A Deep River Year
April 16,  2014

 
Fifty years ago one of the most powerful earthquakes in modern history caused massive destruction and loss of life in  Alaska.   It was Good Friday, and when the earth roared and rumbled, collapsing buildings and roads and sending enormous tidal waves throughout the Pacific, there were those who believed that the apocalypse had surely come.    They were reminded of another earthquake that shook the earth during a terrible crucifixion centuries ago.   Omens in the earth and sky have been forever with us.   A comet marked  the assassination of Julius Caesar and the Norman invasion of England.    A lunar eclipse presaged the fall of Constantinople.   And we still feel a primal awe in the face of these cosmic visitors, as if they say to us, “Pay attention!”

This week across North America there was a full lunar eclipse, the first of four "blood moons" that will visit us between now and September of next year.   These eclipses are called "blood moons" because the moon turns a reddish color as it passes into earth's shadow.   At least one conservative preacher is getting some publicity by calling this “tetrad of blood moons” a sign that the world as we know it is about to come to an end.   But the truth is that the world as we know it is always coming to an end.   Countries change governments and cultural norms shift as we sleep.    Technology is changing the way we live so rapidly that we can barely keep up.  Our friends and loved ones age and die, and we will, too.   Life is change. 

Today we awoke to a coating of ice on the ground, even as we went to sleep believing that another winter was over at last.   Monday  we sat outside in the April afternoon and watched a hawk circle overhead.   The forsythia thicket was chattering with sparrows as its first golden bells nodded in the breeze.   Phyllis smiled at the big maple in the front yard and said it looked like the budded tree had flowers in her hair.  Clouds drifted overhead, and suddenly a beautiful sundog glimmered through the tree branches.   This bright bit of rainbow light is a sign, too.   Like the great earthquakes, our little sundog appeared during Holy Week.  It lasted just a moment, and we were lucky to be looking up just then.     Maybe it was reminding us that something holy is going on even in the crux of change.  I believe that is always true.    Rain is coming, the sundog promises.    That is good news for the peas and lettuce newly planted in the garden.  And I think it is good news for all of us who wait expectantly for signs of a  new day.

Smile in the Sky

The world is free-falling,
broken-winged ,
flailing in a crosswind
that bends trees, shakes earth,
turns the taciturn moon to look away.
So, afraid of what we cannot see,
we hold on to little things,
pretend our permanence.
We work the morning puzzle,
take a walk, do laundry, eat an orange.
We look out the window at Spring.
Today the dog lies in the new grass,
smells the change in the air,
rolls to let the sun warm her underside,
sleeps as if all were well.
We wish it so,
feel the flame of sun in the free-fall of the world,
scatter tiny seeds into broken earth
in case the rain comes,
and look up as a ragged piece of rainbow
suddenly smiles
at the edge of this frail day.

--Timothy Haut, April 16 2014