Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

Traditional English Edible hedges–Cottage Garden Style

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I tried to build an edible hedge when we lived in Williamsburg, Virginia, without  success. I’m now reading about traditional English hedges, and would love to build one. Traditional English hedges around cottage gardens had a dual purpose–to keep sheep out, and chickens in. The hedge was inter-planted with fruit and roses, so the precious space contributed both food and beauty.

A traditional English hedge had Hawthorn, Blackthorn, Crab apple, Guelder rose, Dog rose, Wild privet, Honeysuckle,  Field maple, Holly, hazelnuts, blackberries, forsythia, quince, and damsons.

A well-laid hedge can be as thick and impenetrable as a wall, quite impossible to see through or get through. One day I will have one!!

Childhood Christian Reading

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I read, rapidly, undiscriminatingly, anything, everything, religious or secular. An extended family of nuns and priests assured us a plentiful supply of moral and religious books, in addition to what our parents bought us, hoping, with the haphazard hope of parents everywhere, that encountering these tales of virtue, heroism and faith would burnish us with a verdigris or patina of goodness, without them having to trouble themselves about it.

The Bible became part of the deep structure of my mind–Abraham, desolate childless man, walking under the starry skies, and then: the unasked for visitation, the great promise of progeny numerous as the stars in the heavens–that yet tarried, and tarried. And then–the Lord demanded Isaac. The knife wavers. Will he love the blessing more than the blesser, the gift more than the giver? Will he, will he? No. It was a different question: Will you love me above all others, will you trust me unflinchingly? And then, the substitutionary ram caught in the thicket, prefiguring, hinting….

And the moving hand writes on. Joseph’s chutes and ladders spirals, techni-color dreamcoat to rags, rags to riches, God’s irepressible providence shaping and fashioning a good story, good news, out of the bleakest plot twists. The mysterious burning bush in the Sinai. Take off your shoes, for the place where you stand is holy ground. “Who are you?” And the august, uncompromising name, “I am who I am.” The pillar of fire by day and the cloud of fire by night. David, with God’s unfathomable power on his side vanquishing Goliath with a well-aimed pebble. Mene, Mene, Thekel, Uparshim. “And the whole earth is full of the glory of God,” who chooses the meek and weak who trust him to write the emerging story of his kingdom.

 

Oh that heady, heady air. Miracles were God’s native language. Faith was the merest commonsense. Not to believe was to live in an underground dungeon suspecting that stars and trees and flowers and birds were mere fantasies. For then came Jesus, majestic one, striding the hills of Galilee, walking on the waves, stilling them, multiplying the loaves to feed our hunger, the wine to quench our thirst. Living Bread. Living Water. Real food. Volunteering to bear the punishment for the sins of the world. Jacob’s ladder between heaven and earth. The way, the truth, the life. Jesus, lamb-like Lion. Lion-like Lamb. Oh how I loved him, true light that came into the world that whoever believed in him should not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.

And those who bathe in his light become incandescent too. The austere conception of God of an embattled desert people glows brighter as the Celts praise him for their God-haunted world, and Francis exults in the world as God’s poem, the golden warmth of the sun, and the mighty winds, the brilliant stars and the melodies of birds. The free saint of poetry made radiant by his love for God. All through the centuries since Jesus visited us, startling us with his might and gentleness, his wisdom and compassion, the Living Word calls out to men to come follow him, and in the process, become poetry too, sloughing off all ugliness, to become like him, pure fire.

Repeatedly, repeatedly, as the poem of Christianity becomes slack and diffuse, losing its rhythm and loveliness, its wonder reduced to flickering embers, people encounter again the risen Christ who stalks the earth. Majestic, indefinable, brilliant, he emerges from the pages of Scripture in the beauty of the lilies, and as they shiver, the inert page turns seismic, twisting their lives upside down. At the sound of his roar, other sounds becomes faint, trivial and discordant, oh irrelevant. People drop their lives and go to monasteries to feast on the Living Word, sweeter than honey to the taste, or to the ends of the earth to urgently tell those who have not heard of this mighty, gentle Lion, and his paradoxical way to permanent joy. Jesus dignifies man when he speaks of slivers of his spirit lodging in every spirit, and so Damien nurses lepers, Mother Teresa cherishes orphans; dreaming lion-sized dreams, they go out into prisons, and slums; they oppose slavery, found orphanages, universities, colonies, countries. Mystics record visions, artists write and compose and paint. Oh surely, the greatest music ever heard, the sweetest romance ever known, a rift of gold coursing through history, changing it.

