On September Spaces

Does space surround us, or is it through us? Not only universal space, worlds exploding, fragmenting, flaming, but local space as well. The spirit of the person meets the spirit of place, the genius loci. Sometimes it’s not who you are but where you are.

September spaces may be places of safety, places of sense. True spaces appointing the seasons, not truth as an arm of power. Not space as a stage for violence.  Breathing spaces, breathing as a privilege. Sacred spaces, cathedrals and landscapes, seas and skies. Holy spirits.

But the past is not past, fragments are everywhere.

Haunted spaces, that hosted scenes of desperation, inspiration, adoration, abuse, conflict, obliteration, loss. Inhabited by people you knew, now at their eternal rest, spaces negligent and void. New inhabitants. New stories, new conversions, new myths. Space for the crimes of this age.

The genius walks with you; we call her the guardian angel. Given by your ancestors, whatever you think of them now. Ask yourself, anywhere, what is my role in this space? Building, interpreting, extending, imploding, ascending. Find out where you are. Who am I in this place? Here as a witness, here to engage, here in God’s liminal space. 

On August Assumptions

 

Where do you stand right now? What do you assume to be true (does that word still have meaning?). What do you assume to yourself:  responsibility, authority, guilt? What to assume in August?

It has this double significance, you see. There’s assuming the faith of certain sources, a very ancient understanding. There’s assuming the trust that others should have in you. Do you trust yourself, though?

Looking around the world is a painful process, with the earth itself unstable, unable to be comprehended. Earth, air, fire, and water corrupted to unknowable ways. Human agency, deployed in wars, invasions, crimes, and fraud.  We stand in Dante’s dark wood, facing the assaults of violence and greed.

Can we assume that anyone will bail us out? Must we assume the task ourselves? What is called for? To cease oppressing — everyone — to stop assuming we know what’s best everywhere. To bring about the liberation of the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind. Even to find the right words — often no words — to preach good news to the weak, among whom we are included. So read Jesus, in a time of Imperial domination, when the truth is not in us.

On July Habitations

 

July in the Southern Hemisphere: the centre of winter. Weather inhabits the great outdoors. Indoors, a metaphor, a habitation, and a house. January is named for Janus, god of doors, facing both old year and new; July, called after the assassinated Julius Caesar, faces back into the former future that became the past so quickly, and forward into the present future sliding seamlessly into the past, every day.

Home is a where. The body is also a habitation and a house. At home in the body opens space for the soul, that is, where Jesus is at home when we’re at home in him. At home with someone who knows who and where we are, more than we know ourselves. Without our habitation, are we anywhere?

Habiting with neighbours. A gathering, community, or company who profess to know each other in a certain space. Walking together through the same doors of time, however evenly or otherwise the space may intersect. At home among us is as much on earth as it is in heaven. At least, refrain from the harms you hate yourselves, for home is free of fear. Rest, hope, love bringing you home. A habitation in the heart.

On June Intentions

June, the month of youth, of weddings and families and beginnings.  Intentions, purposes, goals. There’s what you intend, and there’s what actually happens. Closely tied to the reason it is done. Be clear about your intentions, confusion serves no one.

Good intentions famously pave the road to hell. But what’s a good intention, that leads to such a bad end? If good is beneficial, who benefits? If good is moral, who decides? If good is excellent, or superior, who fails? Whole projects of domination, expropriation, colonisation, extinction have been called good.

The wrongs of today are the wrongs of yesterday. Planted in the fields of regrets, harvested in times of too late.  Are the children causing the problems or are the problems causing the children? There are three stages: Intent. Process. Result. Intent interrogated: is it just, moderate, wise, or brave? Result interrogated: justice returns to everything that which belongs to it. Is it just? Moderation balances, courage perseveres, wisdom discerns. How to reach a good result?

In June, we celebrate the loving spontaneity of youth, the loving embrace of family, the love that links intentions and results. Here is the process. Without love, saith the Apostle, I am nothing. 

On the May

 

To speak of the May is to speak of the seasons. The stars, including the Sun, enact their performances without reference to humanity, yet our cycles chime the turnings of earth and planets with religious attention.

Eve of May, like All Hallows’ Eve, is a point of transition, a doorway. All Saints Day follows  the attempt of the powers of evil to bar the entrance to Allhallowtide, remembrance of the dead, the ancestors. Traditionally in the North, on May Eve the same powers try to hold back the flowering of warmth and growth. What then of the South?

What does it mean to live on ancient land, with different plants, different stars, even different ancestors? On May Eve, is it the sinister powers of ignorance, greed and fear that try to hold back the flowering of understanding and grace, the confession of our manifold sins against the nature of place?  Spring becomes autumn, a time of reflection. As we walk over someone else’s land, we in Australia owe honesty and courtesy to our (however involuntary) hosts, as to country itself. To ourselves we owe humility, entering May knowing we do not know, becoming as little children, as Our Lord requires.

On Drawing Poetry

 

The Lent Project is more reflection than penance, but continually faces me with my limitations. My messy desk. Blots on paper. The wrong brushes. Measurements, and how not to take them. Mixing styles: a bad idea. Finding out this is a bad idea. Not waiting for the paint to dry: so impatient. Ink and watercolours in a book so any mistakes stay around to be regretted. Just gotta live with it.  A lot like life.

Do I have the time to do this today? Where can I make the time? Am I pushing time? Should I have done this yesterday? Sure. What thing has to go elsewhere, even out, so I can find the time? Is time not it, but he, as the Mad Hatter proposes? Where is he? Hiding? Asleep? In another reality? Is Time but a feckless child?

The moment you engage with poetry you are faced with its intellectual quality. Poetry is one language, drawing another. Words and images have to speak to one another. Some lines, even the most descriptive, are abstract. Faced with the abstraction of all words. What’s beneath, behind, within words? Searching the words of poets to find the image beyond all words.

On Chorus Call

 

Fake facts are not new. The Greek tragedies hinge on them. The gods are by no means predisposed to overlook them. Confronted by catastrophe, Chorus knows that every one shall be afflicted by the resulting fall.

Who believed history tucked safely into the past? Catastrophe overturns the existing order; fatal reversal. Chorus hears it in the death of Agamemnon: “Anyone can see it, by these first steps they have taken, they purpose to be tyrants here upon our city.”[i]  Chorus foresees, inquires, fears, recounts, witnesses, prophecies. “Where shall I turn the brain’s activity in speed when the house is falling?”

Jesus, also, faces his followers as prophet. In Wycliff’s translation: “Moreover when ye se the abominable desolacion, whereof is spoken by Daniel the prophet, stond where it ought nott, let hym that readeth it, understonde it.” (Mark 13:14) What is standing in the wrong place now?  Your role is Chorus: stay awake.  Meanwhile the disciples are absorbed by the problem of who is worthy.

You still have a spiritual life. What is the state of your soul? The great and troubling mysteries of Lent and Holy Week are before us. (Let whoever reads understand).

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[i]Aeschylus, Agamemnon, tr. Richard Lattimore.