Today we celebrate the transition of "Caution: Poetry at Work." This year it will be the creation of Kyhl Lyndgaard and the tutors who make up the Writing Centers at Saint Ben's and Saint John's. Karen Erickson and I are delighted that Kyhl and his tutors will give the new light of their creativity to this site, devoted to the good work of reading and writing poetry. We're also pleased that they asked each of us to write one last poem to inaugurate the second year.
Speaking of transitions, some of you may have been lucky enough to witness the total eclipse of the sun on August 21, 2017. An eclipse is a spectacular transition from light to darkness and back to light, as the moon follows its leisurely orbit between Earth and sun. The moon's shadow gradually blocks out the sun's light until even a cloudless day turns into a moonless, starless night. As the moon continues in its path, oblivious of the awestruck watchers on Earth, light and warmth gradually reappear, as if it were the first day of creation.
In truth, this transition from light to darkness to light happens every evening and every morning without fail. But it might take an eclipse to make us notice this ordinary miracle and learn to love both day and night, darkness and light. In Salzburg, Austria, a total eclipse happened in 1999. When the light returned, instead of hearing a Mozart tune there in Mozart's birthplace, the visitors heard Louis Armstrong singing "What a Wonderful World" in praise of "the bright blessed day [and] the dark sacred night."
All transitions are, at least at the beginning, movement from light to the darkness of the unknown, untried - birth, the first month of college, new parenthood, the beginning of a new job, the transition from vigorous health to fragility. My poem this week celebrates "the dazzling darkness" life asks us to embrace.
In the Dazzling Dark
There is in God--some say--
A deep but dazzling darkness. . . .
In the deep but dazzling darkness
swim big-eyed fish in ocean caves no light has ever reached.
And all the shy animals at home only in darkness:
bats asleep in caves during the day, floating silently alive at night,
guided by unerring radar,
black panthers with green eyes;
And owls calling "Who? Who?" Listening, gazing into the dark, we ask the questions
that sleep during the day but rise up on strong wings at night: "Who am I?" "Who is my
neighbor?" "Who, oh who, are you my God?"
In dark Earth the roots of ancient sequoias secretly reach out and clasp the long-
fingered roots of neighboring trees, sharing food, helping each other stay alive through
drought and fire, steadying the ground they need to grow.
In the glare of endless day, stars, dreams, and fireflies flicker out and fade.
They're at home only in the velvet black of night.
So too the parts of each of us that find shelter in darkness-
fears, dreams, hopes, sorrows, gladness too fragile and shy to bear the light of day.
Only in the dark do we know ourselves, purely and without distraction.
In the pulsing darkness of the hive, bees are making honey and the wax for Easter
candles that need chapel darkness to glow,
as imagination glows in the dark hives of our brains.
In the darkness of our mother's womb God knits each of us into an intricate pattern,
then knits us into herself. For nine months babies, their eyes sealed shut, navigate by
touch, smell, and sound in that blood-rich darkness before they swim toward light
and all its blooming wonders
The deep but dazzling darkness of God is a womb in whose shelter lives all that was, is,
and still might be-
deep space where God is creating new worlds, new wonders.
The future, the moment after this one, intensely alive but still and always in shadow.
In the deep but dazzling darkness of God is the ocean of faith, the darkest virtue,
where we trade certainty for possibility.
When we dare go into our undiscovered selves
our roots grow toward each other, entwining, feeding, supporting, like ancient trees.
And we grow together toward God, who at every moment, is growing deep
underground toward us, leading us to unfathomable reaches of justice, mercy, and joy.
--Mara Faulkner, OSB
Invitation for your writing:
Think of a time when you made an abrupt transition from light to darkness (such as entering a bat cave) or from darkness to light (such as waking up to a bright light shining in your eyes.) Try to describe the experience. With sight all but useless, did your other senses take up the work of sensing? As you write, see if this experience becomes a metaphor for transitions in feelings, thoughts, or insights.