Monday, December 5, 2011

I Can't Wait for Christmas!

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Gloria
 
Light wisps low over Earth
at the crying of Your Birth
a world cast on the face of Night
become bright, bent childlike
beneath winter's feather of a moon.

  Alla Renée Bozarth
Moving to the Edge of the World  
iUniverse 2000




   Before Jesus~
Mary, Protopriest of the New Covenant

Before Jesus was his mother.
Before supper in the upper room,
breakfast in the barn.

Before the Passover Feast, a feeding trough.
And here, the altar of Earth, fair linens of hay and seed.

Before his cry, her cry.
Before his sweat of blood, her bleeding and tears.
Before his offering, hers.

Before the breaking of bread and death,
the breaking of her body in birth.

Before the offering of the cup,
the offering of her breast.
Before his blood, her blood.

And by her body and blood alone,
his body and blood and whole human being.

The wise ones knelt to hear
the woman’s word in wonder.

Holding up her sacred child,
her spark of God in the form of a babe,
she said: “Receive and let your hearts be healed
and your lives be filled with love, for
This is my body, This is my blood.”


Madonna and Child Christmas card by Sister Susan Sullivan
of Mary's Woods, Marylhurst, Oregon
 
Other "This is My Body" images~



The poem "Before Jesus" is in the books by Alla Renée Bozarth~
Accidental Wisdom iUniverse 2003 and
This is My Body~ Praying for Earth, Prayers from the Heart
iUniverse 2004.


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On Christmas Eve in 1906, the first radio program was broadcast. Canadian-born Professor Reginald Aubrey Fessenden sent his signals from the 420-foot radio tower of the National Electric Signaling Company, at Brant Rock on the Massachusetts seacoast. Fessenden opened the program by playing "O Holy Night" on the violin. Later he recited verses from the Gospel of St. Luke, then broadcast a gramophone version of Handel's "Largo." His signal was received up to five miles away. Writer's Almanac


 
Christmas Eve Now Coming  
 
Light in the Darkness is coming your way . . .
extending through time~lusciously, luminously
making all things well again . . .
 
Patience, then, as the saints have known, whose stories
enlarge us all, the saint in every rock and stone,
every drop of blood and every hidden bone~
the saint in each soul’s original core, born
or not born into a world woven
of wonders and woes. . .
 
the names of those gone are many, the names of the living are more
kin to us, still in travail, yearning, preparing for births of our own
into Paradise, for the precincts of Time grow weak and thin
against the leaning of our lives, so full, so fraught
with tragic elements and fine comedies and
sheer slapstick, falling down zany
weather, and all the tedious
sameness in between
the highs and lows
of our common
ground.
 
Which proves, when told, that the universe, even
to infinity, is not large enough to hold all our stories,
and we must by turns move on as our stories outgrow
their small plot of land in this world, where we took on
bodies and sequence and the burden of linear events
and stages of growth and decline~ of too young for this
and then too old for that~ and finally have become ready

 
to take their place
in the timeless, borderless
realms of Beyond.
 
We dive forward and find ourselves
deeply within as never before.
 
As we pass past the galaxies,
stars die with us and new stars
are born. And so we, old according
to our species’ allotments, die gently
enough if so blessed, and are reborn,
to accompany the infant stars
into a new Paradise.
 
The music begins . . . my heart opens . . .
my spirit softens, turns into rivers,
pours into waterfalls from the craggy
cataracts of skull around my eyes, and
below them the soul blooms. 
 
Time cannot contain
these gardens.
 

Alla Renée Bozarth

The Frequency of Light
Copyright 2013.


Give yourself and your loved ones an extra special Christmas Gift in this fabulous (and surprising) video, "An Unexpected Christmas." It's short and sweet and more.


 Feeling Life!
Mary and Cousin Elizabeth, both pregnant,
visit each other and . . . the babes jump for joy
with their moms!
Wish I knew who the artist was . . .
thank you, Artist~ 
message sent on on the Great Communion telegraph system.

