One Little Word, "Come!"

”Peace will come on the wings of a promise. Hope will come like the morning's first call. Joy will come on the winds of the Spirit. Love will come. Veni, veni, Redemptor.”

From the song, "Advent Cry" in Joseph Martin’s THE WINTER ROSE

This post has been forming through the recent weeks of Advent, the time in the Christian calendar for celebrating the coming of Christ, a period of glancing backward to the Nativity and reaching forward to the New Heavens and New Earth.

E'en So Lord Jesus, Quickly Come

A Penrod Productions video posted on YouTube by gepenner.

It has been said Paul Manz, the composer of this piece, crafted the perfect blend of text and music. He created it in 1953 during his three-year-old son's serious illness. The words appear below, but I'd like to offer a link to a beautiful blog commentary by "Pastor Peters" who writes:

It is one of those wonderful intersections of music and words where neither is bigger than the other but both form a piece of what is larger than either -- the message understood in the mind with words but felt in the soul with the notes that speak the same message.

You can read it here (well worth it)



E’en so Lord Jesus Quickly Come

Peace be to you and grace from him
Who freed us from our sins.
Who loved us all and shed his blood
That we might saved be.

Sing Holy, Holy to our Lord
The Lord, Almighty God
Who was, and is, and is to come
Sing Holy, Holy Lord.

Rejoice in heaven, all ye that dwell therein,
Rejoice on earth, ye saints below.
For Christ is coming, is coming soon.
For Christ is coming soon.

E'en so Lord Jesus, quickly come,
And night shall be no more;
They need no light nor lamp nor sun
For Christ will be their all!

lyrics by Paul Manz


Two things worth noticing about the well-produced video (even if the clarity is imperfect). The music by the Kansas City Chorale from the album, Alleluia- An American Hymnal. The statue pictured (I've reproduced it below) from St. Sebastian Cemetery, Salzburg Austria that so perfectly depicts the condition of man in a world of darkness.







picture from visit-salzburg.net

If I were to choose a favorite prayer to God, it might be, “Come!”

Every time and every place across the world this prayer is prayed, there is hope. The word is not only a plea to the Lord, but is often used as the Lord’s invitation to His people.

I am reminded of the antiphons congregations spoke between verses of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" when I was a child. It's not done so much today, but it is beautiful because the combination describes Jesus. He is: Emmanuel, Wisdom, Adonai, Root of Jesse, Key of David, Dayspring, King of the Gentiles.

Which brings me to the "Root of Jesse." How, I wondered then, could the well known house-painter gentleman in our home church named, Jesse, have anything to do with the coming of Jesus? Of course years later it became clear the Jesse referred to was the father of David.

And notice the meanings of the following names:

Obed (father of Jesse) means servant, worshiper

Jesse (father of David) means God exists or God's gift

David means beloved

Jesus (its Aramaic and Hebrew origins) means Yahweh's salvation

Our plea during Advent is for the Servant Gift Beloved Savior, Jesus, to come to earth. But there is so much more to the little word, "come," as shown in the last chapter of Revelation, the very chapter whose words inspired the song above.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End . . . I am the Root and the Offspring of David” . . . And let him who hears say, “Come!” Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life . . . “Yes, I am coming soon.”

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

Simple Gifts

Finally, after many attempts across a number of years, I have created a still life that actually satisfies. Though not perfect, it captures the mood and intent for which I was aiming. Before photography there were arrangements of household and nature items I would place along an ironing board, lit only by whatever sun rays filtered inside and captured with sketchpad, charcoal and pencils. While reflecting on this photo taken last evening, I notice gathered here in a single shot, gifts shared by many individuals. For example, an ear of the Indian corn my aunt gave me so I as a young mother could create a harvest table for my kids to enjoy; a plate given by family to help round out a winter pattern; a surprise birthday gift of cash given by my father when I was totally broke that allowed me to visit the pottery booth; the flowers my husband planned and took me to pick out straight from the florist' cooler to enjoy for Thanksgiving. I am pleased with this still life; I am grateful for those who made it possible. Thank you, Lord, "for letting me see the colors." Amen

Hold the Balance

Last evening a friend shared with us an experience he had while swimming laps at his local YMCA. It seems, though he had competed in the medley as a youth, recent health issues affected his abilities, and as he switched to the backstroke from his usual breaststroke something went wrong. He was all over the place and clearly disoriented. Helpless to sort it out, unnerved.

