After some consideration, I've decided to take a break from blogging for the month of July. I have an important translation project on my plate that unfortunately is not working on itself, and with August and September just around the corner, I need to get moving before a new sweep of responsibilities rolls in. If SCOTUS or anyone else with extraordinary power makes an outlandish decision over the next month, however, I'll drop in to write about it. In the meantime, my readers remain in my prayers. (If you would like to make a special prayer request, I welcome you as always to click on Aurora Chapel and leave your request there.)
As I awoke this morning from a night of grief-laced sleep, the first three verses of this hymn, whose words were written by Jean Janzen, spilled from me: I sing to you from summers of my heart My voice a field of surge and greening My roots established in the long-lit hours Your presence in the throbbing I sing when fullness burnishes my day The mellow spices of completion The harvest of my life in you which yields A juice of joy and feasting But when in silence nothing rises up Into my soul, and I am frozen When iron days refuse to split and thaw The clutch of ice to flowing I struggled to remember the final verse all morning, till it came to me just now: Then give me faith that warmth will swell the bud to song, which like a leaf will open For from the urgings of your steadfast love There flows my truest singing Easter's Aurora draws near.
I wrote recently about discovering long-buried grief while sharing sacred conversation with my spiritual director. It is amazing to me what can dwell in darkness for years without being uncovered, and then emerge--just a little--through the act of trusting another. Aurora, Homer described, is the rosy-fingered dawn whose light precedes the blazing dayfire of Apollo. She is the first bearer of light, strong and gentle at once. Her light is enough to disperse the darkness, but her light is not so bright that it blinds. I would like to offer sacred space in which trust may dwell and rosy-fingered light may emerge. I invite you to make prayer requests in the Aurora Chapel for whatever dwells hidden in the depths of your heart. Early each morning, I will gather up the requests that have been made in the past day and offer intentions for them during the course of my Benedictine Canon community's prayer. All requests will be held in confidence. What abides so deeply in your heart that you scarcely notice it?