Same goes for this magnificent icon~
Blessed Mother of Water, Earth, Wind and Fire 



Holy Night


“Tonight [December 23] in Oaxaca, Mexico, folks will be celebrating the Noche de Rábanos, the Night of the Radishes, and the zócalo (public square) will become the scene of a huge exhibition of figures carved from radishes. These are not the familiar little round vegetables that are eaten in salads — these are heavy, long, contorted roots that grow up to two feet in length and can weigh as much as 10 pounds. For three days, artists will have been transforming their freshly dug radishes into religious tableaux and village scenes, historical events and mythical tales. There will be animals and saints and conquistadors, the Virgin Mary and infant Jesus, and even the revolutionary hero Emiliano Zapata.



“The origin of this festival is unknown, although historians have noted that vendors in the Christmas Eve markets in Oaxaca would decorate their stands with radish figures embellished with other vegetables and that housewives would seek out the most interesting to buy for their Christmas tables. In 1897, the mayor of Oaxaca inaugurated the first official Night of the Radishes, and it has since become a unique and important part of Christmas in that city.”  The Writer’s Almanac, December 23, 2013
 

not being very imaginative 
I depend on the outside
world to give me material
for inspiration, in other words,
something to write about
and, as often as possible,
celebrate
   
tonight, for instance,
being Christmas Eve eve,
I’ll expect the customary
visitation of the stirring companions,
Not-a-Creature and Not-Even, a mouse,
forerunners of rustlings in the chimney—  

contemplating

the fact that in a city beyond the border
of my country in the southern portion
of this northern continent, people
are celebrating the Night of the Radishes,
displaying their lovingly grown, dug and
carved five-to-ten pound long root vegetables
unlike their puny, round, northern cousins
by the same family name, and children
will be admiring the artistry of their mothers
and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandparents
all as they inhale a steaming plate of tacos fresh
from the oven and see the colored candle lights’
shifting shadows on the centerpiece radish nativity scene~
Mamacita Maria, Papi José and Bebé Jésus lifting
his tiny hand to touch the radish root from whence
he bravely came this cold and holy night of nights,
to inspire fractious siblings to sing in rare harmony together,
practicing for the day of days when they will get it right worldwide,
and be always kind and generous toward each other and all others,
creatures great and small, whose worthiness is beside the point
of a generous and loving Creator, Whose most passionate thought
is to love them all, no matter what bad decisions they might make
for themselves, until they finally learn to love themselves
and the world with true and equal dignity. 

story of photo below 
original photographer
mbenanav.photoshelter.com/gallery/Oaxaca/G0000SnUgsPGz_gE/


The reverent radish artists are unknown.
 
Poem above, "Holy Night: A Radish Madonna~ Our Lady of the Fairly Odd Flowers" 
is by Alla Renée Bozarth
The Frequency of Light
Copyright 2013.

The fully human baby among the unusual madonna and child diad images below is Nicholas Robatcek, grandson of Joan and Jim Kimble, during his baptism a few decades ago.  His grandmother tells me that on Christmas Eve, 2013, he became engaged to be married while on a skiing trip in the western states mountains, where he is a summertime firefighter.  
 
Moon and tree branch with mountain images below them as well as tree, river, flowers and deer pictures are from my backyard, and Mt. Hood with branch over Sandy River Canyon and pastures image is from the viewpoint on Bluff Road near my home. 

Other images on this page~ the Hubble camera's celestial icons 
and members of other species (including fairy babe)~ are from the Web.



                                                     Holy Nativity

The One born to us
is a small green shoot
breaking through snow,
is a foal born to the wild mare,
is a nest of sea turtle children,
is a rubber tree in the Amazon,
a quarter-ton whale,
a coven of bees glistening
from the sweet Queen’s body—
is a human child in the African plain,
in a New York alley,
is you, is me, each one
not less worthy
of adoration and praise—
for God born in every living
new beginning needs the same
nurture of loving kindness
to grow strong and happily
into its true Self.

           Alla Renée Bozarth
           Love’s Alchemy


         Diamond Chrysalis with Sapphire Eye~
    Star Nebula resembling an Earthling's embryo!
                 . . . or something from the ocean . . .
                     


