Hebel Hebelim

Breath of Wind, O Breath of Wind ...

All is the Breathing of Wind and Spinning of Air 

(Ecclesiastes)

There are sometimes when I remember all I ever wanted to do growing up was to draw.  Those days are Saturday evenings, when I turn on the radio's folk music, voices and stories.  When I set the light on some common and neglected part of my life.  A few hours and a pair of sincere eyes are all you need.  The secret to good art is just paying attention.  In those immediate moments, I'm that younger me, with scribbled leaves of paper lying scattered all over the living room floor.  I always dreamed of being an artist when I was older (My middle name is 'Ward' and that's just 'draw' spelled backwards).  But when I went to college, I stopped studying art.  I traded my studio for a study.  I moved on to the more reliable and lucrative profession of theology (God's a great boss, but there are some who pay better; not that it really bothers me).  But really how different is studying the Creator of art from studying the art of creation?  Paying attention is prayer.  Being able to appreciate the gift your eyes are giving you in this moment is grace and ευχαριστω.  Pencil marks and paper might not be the shoes themselves, but they aren't meant to be.  The articulations of theology are not God Himself, but they're not meant to be.  Rather sketches and theology are invitations of perspective: Look at these shoes how I do.  Look at Him how I do.  I may have volumes riddled with marginalia or lecture notes on my desk, but Saturdays remind me that no matter how many people (if ever) call me 'Dr. Granger' or how far I seem to have come, I am always still going to be that little kid with scribbled papers falling to the floor as he slowly learns how to pay attention.

Luminous II

Aqua lateris Christi, lava me.
Sanguis Christ, inebria me.

Everyday our souls are wed
but it's so hard to celebrate
when we're all so poor in spirit
and the wine so often fails.

The joyless evening's emptiness
does not even offer distant walls
against which our frail voices
might find an echo.

But instead our cries are drowned
before they leave our mouths
and the silence seems to pour in
to fill our throats and hearts.

In these muffled moments
we can do nothing, but clutch
our fingers around rosary beads
as the backdrop of the evening
smothers our sorrows like
the folds of Our Mother's robes.

She turns to her Son in our stillness
and, with us, He tilts his head back
to drink those last lonely drops
lingering in His also-empty cup.

We are jars of clay filled to the brim
with water so pure, simple, and clear,
with water so obvious, boring, and mundane.

Water for washing, but not for a wedding
which calls for spirit and fire,
which calls for wine and dancing.

He draws from our mundane moments, a memory,
a single drop between our thumbs and forefingers,
and tells us to squeeze until it bursts like a grape.

He says,
Remember the face
of someone you love,
someone vanished into
the silent smothered past.

Remember how they shine
as clear as water all the way
down to your gut where all
memories and emotions are
trampled underfoot,
pressed and fermented.

How often do
the little things they did
pour out rich and burning
as wine through your eyes?
How is it that in our tears
water can burn so much?

It's been a while
since life tasted rich with mystery
and every hour seems to stretch out
like a transparent and obvious sea.

But remember every moment's vintage
calls to be uncorked, poured, and drunk
in the aromatic Now.
For the simplicity of life
is daily aged in love's fires.

Let your prayer come out
of its lonely longing
into the First Miracle
where it's raining wine
and our laughter echoes
from the bottom of our glasses
in joyful disbelief at the fact that,
He has kept the good wine until now.