Celtic Spirituality and Nature

Celtic Spirituality and Nature.

Sunset Arkansas River Trail Stuart Hoke

"There is no creature on Earth”

There is no life in the sea

But proclaims your goodness.

There is no bird on the wing

There is no star in the sky

There is nothing beneath the sun

But is full of your blessing.

Lighten my understanding

Of your presence all around, O Christ

Kindle my will

      to be caring for Creation."—Phillip Newell, "Wednesday Morning" in Celtic Prayers from Iona: The Heart of Celtic Spirituality (Paulist Press, 1997).

The late Native American producer and musician Jim Wilson recorded the chirping of crickets at regular and slowed-down speeds, which is said to match "the average life span of humans." In the slowed-down version, the crickets seem to sing alleluias. (https://youtu.be/jk5gibBg-4g)  

It is an impressive sound of praise from nature. Unfortunately, to my knowledge, no one else has reproduced the sound in a way that allows it to be manipulated as such. Nevertheless, I often listen to the crickets' recording, hearing an angelic chorus outside in the night sky. 

There is no doubt that birds, especially in the early morning, seem to sing a new oratorio to Creation each day as the sun rises.

The stars at night are like fireworks from millions of miles away, reminding us of a spectacle beyond our comprehension.

The waves in the ocean are like a percussion instrument that keeps us attuned to Creation's steady, constant heartbeat—sometimes crashing like cymbals, occasionally tinkling softly like a triangle's ring.

 I also hear from so many pet owners that they have experienced unconditional love for the first time from their pets, especially their dogs.

The love and praise of God are all around us, especially in nature. Listen for them.

The pandemic was a time for listening and looking, while the noise and lights outside nature were considerably less. They are returning. Consider that time a respite in our lives, even for brief periods. It was a significant gift at great cost, so treasure each moment, each second, and remember those who gave and are still giving their lives. 

Remember that no matter what we do to stay healthy and safe, hearing the crickets and watching the Milky Way can always calm our bodies and promote well-being.

Song of the Builders –

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God –

a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
 
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope
 
it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.

–Mary Oliver

InwardOutward.org May 7, 2021

Joanna https://www.joannaseibert.com/

The Joy of Raspberries

                                       THE JOY OF RASPBERRIES

                                         Guest Writer and Artist: Ken Fellows

breakfast treat ken fellows

     Here’s the secret to successful raspberry picking: think like a raspberry. They’re crafty, deceptive, tricky, and shy. Growing in clumps of 5-8, the ripe ones hide behind unripe relatives to avoid detection. Some – usually the biggest and sweetest – grow solitary and obscure, down low, among bushy green leaves and thorny stems. 

Unlike ground-hugging strawberries with their low ‘fruit-to-leaf’ ratio, raspberry plants grow 4–6 feet tall, supported by foliage-dense, crisscrossing, prickly branches. A good picker must lift, pull down, untangle, turn over, separate, and inspect along rows of plants from all angles to retrieve the red-seeded prey.

      In my small raspberry patch, the hunt is further complicated by entangling weeds with leaves and gray-green color identical to those of the berry bushes. They twist around the berry canes, adding even more cover for the elusive red fruit. Unwinding the ubiquitous weeds from the raspberry plants, enough to pull them by their roots, doubles the picking time without increasing the berry yield. It’s maddening. 

     Maine’s mosquitoes provide the berries with another defense. My berry patch supports hordes of them. During the July picking season, green-headed flies join the battle on the fruit’s behalf, so I’m forced to pick in the sweltering midday because the vexing insects are less active then.

When I march into battle under a blazing, humid afternoon sun, armored against airborne enemies, the core of my protection is an airless, black, netted-nylon ‘jacket’ covering my head to waist. The netting covering my face prevents the ingestion of belly berries, a serious drawback. Below, I wear jeans tucked into tall rubber boots. This is not a cool outfit. It’s sweaty, airless, and hot. Head hot. Body hot. Feet hot. Everything hot, hot, hot.

     Of course, I wear a shirt under the mosquito-netting jacket and douse myself with Cutter’s spray repellent. The little buggers still find ways to get through the clothing and the netting, so no picking session is itch-free. My front-yard berry patch sits next to our street, Chauncey Creek Road, and strollers walking by often comment:

         “How lucky for you to have raspberries to pick.”  