Transitions can be disorienting. Thankfully, this has been a long fall in terms of color and temperature allowing leisurely opportunities to notice the patterns surrounding us. But just on the other side will be holidays marking new seasons serving to hold the balance, setting the course.

Bringing in the Green

When you consider how much of the landscape, as we see it today, will change tremendously within the next week or two, each remaining leaf of color or flower demands more focus. There will no longer be an awning of yellow and orange over the morning window; the swirling art prints formed by newly fallen leaves upon the stream surface will flow away. Scenes will be brown and thin and gray.

And yet evergreens remain. Exposed soon in the cold wind blowing, their fragrance invites us to bring them inside, a promise of blossoms in spring.

The Sun Rises, The Sun Sets

Over all for me, the best time of year is the last of October and early November when the colors have turned to oranges and reds and browns. The air is crisp, even cold. The sky is clear and bright. The sun mixes warm earth colors to shades even more golden than usual.

It all lasts such a brief time and cannot be duplicated the other 50 weeks of the year. Unlike some changes in nature - a stream or patterns formed by tree branches - the effect of autumn leaves and sun will likely return creating similar views.

I can depend and take comfort in this. But other changes, designed and implemented by man, disturb me greatly. For example -

Our federal government is putting "recovery dollars to work." They are repairing much of the stone walls along the Blue Ridge Parkway. This is a necessary effort. The walls were built in the '30s and have begun to crumble. However, this will require the closing of my favorite segment of the Parkway. The entire length of Doughton Park will be inaccessible (there is uncertainty even by the locals whether Bluffs Lodge and Coffee Shop can be reached) for a long two year period.

Many of the photographs that appear in this blog were taken in the park. It even seems the growth of my family over the years has been punctuated by visits and memories shared there.

Times do change. People seem to enjoy nature in its raw form less now than in years past. The bluffs will still be there, the grasses and windblown trees, the families of deer and of course the amazing sunsets.

Too Soon

The woodland animals, even insects, were restless today
Cool air and sunshade-leaves spread over every limb and rock and path
They call me out to notice
To remind me this will all be gone in days
Will turn brown and dead and frozen

Grandmother Great

There aren’t many things I have of my grandmother’s. Perhaps because she had 4 children, 11 grandchildren and 9 great grandchildren. An afghan she made that reminds me of her deformed thumb from crocheting so much for so many grans (she had this strange way of holding the threads); her notes and notebooks from teaching so many Sunday School classes over the years; her childhood jewelry box and the figurine pictured here. I loved these monkeys as a child. I thought they were the wisest. Grandmother lived with us and used to tell of “Speak-no-evil, See-no-evil and Hear-no-evil.” They were real beings to me; there they would sit on her whatnot shelf watching over me to be sure I complied. As I grew, it became apparent how difficult in today’s world keeping that simple charge could be. I still don’t know which is more difficult – minding the tongue or keeping oneself from being affected by potentially evil or unhealthy situations. So the three little guys still keep watch in my sitting room, and Grandmother-Great's wisdom lives on.

Veritas

Memory and anticipation can reduce the pleasure of the moment. But sometimes what is displayed before us simply demands complete attention. Nothing remains to be satisfied.





And yet we still want more. Even if it means making it perform for us.





But perhaps, it is we who perform.



I am okay with that. For how could I not follow the path to promised wonders?

Standing Still

Every now and then life gets really weird. Things change that have always been the same. People move. Trade jobs. Retire. Get married. Go in the hospital.

You would think nature would be comforting. The same trees, streams, mountain peaks. But tree limbs break. Streams divert. Seasons blossom and die across the hillsides.