 
The peacock in Christian Tradition symbolizes    
both the purity of the Christ Child because of its white flesh,
and the luminous Transfiguration of Christ 
because of the bird's tendency suddenly to display its tail fanned out, 
all "eyes" showing as if open wide in iridescent purple to viridian green. 
This albino would be an Easter animal to rival the bunny as well!  
Further down you'll see a bird that could represent the Divine
and Human natures of Christ. Its apparent hybridization seems
very mysterious indeed . . . from living colors to the color of unbroken Light.       


Truce  [Christmas Eve letter 2012 revision, a retroactive addition]

At the beginning
of World War I,
the old gentleman’s
custom of calling
an unofficial Christmas
truce was still practiced
by soldiers in the trenches.

In the century before,
it was standard protocol.
But the last known occasion
was Christmas Eve, 1914,
when German troops
in Belgium began to decorate
their trenches and sing carols.

When the British soldiers heard them,
they joined in the singing.

Soon, they all climbed out of the war
for a few hours and met in person,
exchanging gifts of whiskey
and cigarettes. In one area,
the truce lasted till New Year’s Day,
and involved a friendly soccer match
between the sides.

All of this upset the British
military hierarchy.

The following year it ended
with officers commanding air
bombardment right through
the holy night and days.

Troops were moved more often
to avoid them becoming too
familiar with the enemy.

And so the tradition was killed.

Still, soldiers had taken the night off to sing in peace as human beings,
sons and brothers and husbands and fathers, simply proving that
common impulses toward friendship can override the business
of organized destruction, for the human soul needs friendship
more than fear and ego need war.

Up and down the fighting lines, people had shown
that even in the most grotesque circumstance,
it’s possible to practice human kindness.

Even now and especially so, it’s a gift to remember
how people of contrasting cultures are capable of transcending
their evil conditions.

We know that it’s possible to be our best selves anytime, anywhere,
because German, English and French good will once moved tired,
homesick and ordinary people to sing these different words
to one tune in the midst of a horrible war.

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht! Alles schläft, einsam wacht.
Silent Night, Holy Night, All is calm, All is bright—
because through their fear and exhaustion,
in the deep winter cold and snow,
they made it so.

After all, especially then and even now,
would it be such a scandalous thing
if people discovered that their so-called enemies
were as likable as anyone else, suffered the same,
loved the same, and no one could find
any reason or will to kill such very  nice persons?

                       Alla Renée Bozarth

Purgatory Papers
Copyright 2012. 




Madonna and Child and All Kinds of Nurturing Bonds

           
     
 





 NAIROBI (AFP)

A baby hippopotamus that survived the Tsunami waves on the Kenyan coast has formed a strong bond with a giant male century-old tortoise in an animal facility in the port city of Mombassa . . .



 
  Mother Snow Bear and Cub
An Albino Deer Couple
Precious Beauty with her daughter, Patchen Beauty
Baby Tao Bears at a Panda Refuge in China!
   
Mother Earth and Daughter Moon
 
                                                    . . . and these marvelous DNA cousins of ours



    
. . . odd, but beautiful, and who isn't, deep down,
                                             or to God?


                          

 

The Human Butterfly Effect

    Everything depends on sensitivity to initial conditions.
                       A first principle of Chaos Theory.

Monday morning and 
the melancholy masses
begin their trudge,
worming down
the highways and train tracks
or hitting the tasks
immediate to home,
family or farm.

Meanwhile, a butterfly
moves its wings
in Hong Kong
and a rainstorm begins
in the Amazon.

At the same time,
a genuinely glad
human being
opens a door
and out from its
opening happiness pours—

Imagine what will happen
to the world

from that single
catastrophically
wonderful
event!
           
Alla Renée Bozarth 
The Frequency of Light




You Come Out of Eternity ~You Come In From Eternity


You come out of eternity hungry for existence,
but you don’t know what it means.
Everything assaults your newborn senses.
Your eyes feel too small to drink a whole moon,
a rainbow, your grand-mother’s face—
your mouth adores milk and you can’t taste it
enough, so sweet the liquid love pouring
into you, responding to your insistent draw.

