Poet Barbara Crooker writes of the every day miracles and blessings, in “All That Is Glorious Around Us,” from her book Radiance:

All That Is Glorious Around Us
(title of an exhibit on The Hudson River School)

by Barbara Crooker

is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a café warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,
watching the red and gold leaves race down the street,
confetti from autumn’s bright parade. And I think
of how my mother struggles to breathe, how few good days
she has now, how we never think about the glories
of breath, oxygen cascading down our throats to the lungs,
simple as the journey of water over a rock. It is the nature
of stone / to be satisfied / writes Mary Oliver, It is the nature
of water / to want to be somewhere else, rushing down
a rocky tor or high escarpment, the panoramic landscape
boundless behind it. But everything glorious is around
us already: black and blue graffiti shining in the rain’s
bright glaze, the small rainbows of oil on the pavement,
where the last car to park has left its mark on the glistening
street, this radiant world.

Source: “All That Is Glorious Around Us (title of an exhibit on The Hudson River School)” by Barbara Crooker, from Radiance, as published by the Writer’s Alamanac on February 10, 2008.

One of the beauties of Unitarian Universalism is that we draw inspiration and wisdom from so many sources, among them direct experience of transcending mystery and wonder, and another the words and deeds of prophetic women and men. So, I’ll be branching out a bit more as I select material for this website, to include more of these kinds of things, as well as writings from our own members and leaders.

It seems that when life gets busy, it gets harder and harder to take a moment to hold still and really look at the people around us, particularly children who seem to never stop moving and growing. This poem by Elizabeth Spires from her book Now the Green Blade Rises, featured by the Writer’s Almanac on May 25, 2007, helps me to focus, for just a fleeting moment, on what enormity there really is in this journey of life.

“The Faces of Children”

by Elizabeth Spires

Meeting old friends after a long time, we see
with surprise how they have changed, and must imagine,
despite the mirror’s lies, that change is upon us, too.

Once, in our twenties, we thought we would never die.
Now, as one thoughtlessly shuffles a deck of cards,
we have run through half our lives.

The afternoon has vanished, the evening changing
us into four shadows mildly talking on a porch.
And as we talk, we listen to the children play
the games that we played once. In joy and terror,
they cry out in surprise as the seeker finds the one in hiding,
or in fairytale tableau, each one is tapped and turned

to stone. The lawn is full of breathing statues who wait
to be changed back again, and we can do nothing but stand
to one side of our children’s games, our children’s lives.

We are the conjurors who take away all pain,
and we are the ones who cannot take away the pain at all.
They do not ask, as lately we have asked ourselves,

Who was I then? And what must I become?
Like newly minted coins, their faces catch
the evening’s radiance. They are so sure of us,

more sure than we are of ourselves. Our children:
who gently push us toward the end of our own lives.
The future beckons brightly. They trust us to lead them there.

Source: “The Faces of Children” by Elizabeth Spires from her book Now the Green Blade Rises, featured by the Writer’s Almanac on May 25, 2007.

This poem by Marge Piercy exquisitely expresses the longing for Spring that many of us feel at this time of year.

Ms. Piercy has written many poems that are used in Unitarian Universalist worship services, and she has written some specifically for this use, in her words, “poetry intended for public performance by people who are not poets.”

Winter Promises

by Marge Piercy

Tomatoes rosy as perfect baby’s buttocks,
eggplants glossy as waxed fenders,
purple neon flawless glistening
peppers, pole beans fecund and fast
growing as Jack’s Viagra-sped stalk,
big as truck tire zinnias that mildew
will never wilt, roses weighing down
a bush never touched by black spot,
brave little fruit trees shouldering up
their spotless ornaments of glass fruit:

I lie on the couch under a blanket
of seed catalogs ordering far
too much. Sleet slides down
the windows, a wind edged
with ice knifes through every crack.
Lie to me, sweet garden-mongers:
I want to believe every promise,
to trust in five pound tomatoes
and dahlias brighter than the sun
that was eaten by frost last week.

Source: “Winter Promises” by Marge Piercy.

