From morning to late afternoon light fills the house, slanting across walls, threading through every crack, an unexpected wintertime luxury. In the months of April through October leafy trees dilute the sunlight but we’re occupied with shorelines and gardens then, barely noticing the indoor elements. Now we’re needier and follow the light as it moves, easily astonished by the warmth and glow of ordinary corners. There’s no rush to leave.
February’s for telling what we're made of
Is it words?
Is it bones?
Is it clay?
Is it love?
Are we water?
February’s for telling what it's made of
Is it bones?
A photo journal from Dec 26 - Dec 30.
And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and
Forever must quench, forever relight the flame.
Therefore we thank Thee for our little light, that is dappled
- T.S. Eliot
'Sacrament' from the Latin for 'sacred' and the Greek for 'mystery'.
In the faith of my childhood sacraments were looked upon suspiciously as objects or rituals interrupting the light of truth, creating a shadow. Perhaps this is accurate and the ways in which we communicate a sacred story impede our own view of it, but maybe the shadows are part of a larger story - a symbol of our human condition, and our imperfect understanding of the story we're telling. The mystery is that love moves within the shadowed places of our own making, sometimes illuminating them, sometimes leaving us in the dark but always, “God with us”.
Four candles for our family of 4. When one of us needs extra grace we'll light their candle, the flame a symbol of the hope we’ve found in Jesus, the shadow reminding us of our imperfect understanding of this sacred mystery and God, still with us.
The air is still but the birds are boastful and fidgety. Zach builds a fire in the yard. Our girl gathers leaves, making piles to drop herself into before regathering them to drop into the fire. She lets her scarf fall off and I pick it up. We gather and drop, gather and drop. The leaves' ashes fly straight up, tiny bats darting to the sky until the rain comes and subdues all of us.
We clean the cottage, eat our lunch and leave. Driving away we watch parts of the village disappear, enveloped in the mist. Here and gone, here and gone. We listen to the CBC.