          “Oh yes, lots of fun,” I grumble back.

     Forget the impediments: just gathering the berries isn’t all that easy either. It’s a stand-up job where I hold the collection box in one hand – or precariously cradle it on a bent arm – leaving the other hand free to pluck fruit. But there’s a problem; I can become so engrossed in the search-and-snatch maneuvers that a partly filled box in my non-picking hand is forgotten, tips downward, and half an hour’s work scatters to the ground, irretrievably lost in the thicket. It’s not good if someone is walking by at that moment. I don’t mutter; I explode in a stream of blue language I otherwise use only in front of my exasperating computer.  

     And have I mentioned the mental stressors of raspberry picking? Deep red berries are the object of the hunt. Purple ones are overripe and unusable; yellow-orange to orange-pink ones are tasteless and must wait for the next picking. But what about those turning just faintly purple—or those turning ‘early red’? Pick now or later? Can I pick again in 2 days? Not if it’s raining or if I’ll be busy or away. Almost every picking minute, crucial, stressful decisions must be made.

     If everyone knew the effort involved and the mental toll, they might understand why a commercial pint of raspberries is so expensive.

     There are rewards for hours and hours of berry tending: raspberry shortcakes, pies, and muffins; berries on cereal; and freezer jam, which takes raspberry flavor to a higher level. On a stormy, cold winter’s morning, raspberry jam on warm toast makes life bearable. So I’ll keep fussing with the plants … trimming, fertilizing, rototilling, watering, and battling insects and weeds. And I’ll keep picking, with all its frustrations and hardships. I’ve been doing it for 40 years. I know the price and am willing to pay. I remain ever thankful for the bounty. 

Ken Fellows

Joanna Seibert joannaseibert.com

Easter Thistles

Easter Thistles

Guest Writer: Eve Turek

“Cursed is the ground for your sake;
In toil you shall eat of it
All the days of your life.

 Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you,
And you shall eat the herb of the field.”— Gen. 3: 17b-18 (NIV)

Easter Swallowtails and Thistles

My contemplation of the Easter story this year gave me new insights. In Genesis, we learn that humankind’s beginnings of a conscious, pure connection with God and with this earth began in a garden. I think a lot about this story because my given name is Eve. In the Eden story, humankind lost the close relationship with God as Creator and the tender, loving stewardship of this earth. Curses were spoken. Humans not only acquired knowledge of evil; they could—and did—choose evil. The ramifications extended upward, outward, and downward. In the story, one of the things God declared from that garden as humans were leaving it was that the earth itself would reap the consequences of their choices and would now produce something that had never grown before in that original garden, thorns and thistles. 

Fast-forward, and we see Jesus praying in agony, knowing what he was about to endure and being betrayed by one of his closest friends, in a garden.

The next afternoon, His own story seemed to end as His body was removed from a cross and placed in someone else’s family tomb… in a garden.

I don’t think the location of that tomb was a coincidence. I think the parallels are too striking to ignore. The miracle that followed in that garden reversed everything that had gone wrong in the first garden. When Jesus rose, life triumphed over death, light overwhelmed darkness, and everything associated with humanity’s knowledge of evil, including the fear, the shame, and the curse, found a remedy in that rising. 

With all of these thoughts in my head and heart, after an early service at Saint Andrews, I drove out to Alligator River refuge. I was seeking an Easter-inspired image that might illustrate them. Maybe I should see if the Elizabethan Gardens was open on my way home, I thought.

And then I found the thistles.

Early last week at the refuge, I noticed the swallowtail butterflies had arrived, and I worried for them because I know their favorite plant is thistle and very few had bloomed yet. It seemed too early for the swallowtails to be here without the plants that sustain them. But on Easter Sunday morning, in all the places I know to look, thistles had sprung up in just a few days and were in full flower. And look! The one specific plant that was mentioned, incorporated into the pronouncement of curses the Earth itself must bear, has instead become the source of sustenance for these beautiful swallowtail butterflies—creatures often associated with symbols of resurrection, of spring, of new beginnings, of Easter itself. Jesus is Risen, and that changes everything.

Alleluia, Alleluia.

Eve Turek

Joanna joannaseibert.com