At this moment in time, lyrics of "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" keep coming to me -- "the world in solemn stillness lay". Solemn stillness. Florence Scovel Shinn said, "One's ships come in over a calm sea." Calm seas. Stillness and calm.
Tuesday, I listened to an online solstice event, and what was most moving was not so much the event itself (wonderful as it was) but rather the fact that we participants could send greetings and identify where on earth we were. We couldn't see these hundreds of people or hear their voices. Our greetings just scrolled by at the bottom, faster than you could read. It was clear that there were listeners from literally all four corners of the globe (where did that expression come from?! How can an orb have corners?) We didn't have to break the holy silence or physically cross the ocean. We were still, together (and still together). For all that computer technology is a mixed blessing, it certainly is helping us practice new fourth and fifth dimensional muscles. There are new ways of being present with people, new ways of feeling at one with others, that simply didn't exist a decade or two ago.
It will be a still, calm weekend in my little perch near Lake Superior. Unlike 30 years ago, I don't own a car, and won't listen to the service of "Lessons and Carols from King's" on the car radio at a pull-off near Two Harbors. The lake, whether calm or wavy and steaming, will be visible from the window where I live, so I can listen and remain still. Certain threads keep weaving their way back into this scarf that is my life, and nothing weaves the polarities together more efficiently than listening to English cathedral music in Duluth. The paradoxes that used to be almost unbearable are finally becoming more comfortable. May you, too, find your polarities easier to bear -- fear and love, illness and passion for life, uncertainty and inner peace. May this extraordinary moment in time be as blessing-filled as possible.