Today is the shortest day of the year, the Winter Solstice. Many Unitarian Universalists celebrate this holiday either in conjunction with Christmas or in place of it, and many UU churches hold rituals or services today as well.

Beloved author Susan Cooper, while not a Unitarian Universalist, has written a poem used by many revels programs and in UU churches in celebration of this day.

The Shortest Day

by Susan Cooper

So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive,
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - Listen!!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, fest, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!!

Source: “The Shortest Day” by Susan Cooper

The days grow shorter and shorter, and so a reflection on the Darkness seems appropriate.

Poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was raised by Unitarian parents and strongly influenced by Unitarian minister Ralph Waldo Emerson, among other like-minded individuals, and so is often claimed as a Unitarian Universalist. Her poems are used in many modern Unitarian Universalist churches, and this one is particularly apropos at this time of year.

419

by Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark –
When light is put away –
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye –

A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night –
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark –
And meet the Road — erect –

And so of larger — Darkness –
Those Evenings of the Brain –
When not a Moon disclose a sign –
Or Star — come out — within –

The Bravest — grope a little –
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead –
But as they learn to see –

Either the Darkness alters –
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight –
And Life steps almost straight.

Source: Poem 419 by Emily Dickinson, via Google Books, Emily Dickinson, selected poems, pg 57.

A poem today from May Sarton (May 3, 1912-July 16, 1995), who may never have joined a Unitarian Universalist church, but did walk in our circles. She gave the 1982 Ware Lecture at General Assembly, and was awarded an honorary degree from Starr King School for the Ministry, one of two Unitarian Universalist seminaries.

This poem speaks to me about the finding of a place to belong, the way I felt when I first joined the First Unitarian Society of Milwaukee. Enjoy.

Now Voyager

by May Sarton

Now voyager, lay here your dazzled head.
Come back to earth from air, be nourished,
Not with that light on light, but with this bread.
Here close to earth be cherished, mortal heart,
Hold your way deep as roots push rocks apart
To bring the spurt of green up from the dark.
Where music thundered let the mind be still,
Where the will triumphed let there be no will,
What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.
Here close to earth the deeper pulse is stirred,
Here where no wings rush and no sudden bird,
But only heart-beat upon beat is heard.
Here let the fiery burden be all spilled,
The passionate voice at last be calmed and stilled
And the long yearning of the blood fulfilled.
Now voyager, come home, come home to rest,
Here on the long-lost country of earth’s breast
Lay down the fiery vision, and be blest, be blest.

Source: “Now Voyager,” by poet May Sarton (May 3, 1912-July 16, 1995)

Today, words from the poet John Albert Holmes, Jr (January 6, 1904-June 22, 1962). A prolific writer, he penned seven volumes of poems and the texts to two of the hymns found in Singing the Living Tradition, #11 “O God of Stars and Sunlight,” and #164 “The Peace Not Past Our Understanding.”

In his Address to the Living (1937), as quoted by the Dictionary of Unitarian and Universalist Biography, John Holmes wrote:

“We live, we are elected now by time,
Few out of many not yet come to birth,
And many dead, to use the daylight now,
To stand up under the sun upon the earth.
Then break the silence with a voice of praise;
Open the door that opens toward the sky;
Press mind and body hard against this world,
Before we fall asleep, before we die.”

And in 1950, in The Double Root, he wrote this lovely poem, as quoted by The Harvard Square Library’s “Notable American Unitarians.” Enjoy.

The Double Root

by John Albert Holmes, Jr.

Ready with meaning in the pulpit of today,
This morning on my face, and both hands light,
the book before me and the ritual bright,
I wonder how in God’s name I can say
In any church to anyone of my kind
Gathered and hushed and willing for the word,
The Tree. The Tree’s law. The truth I heard
When I was dark, a root, and deep and blind.

But you are near me, You are my people. You
Know what it is to sodden a season through.
How should I lead you, though you charge me to?
Yet listen to me. I have learned a thing to do.

We grow, we grope with a few unfolding leaves
Upward and opening toward the sun — the sun
that draws whatever green we are, and drives
Roots opening downward toward the single source,
Sun under, sun over earth, one law, one force.

