Mile Markers

Tomorrow is my parents' fortieth wedding anniversary (go, them!). 
Two days ago was my thirty-ninth birthday.  (Meep.)
I weigh approximately two hundred and fifty pounds, more than many players in the National Football League.  (Just...omg.)
I measure just five feet, two inches in height. 
I have clocked ten and a half years as a teacher of high school students. 
POM and I have fifteen years together. 
I have five cats, which makes me an official cat lady, I fear. 
I have practiced yoga for one and a half years, practiced very sporadically and badly but still reaped rewards from it.
I have blogged for two years and ten days shy of eleven months, blogged very sporadically and badly but still reaped rewards from it.
In one week and three days, I will join a gym and shift my priorities and focus from my job to myself.  (As a friend told me today, there's no grading if you're dead.)
I have been grown-up and self-disciplined for...about one hour now, maybe. 

From Good Friday

"Bend thy boughs, O Tree of glory;
Thy relaxing sinews bend;
For awhile the ancient rigour
That thy birth bestowed, suspend:
And the King of heav'nly beauty
On thy bosom gently tend."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

Why do I forget about this stanza every year?  I do not complain, though, because every year I get to discover it afresh and be amazed.  The idea of a tree coming to life, or rather becoming animate, to wrap its arms gently around the body of the Lord, holding it, tending it, is so powerful, so intimate.  I always picture a tree in full foliage, rather than a hewn construction.  It feels protective.  It is such a maternal, caregiving, pieta-like picture.  I free-associate:  it feels ent-ish, only quieter;  it feels like Mary Oliver's trees, who do their jobs, and live their lives, and speak to us, teach us.  As we heard on Palm Sunday, if we don't praise him, the stones will do the job loudly instead.  Why, then, shouldn't a tree be able to cradle the maker and master of the world?

------------------------------

"Blest tree, whose chosen branches bore
The wealth that did the world restore,
The price of humankind to pay,
And spoil the spoiler of his prey."

(from "Vexilla Regis," Sarum Plainsong, Mode I)

I love that last line.  I love the irony of the spoiler having his own plans spoiled.

and, in the same vein,

"Thus the scheme of our salvation
Was of old in order laid;
That the manifold deceiver's
Art by art might be outweighed
And the lure the foe put forward
Into means of healing made."

(from "Crux Fidelis," Pange Lingua, Palestrine/Sarum Plainsong)

The deceiver outschemed, out-art-ed, out-crafted.  The foe falls into his own lure, just as the psalmist prayed.  The lure, the trap, becomes a source of healing instead.  I have a healthy appreciation for such ironies.

Maundy Thursday Thoughts

Much to say about Maundy Thursday. I’ll start with my reflection from tonight’s service, in which the ritual of foot washing was observed:

Why does it undo me tonight to watch my priest de-vest, wrap an apron around his waist, kneel on stone, and wash the feet of the other priests, deacons, and acolyte before us? Why does it move me to see grown men and boys remove their solemn black shoes and socks to bare their white feet before us to be washed? The washed ones appear humbled, nervous, uncomfortable in varying degrees; they sit hunched or ramrod straight, they purposefully make no eye contact with anyone.

The irony is that, though they sit above, they are not in control of the situation. The ‘master,’ the priest on his knees, is mysteriously still the one in charge, despite the natural expectation that the server is the lowlier and more obedient of the two. When the ‘master’ humbles himself to do a difficult or demeaning job, it does not demean him but rather strengthens his position, due to his willingness to be low and do work. I have a deeper, truer understanding of the notion of servant leadership.

I would be interested to know what goes through the minds of the washed as they sit there being wetted or dried, looking down on the moptop of our tall priest’s head.

------------------------------

A passage from the hymn we sang as the blessed sacrament was taken away from the altar to the altar of repose:

“[W]hen man partaketh,
Tho’ his senses fail to see,
Faith alone when sight forsaketh
Shows true hearts the mystery.

Therefore we, before him bending,
This great Sacrament revere;
Types and shadows have their ending,
For the newer rite is here;
Faith, our outward sense befriending,
Makes our inward vision clear.”

-St. Thomas Aquinas

Hoping to have a true heart. Hoping to be shown the mystery. Hoping to be befriended by faith. Hoping to have some inward clear vision.

------------------------------

Working on a found poem from the various texts of tonight's service. Will post it, if I can find it well enough.

reflect upon reflection

Had to get my shot in today. Wasn't till twilight that I really considered what I could shoot. Took a water reflection shot on campus, after the sprinklers shut off. Took a car window reflection at the gas station, with moderate sunset still in effect. They're a little blurry -- handheld, and I carry no tripod at school. I may have to put a strap on my
tripod and do just that.