Your ears want more of that voice,
the song drifting on air waves.
When your skin is touched, you coo and instantly
compose your own symphony.
And all the smells that surround your body
and come out of your body are a cacophony
of over-whelming wonders.

Slowly you comprehend,
then, the distinctions of the senses.
Your sensorium begins to stretch, to hold
the coming‑in marvels of the world
and being alive.

And one day you discover you love
someone whose face you have learned,
and when you look into that face you know
you have arrived, because your mind is satisfied
and your eyes feel beautiful, like fingers touching
a photo of your heart’s true home.

   Alla Renée Bozarth
      Love’s Alchemy
 
Grandma and Grandpa God, Tears of Joy God

Today someone sent me a portrait of God the Grumpy Geezer.
I did not think much of it, except, “Poor Guy.”

Looks like God’s kids don’t call
and the pension check doesn’t
cover much of anything.

He’d probably have road rage behind the wheel.
I used to just dismiss the fellow,
no matter how much good press he gets from
God-knows-who, given the way he’s said to treat
his friends, and foes need not apply.

He’s been shown too long and too much as a big bad version
of humanity’s worst traits: immature, petty, spiteful, judgmental,
sulking, mean-spirited and downright violent, not to mention
prone to child abuse. God is Love is Right, but this is no portrait
of the Real God I know and love.

That wonderful Jewish Rabbi Yeshua who showed so much
divine transparency has been treated badly, too, made out
to be the Palestine Pansy when he’s really so direct it’s daunting.
“Judge not or you’ll be judged,” he said, but most people
ignore that and judge away.

I’m taking a turn of conscience today. I feel so bad for the persona 
in this postcard picture of him on my kitchen counter that I’ve decided 
to spend some time cheering him up. First, I’d bake him some cookies,
which is really something because I’m no baker. 
Better make him a cherry crisp. I can do that! 

I’ll whip up my special whipped cream with vanilla and orange 
extracts to go with it and watch him purr when he smells it 
fresh from the oven and gets a look at the beautiful pie cherry color, 
then takes his first bite of it with a big dollop of vanilla orange whipped cream.

After that he’ll feel relaxed, and I’ll start telling him jokes~ the penguin joke
is good, but maybe he’s heard it too often. Lena and Ole are always winners.
Then I’ll give him a blanket and show him the chaise in the spring garden
so he can take a nap under the cherry tree and inhale lilacs and roses,
and drift off to the lullaby of water falling over rocks and birdsongs.
I’ll tell the birds to keep their serenade melodious and gentle,
not as raucous as it sometimes gets around here. . . .
I’ll bet he hasn’t had a time like this in millennia.

After awhile I’ll wake him up with a big loud kiss on his furrowed forehead.
I’ll ask him to tell me his dreams. . . . I’ll listen with all my heart.
Then I’ll ask how the Beautiful Lady I know as God is. . . .

I do just that, and God’s husband says, She cries tears of joy every day,
which doesn’t look or sound happy, but she says they’re way past 
happiness into feelings she can only express in a river of love.

She says there is all the anguish of the world in them, getting bathed
and balmed, all the things she can’t prevent because of the way
the Universe is made with every creature freely becoming itself,
everything mixed in and tumbling, but we love it all the more.

She tells me I need to step back and let people hear her
firm but gentler voice. They seem to relate better to her.
She is breathtakingly beautiful, that’s a fact.

She reminds me that fire is our firstborn child, the stuff we used for the stars,
that water came next, and air, then the dark matter of space, and finally things 
cooled and settled here and there, in space pockets of places, to make the most
interesting forms, some of them teeming with life, like yours.

Of course, I know all this. We did it together and are still doing it,
and anyway, we don’t really look like this, but you humans seem to relate
best to those you understand, so you make us over into your own image
in your minds, and that’s how we come out in art.

Even this business of “We” is strictly human.
You, We and I are the same here in God Town.
This whole conversation is just for your benefit, Child,
but I’m enjoying it, too. You had a good point.

We went along with your ancestors and overdid that God the Father image, 
and look what happened. Men behaving badly, thinking they’re being
“godly,” lording it over everything and referring to me as “Lord,” too.
Do they think I’m an Englishman and a member of the Peerage?
Now there’s a rowdy bunch. What goes on in the House of Lords 
would never pass for Paradise.