What is it all moving toward? I’d like to know in case I’d choose another direction. They say, to keep from getting taken by the river, you must paddle slower or faster than the current.

Yet sometimes I prefer to just, stand, still.

"Meteors Are Not Needed Less Than Mountains"

The title quote is from "Shine Perishing Republic" by Robinson Jeffers

For Jeffers the hawk or falcon displayed a stoic realism and represented a serene nobility that he did not find in humanity. And yet, the quote that titles this post refers to life; it is good whether brief or lengthy. In this we see the contradiction that typifies Jeffers' writing. Even as he uplifts the symbol of the hawk, it has a dark side, living by death. And even though there's pain in the early loss of a loved one as a meteor burns bright and is gone, they are "not needed less" than a life that remains far into old age. But I would ask the poet, if human life is merely a fading spark as a "bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the mass hardens," then why give it value?

What You Do Not See

Usually the change of color this time of year begins and ends before I can even stop long enough to take it all in.

This season will be different.







But part of the problem is that it doesn't happen anywhere in the city at the same time. And not even the same kind of tree exhibits the same rate of change.

It is as if the sun recognizes this and lends a hand.







Even deep in woods it reaches -
Organic photography for its timeless portfolio.

Change

Change seems to be the topic of choice lately. After all, we are living in times where technology shows no sign of slowing its pace of innovation with promises of machines so powerful, few of us can imagine the culture that will receive them. I attended a workshop recently on “digital natives,” that group of young folks born with laptops and iPods in hand. One message delivered was that information is being sought through video or audio more frequently than not. People would rather view a video clip to remind them how to “cast off” when they take up their knitting project again than read about it. And many would rather listen to a bestseller.

I don’t intend to debate the good or the bad in all this, but to reflect on a few related questions. Why are we so protective of our own experience? Cursive writing is no longer taught in many schools so most everyone prints these days. Is it even necessary to teach people how to write by hand? After all, keyboards communicate the same message, and young adults 25 and under rarely Email anymore, they text. Phones are on hand in greater numbers than computers and pen and paper for that matter.

The paper news industry is drying up. People would rather check Online for their news; it’s more current, cheaper and environmentally responsible. The same writing appears on the wall for the printed book industry as well; digital book publishing is in full swing.

And with that last one I have to groan with fear that in a flash, centuries of knowledge could be lost. Already, we approach an age where thought and correspondence will not outlive their originators. Who keeps old Emails? How will future generations retrace their history or build on prior knowledge? More importantly, who will own knowledge in the future? The man with the “key” to the power plant?

Still, I can’t help but recall the historical initial resistance to the first mechanically printed books. And how did people overcome the fear of writing down traditional story in the first place as opposed to preserving it orally? If you no longer had to memorize and “tell,” it would be forgotten eventually, and you would be at the mercy of the scribes. What if they did not preserve it accurately?

I do not believe the evolution of technology will be governed.

And I am troubled by the fact that on a recent visit to one of our national parks, there were no digital natives sharing a picnic meal with their families under the shade of mountain trees or playing in the golden afternoon sun.

Promises

No Man’s Legacy

Who decides the value of things?
I may no longer pay attention.
For I had paid you to guide me
Through the chambers of this grand estate
To show me irreplaceable wonders, exclusive artifacts

But you did not pause
To see beyond this window:

The golden-bronze of winter fields
Gathers among these ruffled hills
Framed in pewter of rain-soaked skies,
Long before this building—
Stone-to-stone was laid.

Gift

If I did not belong to you

I could not weave the world I’m meant to be in

You made me to feel the beauty, simplicity,

And quiet of life—to know its goodness

But when it dissolves away,

Dies in the hurry of living, the struggle to exist

You bring me back ever reminding me

To see the flicker of light as wind moves through shimmering leaves

To float with the patterns changing across my arm and legs

Resting here in the afternoon sun

A gift as simple as breathing

Mingled with sweet air of autumn clematis

The Marriage of Thought and Feeling

We think in words. But I also believe we think in images as a young child may before owning a grasp of language. Perhaps this is why our dreams are so vivid, and perhaps why they are more fantastical and charged with emotion than our waking moments – where experience is not framed by reason.