Be in your earth, and there will be well begun.
Climb in the dark. All ground is open door
To the open sky. Break through, reach up the air
To air above, and there green yourself round
Planets, as roots on deep-struck rock are wound.
Grown tree; boughs big; under leaf fruit found.

Source: “The Double Root,” from the poetry collection of the same name by John Albert Holmes, Jr, as quoted by The Harvard Square Library’s “Notable American Unitarians.”

We delve back into history today, with words from Universalist preacher Hosea Ballou (April 30, 1771-June 7, 1852). This little gem can be found in his book, A Voice to Universalists, from 1849, which I found through a great list of Google-digitized books hosted by Scott Wells.

Remembering that the text dates to 1849, you may want to substitute gender- and deity-neutral language.

The Unity of the Spirit

by Hosea Ballou, from A Voice to Universalists, 1849

And why do Christians thus contend
  For items in their creeds?
An enemy, and not a friend,
  Sows these contentious seeds.
‘Twas love to God and love to man,
  The dear Redeemer brought;
No metaphysic doctrine can
  Compare with what he taught.
Why do we judge each other so?
  This judging genders strife;
It is enough our Lord to know,
  And feel his heavenly life.
What if my brother disagrees
  With me in certain things;
Yet strives by works of love to please,
  And fruit abundant brings?
Shall I disown a brother dear,
  For whom my Saviour died?
Can I be rilled with gospel fear,
  And walk in all this pride?
O may we learn to walk in love,
  In charity abound;
Possess those tempers of the dove,
  Which rather heal than wound.

Source: “The Unity of the Spirit,” from A Voice to Universalists, 1849, by Hosea Ballou

Today we continue with Rev. Dr. Laurel Hallman, Senior Minister at the First Unitarian Church of Dallas, Texas, and her fantastic Berry Street Essay from 2003, “Images for Our Lives.” Part one can be found here.

In this segment, Rev. Hallman references two poems — First Lesson, by Philip Booth, and The Rowing Endeth, by Anne Sexton. Because of copyright issues, the poems are not printed in their entirety in the essay, though links to the full texts are provided.

Come back Monday for the conclusion!

“Images for Our Lives”

by Rev. Laurel Hallman, Senior Minister, First Unitarian Church of Dallas, Berry Street Essay, 2003, part 2 of 3

I recently spoke to our Adult Sunday School Class in Dallas on the topic “Why I am not a Theist”. They packed the room to hear what I had to say, because of course they thought I was. Why did they think I was a Theist? Because I use the word God. Because I pray in the midst of the worship service. I was embarrassed a bit myself, to find that I had failed to make the distinction that the use of metaphors and poetry and scripture has to do with religious imagination, and not with one theological category or another. We had a lively and productive discussion that day, as I spoke, as I am today, about religious language, and how it communicates the depths of experience, and that it isn’t always what it seems.

I remember years ago, when the Principles and Purposes were being formulated in meetings all across our continent, Peter Fleck, of beloved memory, who was on the committee to synthesize those formulations—Peter Fleck said that he had noticed a curious thing. When he asked individual UUs where they stood theologically, he said, “They would juxtapose two seemingly opposite theological categories together. Like Christian-Humanist, or Agnostic-Christian, or Rational-Mystic refusing to align themselves with one distinct theology.” Peter was puzzled by this.

I now think it was the beginning of our attempts to extricate ourselves from the hard theological boundaries within which we had closed ourselves off from one another and from our experience of religious imagination, and deep reality.

(Read on … )

I’m cheating a little bit today, since I can neither confirm nor deny that poet Eleanor Lerman is a Unitarian Universalist. But this poem is something that just sticks with me, and I think you’ll enjoy it, too. I found it most recently through the Writer’s Almanac.

Starfish

by Eleanor Lerman

This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?

Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.

And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life’s way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won’t give you smart or brave,
so you’ll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.

Source: “Starfish,” by poet Eleanor Lerman, by way of the Writer’s Almanac for July 25, 2007.