Notes from a journal.
Mary is the mother of spring I think but we need, too, a singer of autumn, one whose eyes are the pools rippling to winter and whose heart can rejoice in this baptism by fire and then the slow decay; the mere remaining; the trees grown bare and strong like steel, or whatever it is in the bones of the enduring world that is one of the names of hope.
O blessed spring, pray for us
tending to winter.
Things never tire of being themselves. I suppose that is what sin is, and death: the tiredness of being oneself, the refusal of creation. That the frog who sits outside my window every night and has to be nightly frightened off by the old lady with the cigarette and the spaniel–that he is there, himself, incorrigibly, renewedly frog, –must argue some great hope for the rest of us.
My heart grows old and impatient of graces, forgetful of the Spirit indwelling this miraculous Is.
May the sun rise on the world forever rejoicing.
The morning is a prayer, or asks for one. Without interval, this gradual brightening, this gathering resumption of mortal tasks; as if time were not a thing that rushes by, making static objects old, but rather the medium in which they rush–second by second–into themselves: a fierce current of things taking again and again their proper shape (as though that might be the meaning of glory), shouting, by very persistence, that death might be fact but will never be true.
It would be too much, the sun rising on these twittering trees, this relentless tide of returning day, except that it seems to demand a corresponding silence, to call forth a prayer: the voice answered; the obedient return; the speaking again of one’s own self (hallelujah) to the One who comes.