Well, Honey, Thanks for the great afternoon.
I’d better go see what your Mama God wants me to do for her.
Maybe we’ll show up together in a beautiful flower in your garden tomorrow,
and see if We/I/You can do something to help that sick silk tree of yours.
It’s already bloomed for you for 30 years past its life expectancy.

But you and the tree love and appreciate each other so it sticks around,
even diseased and wounded, forgetting its suffering for love
and letting your grateful tears of joy water its roots
as deep as deep can be.

Thanks for shedding them.
Mama God loves you for it.
So do I.

I’m not really such a bad guy.
I really am full of love.
That’s all I am, really,
but love is big as Infinity
and has so many forms,
also to Infinity.

I hope humans in general really, really get that, and inspired young
or old painters keep on painting me as other things besides themselves
or others on a bad day or in a sappy mood.

Here in the garden with you, sharing my dreams with a good listener,
I’m feeling some tears of joy of my own coming on.
Maybe it’ll rain soon.

Grandma God, now she’s the real gardener.
She says, “Gramps, you’re an old fraud pretending
not to understand about feelings sometimes.
When you let them come,
your tears make beautiful rainbows.”

       Alla Renée Bozarth
 The Frequencies of Sound


The Chatterbox Tree                      

The silk mimosa over rhododendron and roses in the front yard
was not expected to live beyond the usual fifteen years when I came here
so many years ago, and the tree was already ten years old. When it was nearly
twenty, it was growing so rapidly and generously that it broke its heart
with flowers one day in a downpour. Half the tree covered all of the grass,
separated and gone to green for good. A huge gash of a wound healed
to a tarry scar, and an immense curl of strong scar tissue protectively encircled
the old exposed injury. In years following, more limbs broke away
from the miraculous body, but it only gave twice as much of itself in response.
It began to compensate for a bare north flank by stretching west as far
as the road, gracefully leaning over my mailbox to welcome the neighbors
home and see more of the world. It blesses all who pass through 
the back door, extending itself all the way east toward the mountain, 
to see dawn rising from the forest, pasture and wildflower meadow. 
One would have to stand a quarter mile away to capture the whole creature’s
image, with panoramic lens.

Now, twenty-four years later, it is going strong at more than twice 
its predicted life span, and no one is allowed to tell it so, but only, Live On!
watered with love and gratitude and praise down to its deeply receptive roots.

But what really keeps it alive, I think, is its own divine
fragrance, that every summer draws hundreds of hummingbirds
to take up residence among the delicate, honey-scented flowers.
And they do not sing when they are at home, these small wonder birds.
They talk! On and on they chatter, with amazing voices that are not music
but plain and unmistakable conversation. 

They play together by twos in loops and lusty leaps, dive bombing the roses,
then going back to sip on those pink silk, feathery fan flowers,  where they get
high until, by noon, they are so drunk with love for this tree that they encircle
it into a great, green and gold and bright pink hummingbird hug. 

They rest all afternoon, passed out on its branches, 
leaning their heads on its leaves, still chattering
to each other in their dreams, with voices relentless as wings.

The tree sways gently beneath these fairylike birds 
and sprouts another hundred buds, shedding its feathers and leaves 
all over the grass to make room.

Noisy? you ask. Messy! you say. And I say, when you love someone
you don’t mind the mess so much, and that is not noise but speech, 
and soon I will have listened long enough to be able myself to converse 
among them, and help the silk tree to live for a hundred years.

Alla Renée Bozarth  ~ The Frequencies of Sound
                                                                          


                                                     The Perfect Parents

The perfect mother
we seek in our lovers
and friends of either sex—
the nurturing caregiver
who embraces, accepts,
comforts and adores us
(or God-in-us).

The perfect father
we seek in our colleagues
and mentors of both sexes—
the challenging protector
who gives structure and safety,
teaches, inspires
and is proud of us.

In those remarkable
moments when they marry
inside us, we are whole.

Alla Renée Bozarth
Love's Alchemy
                                                                        



A Contribution


In case you need

to hear it again—

life is short

and uncertain.


