Eclectic Amateur

(Hat tip: Destination: Order)

Let nothing disturb thee;
Let nothing dismay thee;
All thing pass;
God never changes
Patience attains
All that it strives for.
He who has God
Finds he lacks nothing:
God alone suffices.

-- St. Teresa of Avila.

Labels: poetry

From A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997 by Wendell Berry:

1979: II

Another Sunday morning comes
And I resume the standing Sabbath
Of the woods, where the finest blooms
Of time return, and where no path

Is worn but wears its makers out
At last, and dissappears in leaves
Of fallen seasons. The tracked rut
Fills and levels; here nothing grieves

In the risen season. Past life
Lives in the living. Resurrection
Is in the way each maple leaf
Commemorates its kind, by connection

Outreaching understanding. What rises
Rises into comprehension
And beyond. Even falling raises
In praise of light. What is begun

Is unfinished. And so the mind
That comes to rest among the bluebells
Comes to rest in motion, refined
By alteration. The bud swells,

Opens, makes seed, falls, is well,
Being becoming what it is:
Miracle and parable
Exceeding thought, because it is

Immeasurable; the understander
Encloses understanding, thus
Darkens the light. We can stand under
No ray that is not dimmed by us.

The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it.

Labels: poetry

Some of the descendants of Aaron and Anna Frey made pilgrimmage to West Unity, Ohio today to do the kind of things you do at family reunions of large (over 450), far-flung clans. You know, gorge on potluck food, play "guess the name" and "show off the [grand]kids", catch up on who's doing whatnot, etc.

Most of my observations are of no interest to anyone outside that particular circle.

But: there is one thing.

The singing.

I forget, and then I return to another Frey reunion. The singing. A number from The Mennonite Hymnal, a title, and a starting note from a pitchpipe or a piano ... and a cappella harmony emerges. From memory this year -- other years there have been copies of the hymnal available, this year I saw barely two or three. But the songs (in 4-part harmony) were still there.

The older generations (my father's and grandfather's) know the songs, that is. My generation (and younger) do not, for the most part. I know some of the melodies, and a very few of the harmonies. I usually can pull it off if I have the music or can key into a strong voice to follow.

Some of this is probably due to increasing religious diversity as the generations go forward -- the family is no longer uniformly Mennonite, no longer shaped by the same church, worship, and music. But this can not be the whole of it. One of the best singers of these hymns is my great-uncle Charles, who is not Mennonite, but a retired Presbyterian minister. I manage as well as I do, and I haven't been a Mennonite for decades. Younger men and women who I know are cradle Mennonites look about uncomfortably and don't join in the songs of their birthright. So it appears that the break is generational, not denominational.

I realized later the parallel to what I felt hearing the music again, and not knowing how many more years it has left. I understood how Frodo and Sam must have felt, hearing elvensong passing in the night, being pierced by its beauty yet saddened by the knowledge that this ancient melody is passing out of Middle-earth even as they heard it.

Then Elrond and Galadriel rode on; for the Third Age was over, and the Days of the Rings were passed, and an end was come of the story and song of those times. With them went many Elves of the High Kindred who would no longer stay in Middle-earth; and among them, filled with a sadness that was yet blessed and without bitterness, rode Sam, and Frodo, and Bilbo ...

Courage! Battles may be lost, but Mordor shall never triumph.