default.aspx
Poems / Prayers
Day Without a Name
Not today then
will it be here after all
the word for this time
the name is age today
nothing is missing
except the word for it
the morning is too
beautiful to be anything else
too brief for waiting
and behind its pellucid passage
another light that does not
appear to be moving
fills the horizon
there the word
waited for
like a wild creature
not glimpsed this season
not seen by anyone
must be watching.
WS Merwin
Oh little town of Bethlehem
Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
Yet in they dark streets shineth, the everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above
While mortals sleep the angels keep their watch of wondering love
Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth.
And praises sing to God the king, and peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven
No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.
Phillips Brooks (1835-1893)
O sweet Child of Bethlehem,
grant that we may share with all our hearts
in this profound mystery of Christmas.
Put into the hearts of men and women this peace
for which they sometimes seek so desperately
and which you alone can give to them.
Help them to know one another better,
and to live as brothers and sisters,
children of the same Father.
Reveal to them also your beauty, holiness and purity.
Awaken in their hearts
love and gratitude for your infinite goodness.
Join them all together in your love.
And give us your heavenly peace.
Amen.
Pope John XXIII
except the word for it
the morning is too
beautiful to be anything else
too brief for waiting
and behind its pellucid passage
another light that does not
appear to be moving
fills the horizon
there the word
waited for
like a wild creature
not glimpsed this season
not seen by anyone
must be watching.
WS Merwin
Oh little town of Bethlehem
Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
Yet in they dark streets shineth, the everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above
While mortals sleep the angels keep their watch of wondering love
Oh morning stars together, proclaim the holy birth.
And praises sing to God the king, and peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven
No ear may hear his coming, but in this world of sin
Where meek souls will receive him still, the dear Christ enters in.
Phillips Brooks (1835-1893)
O sweet Child of Bethlehem,
grant that we may share with all our hearts
in this profound mystery of Christmas.
Put into the hearts of men and women this peace
for which they sometimes seek so desperately
and which you alone can give to them.
Help them to know one another better,
and to live as brothers and sisters,
children of the same Father.
Reveal to them also your beauty, holiness and purity.
Awaken in their hearts
love and gratitude for your infinite goodness.
Join them all together in your love.
And give us your heavenly peace.
Amen.
Pope John XXIII
Peace,
Terry Hershey