You won’t have

many chances,

maybe today’s are it,

so ask questions

and say what you mean.



Look up words and names

and learn more about them.

Say them out loud, and

throw a party for the people

who impress you by

thinking about them

with a visible smile.


Leave a trail of poems

behind you, scatter some

randomly around~ tell everyone,

all the animals, plants and elements,

about their incredible courage,

and introduce the world

to its own loveliness.


What a gift you’ll be

giving, what a magnificent

contribution!
  
Alla Renée Bozarth
The Frequencies of Sound



Happy Birthday, Life!    
 
Cosmic Birthday Candle~Cone Nebula 
O Feast of the Incarnation of the Living Word— 
into the poetry of the universe~ Quasars, Pulsars and 
Quarks with their color superconductors of strong interaction—
into ghostly Neutrinos and Supernova Stars, into Dark Matter and Dark Energy and the ever-newborn galaxies, into imagination and images, 
into music and words, into dance and into receptive silence—


O Feast of the Incarnation of the Principles of Birth,
Life, Passion and Death, and of the Dynamics of Resurrection—

Now we celebrate anticipation of your birthday, that holiest
day of days, the birthday of being and time, when, as if still coiled
in the germ seed of Creation, as if as yet an unaware ion of an atom
in the egg sack of Creation in the mind of the Divine Mother, yearning
to be born, we quiver, and sensing the meaning, we explode into glorious
being in all the beauty and splendor of being alive—

Forth we come, millions by millions, amorphous, swimming in ether, 
dreaming of color and breaking into being out of the dream, leaping
over each other in eager exploration, deciding each one what kind
of atom to become, what shape of molecule to form, what type
of cell to shape, what larger body to form . . . O Blessed Possibilities—

And each particle is beautiful, each atom is beautiful, each molecule
is beautiful, each cell is beautiful, the whirlpool galaxies are beautiful,
the planets are beautiful, our planet is beautiful, all the heavenly bodies 
are beautiful, our bodies are beautiful, all of You, O Living Christ, 
All of You is Beautiful on this day of Your birth which now has begun!

And each time a new atom is born, the whole of it is born again—
And how lovely it is to be a soul budding and blooming, dying
and budding and blooming again every day, every hour— 
Therefore on this perpetual, eternally now Feast and Festival of Incarnation, 
this Feast of the Procession of Lights and intimate perihelion with suns, I say
to each one and all, Happy birthday again and again and again! 

             Alla Renée Bozarth ~ The Frequency of Light

Note~This paean blessing was inspired by the Akathist of Thanksgiving: 
Glory to God for All Things, composed for the Russian Orthodox liturgy 
by Metropolitan Archbishop Tryphon (Prince Boris Petrovich Turkestanov) 
shortly before his death in 1934.  From the Akathist:


Kontakion 2

O [God], how lovely it is to be Thy guest. Breeze full of scents; mountains reaching to the skies; waters like boundless mirrors, reflecting the sun's golden rays and the scudding clouds. All nature murmurs mysteriously, breathing the depth of tenderness. Birds and beasts of the forest bear the imprint of Thy love. Blessed art thou, mother earth, in thy fleeting loveliness, which wakens our yearning for happiness that will last for ever, in the land where, amid beauty that grows not old, the cry rings out: Alleluia!


Ikos 2

Thou hast brought me into life as into an enchanted paradise. We have seen the sky like a chalice of deepest blue, where in the azure heights the birds are singing. We have listened to the soothing murmur of the forest and the melodious music of the streams. We have tasted fruit of fine flavour and the sweet-scented honey. We can live very well on Thine earth. It is a pleasure to be Thy guest.


