LIfe is Good

Two sort of crappy gigs in two days, within far less than 24 hours.

After our second gig today where we shared the stage with a tuba/zither duo ("Blecherne Saitn"), Zootsie and I went to our local funky coffee shoppe to post-mortem, gossip and unwind a little. I had a parmesan bagel with sundried tomato cream cheese, and she had popcorn. We both had cokes. Yucky comfort food. And we sat in the afternoon light with our beloved funkies at the Local Nexus Of All Things Cool in Our Humble Little Southern Town. And laughed and just watched the day develop into evening.

We parted and I came home, lit my altar candles, opened the back door, dragged a chair out on the back lawn, filled my meerschaum pipe with tobacco and mugwort, poured red wine, turned on Buxtehude and sat out (with the elder cat who suddenly needed to explore and smell new things) to watch the evening develop. Now, I'm no smoker, but the pipe was given as a heart-gift by my dear friend, ManiacalEngineer, and the spirits have indicated that for sacred purposes I should smoke a bowl every now and then. With the mugwort I find that it opens a holy space which is very nice indeed. And although I am no Native American and know that this is not my sacred ceremony, I nevertheless smoke as reverently as this white boy can, savoring the smoke and exhaling it with the stem pointing to thank the directions: South, West, North, East, Above, Below, Center. And then I settle in, simply be for a spell, and revel in adoring this world I find myself in.

At one with all, wine in hand, smoke in mouth, and the phrase, "let my prayers rise before you as incense; the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice" rolling in my head and occasionally off my lips, I sit, watch and listen to the world unfolding itself: wind rustles, sky, luminous sky turns from Robin's Egg tinged with evening green to Royal to Navy, then to a velvety Midnight Blue. Smoke from my mouth takes on a life of its own, wreathing about the trees despite the mild wind, clinging to me and my head, caressing my hands and face. The strains of the Buxtehude cantata "Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes (aquarum) ita anima me ad te Deum -- as pants the hart for streams of water, so pants my soul for you, o God", perfectly framing my mind and heart at this moment. This luscious work is built on a sweet major chaconne in the bass and continuo, and crowned with two violins and tenor. It is achingly dear and so full of praise for the wonder of the world, and the chaconne stirs my heart into a gentle frenzy of adoration for the God that comprises and who is in everything.

As I watch and listen, cat in lap now, the first forthright star emerges between the branches of my Southern Guardian, a majestic conifer that stands a couple of blocks away from my house. Then another appears, and finally a whole starry field is there as if by magic, the transition from no star to star happening with the slow, silent unseen beauty and grace of the stately march of the world, doing things in its own glorious time, a paced and majestic pavanne I am usually too impatient to observe.

But not this night; my heart beats in time with the breathing of the earth, stars, universe and the sun going softly to its bed. Everything is truly all right.

All will be well, and all will be well, and every kind of thing will be well.
~ Julian of Norwich

Now, now that the sun hath veil'd his light
And bid the world goodnight;
To the soft bed my body I dispose,
But where shall my soul repose?
Dear, dear God, even in Thy arms,
And can there be any so sweet security!
Then to thy rest, O my soul!
And singing, praise the mercy
That prolongs thy days.

Hallelujah!
~Dr. William Fuller, Lord-Bishop of Lincoln (1608-1675)

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