Life's isn't fair–but a deeper fairness runs through things

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The race is not to the swiftest
Or favour indeed to the wise
Or riches to men of understanding
But time and chance happen to them all.  Ecc 9:11


“A poor man’s field may produce abundant food, but injustice sweeps it away.”
Proverbs 13:23(NIV).


As I follow today’s news, I note that David Cameron and the Tories (whom I did not vote for) but who got the most votes might in fact not get to form the government.
The losers may get to form a coalition government.

Unfairness, injustice, I have experienced them. As almost everyone has.

But I truly believe that a deeper fairness runs through things. That God is shaping all things well, using even the darkness and unfairness to craft a gorgeous, iridescent piece of pottery.

That we see just an act, and declare, honestly, “It’s not fair.”

But we do not yet see how the whole play is going to end, and what beauties of character or circumstance or plot-twists will be worked out from this current bit of blackness.

God, the playwright, is writing a splendid story in our lives, weaving even our weaknesses into his astonishing plot!

I love 

A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world’s light.

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“Are there not twelve hours of daylight? A man who walks by day will not stumble, for he sees by this world’s light. It is when he walks by night that he stumbles, for he has no light!” John 11:9
I certainly don’t want to extrapolate more from Jesus’s words than he himself meant. On the other hands, the words of Jesus are full of wisdom and can be read on multiple levels.
One of the meanings this passage has for me is that one can live in a more godly, virtuous way if one rises with the sun (or before, like Jesus, “very early in the morning, while it was yet dark.”). And sleeps early too.
When do most marital fights occur? At night, when people are tired and irrational. When are children most likely to melt-down? Around bedtime.
When are we most likely to waste time, internet surfing, browsing, just hanging around doing nothing much? Late evenings.  What do we eat at night? Carbs!
In general, crime occurs at night. We are shocked if we hear of crime “in broad daylight.” Just installing street lighting cuts down on the occurrence of crime.
I am wondering if time would be used in a more satisfying and virtuous way if we rose early and slept early.
As I’ve blogged elsewhere, this has been a struggle for me all my life, and now, in mid-life, I am getting the hang of waking up early. And love it.
Which shows that it is never to late to change, even in mid-life or later.

The Blessings of Those who are Rich in Time

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A friend of mine, whom Roy calls a wisenheimer–someone with opinions on everything–says that a basic principle when faced with ordinary, every day choices is that of time versus money. If your time is in shorter supply than money, solve problems by throwing money at them; outsource all the work you can; do nothing which can be delegated.

However, in a way, those who are rich in time rather than money are more blessed.

Time to make bread, and rich slow-cooked stews; time to hang around the dinner table enjoying them; time for long, slow walks, time to garden, time to grow your own yummy veggies, time to have friends over. Time to enjoy people. Time to be creative and learn how to fix things around the house rather than always paying people to come and paint your walls, and build your stuff.

It is a slower, more peaceful, more creative way of life. I think we will choose it. To be richer in time than money.

How to Reverse a Downward Spiral

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A way to reverse the direction of a downward spiral, a vicious circle, a slump, is to start doing just one right thing.
*Exercise is one of those things with enormous leverage–affecting mood, sleep, self-esteem, and one’s sense of well-being.
* Any addition of physical work–gardening, for example.
* Waking earlier also helps, if one can.

* Praying more.
* Getting one’s house tidy, organized and decluttered–or doing just half an hour to move it in those directions.
* Having people over, for the break it gives you and the widened fresh perspective.

When you are in a total downward spiral, just do one right thing, and energy will come to do more.

 

The Best Way to Get Really Good at Writing

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The Best Way to Get Really Good at Writing

I think there is a lot of wisdom in that old chestnut–that the best way to get really good at writing is to write a lot! And read a lot. Saturation reading, basically.

And if one has neither time or energy to do either.
Then, trust God from whom all creativity flows!
Now that I have a lot less time, I just plunge into writing when free slots slow up. I remember however the days when I had lots of time, and slowly “got into the mood” by a slow process of arousal, by reading poetry, or reading prose until the rhythms built up inside me, started thudding in my veins, and I felt a burning longing to write something as beautiful as what I had just been writing