Thus art must reach beyond the mere empirical, pointing to what may not yet be seen but only imagined or felt, establishing a fuller, more accurate account of our reality.

Poetic writing, whether in verse or prose, is a bridge that in the process of marrying what we can reason in our minds and feel in our hearts, gives “name” or consciousness to our experience.

Press On

I imagine people in each century brooding over circumstances of their own times, feeling closed in as if the world were laying blocks before them where it seems everything they understand of spirit and meaning and value is being countered. Today, people want immediate answers; they want to get on with making life work for them.

But society doesn’t take the time to learn what we are made of, nor value it, intrinsically. We must press on nonetheless. For pursuing what you were made or built to do well, brings a joy and fulfillment that cannot surface while going against the grain because it is not manufactured from our will or desire, but was formed within our fiber at the very beginnings of time. It is no wonder pursuit of those talents brings contentment and peace.

You would think, the world would respond positively, or step aside and respect what the universe had naturally bestowed. But the world is too busy manufacturing its own version of meaning and purpose, and once you get so far beyond what nature has ordained, life becomes artificial and leaves no room for art, except one that reflects back its own artificiality.

I Want to Be One of Them

A number of years ago a friend suggested I listen to "Gabriel's Oboe" on one of Amy Grant's Christmas albums. Then a few years after that I found this version and discovered it was part of Ennio Morricone's score for the motion picture, The Mission. There is no other rendition, as far as I'm concerned. I believe that is Morricone himself conducting, and what I would give to actually find an entire performance recording from this group of musicians, the way they play as a single body, their interpretation and grace.

I believe this version includes a frame or setting that is from the original score in addition to the melody of "Gabriel's Oboe."
Hope you enjoy.





Ennio Morricone "Gabriel's Oboe" The Mission

What Have We Been Up To?

Getting a website designed and published for Vengiletti.

It has been more than just a summer project, but we’ve really worked it hard these last few months. So now that the website is launched, the sparse postings will hopefully be a thing of the past.

You are invited to visit vengiletti.com

While there, you can explore and order a copy of Walk Into A Moment, the chapbook and inaugural publication of Vengiletti Press. Spend time reading and listening to poems, view more Vengiletti photographs and relax with music in the background. You’ll even discover a link to this blog so all is at your fingertips.

We look forward to sharing more frequent reflections here on poetic image and thought and hope to find you at our new website, vengiletti.com

"They Should Have Sent A Poet"

Several weeks ago we watched a movie I hadn’t seen in quite some time, Contact, the 1997 movie with Jodie Foster. She finds herself at a loss for words as she struggles to describe the sights and feelings while traveling through a part of space no human had ever seen, at a speed no human had ever traveled. A scientist, equipped with knowledge and the ability to analyze, define and record , could not describe the beauty of the experience. She confesses, “they should have sent a poet.”

There are times I want a poet with me.

But I don’t need one to ravel off angry words or to flash before me snapshot scenes of squalor, or tease me with clever metaphors.

I want a poet who can depict what I cannot yet see, to give words to what I can only feel. A meaning to my experience.

Where does that kind of knowing come from?

Again, Beyond Words

Continuing with the ability to recognize beauty - this time in music.


A friend recently shared the song with me, "The Execution" composed by George Fenton from Anna and the King.

You may listen here:
"The Execution"

Another Way of Knowing

Very few people realize that Doughton Park is a National Park. It doesn't get the visitors it deserves perhaps because people move at a quicker pace today and require more electronic stimulation. But I have yet to come away from a visit there unfulfilled.




I am grateful for the ability to perceive depth and color and light,




To be drawn beyond myself.





All the evolutionary talk of preserving life in DNA and gradual mutation to bring about change and survival of species,




Doesn't explain for me why man can recognize and interpret beauty.




For there is more to this world than mere existence,




And I can know beauty in these forms without language.