Glory to Thee for the Feast Day of life
Glory to Thee for the perfume of lilies and roses
Glory to Thee for each different taste of berry and fruit
Glory to Thee for the sparkling silver of early morning dew
Glory to Thee for the joy of dawn's awakening
Glory to Thee for the new life each day brings
Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age 

Though note that the attribution to the priest Gregory Petrov who died in a concentration camp in World War II is inaccurate, for now it is believed that he knew and prayed this Akathist by Archbishop Tryphon and made it known to others, but was himself a secondary source. There are thirteen Kontakions in this Akathist, each with an Ikos.  Akathist is the Greek word used in Russian liturgy to mean a hymn dedicated to a particular saint, event, or member of the Holy Trinity. It means literally "not sitting," for like most of the Orthodox liturgy it is sung as an act of prayer while standing. The Kontakion is the particular form of the hymn as a chant, literally meaning "pole" to refer to the scroll (rolled around the pole) on which the sacred song is written. Ikos, literally"relevant to," simply means a shorter hymn echoing the meaning of the longer Kontakion.

"After the start of the First World War, Bishop Tryphon saw active service in the army on the Yulyn front where he suffered shell-shock. He had to return to Moscow, his health shattered. In 1916, Bishop Tryphon retired to the New Jerusalem Resurrection Monastery outside Moscow. He again visited the front but returned to the same monastery in 1917."  http://www.orthodoxchristianity.net/forum/index.php?topic=26481.0 

The title, "Glory to God for All Things," is "from the words of St. John Chrysostom as he was dying in exile. It is a song of praise from amidst the most terrible sufferings."  orthodoxwiki.org/Akathist {See "Other Akathists" on that page.}I read his hymn on Thanksgiving Night and wrote this then, on the cusp of Advent and in anticipation of the Birthday of the Mystical Body of Christ, Creation Itself, which we celebrate in our commemoration of the birthday of the human infant Yeshua, Christ in our midst as a helpless babe, and also Christ as Cosmic Starfire.

 “We can live very well on Thine Earth. 
It is a pleasure to be Thy guest.”

AND WE SHALL ALL BE CHANGED


                                 
 
Christmas Tree Cluster Cone Nebula

 http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c9/Chandra-crab.jpg

Composite x-ray imaging of the Crab Nebula, showing pulsating, high-density 
emissions of electro-magnetic beams from Pulsar stars, 
the heart-beat of Invisible Light whose precise pulsations of energy
provide orientation to the community of galaxies including our own, 
and to all creatures
in the dark heavens.


Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Om the Omega
Om the All
Om the heartbeat
of deep and low

kneel on the ground and press your ear
to the bare skin of Earth, to grass or sand or rock,
to brown beds awaiting their greens and their splendor of colors

you will hear it, the low thrum of time marking its measures,
like the metronome that marks the music for the human being
who practices finger-sung sound at the piano

go out under the stars and look up, listen~
the Great Om is there,
in the high night, the primeval echoes of light from giant Quasars,
the steady, precise magnetic beams of Pulsars, 
lighthouses in the high regions 
sending us signals of Yes, of Presence, 
pulse points of the Universe~

Divine rhythms from the Everywhere
Cosmic Heart of high heaven~
Their song is Om, the Original Sound~
the syllable of Being,
 with threefold lullabies of Peace, Peace, Peace
in softer, softer sounds
 Shanti, Shanti, Shanti  

Rejoice because they see you in all your blindness,
they signal to the pulse of God thrumming inside you~
and they are mortal, as you ~ all of Us in this together
                 


Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om
File:Tamil om.png


OM

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/73/Cycle_of_pulsed_gamma_rays_from_the_Vela_pulsar.gif 
Cycle of pulsed gamma rays from the Vela Pulsar~
O! Star of Wonder, Star of Night, 
Star with Royal Beauty bright . . .
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect Light.


Listen to 5 minutes of pure bliss, music by Morten Lauridsen, 
words by James Agee,
Sure On this Shining Night:


Sure On This Shining Night - Morten Lauridsen

 

Note on the pictures: Baptism picture was taken
by a godparent; silk mimosa and camellia pictures from my garden
as well as Mt. Hood, the Columbia River Gorge and the deer with pear tree
& wildflowers with angel of light in my pasture were taken by me.
 All other images are from the Internet.

3 comments:

  1. Thank you! I especially love the "Before Jesus" poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh. My. I have just seen this. How did I miss it?

    Christmas truly is every day. And I think this is my best present.

    ReplyDelete
  3. A visit to the many forms of Love in all beginnings.

    ReplyDelete