Who keeps vigil with no candle

My friend Leona Dueck Penner sent me an email note with the following poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, this in response to the post, “Through the unremarkable, beautiful gate.” It’s wonderful and I want to share it with you too.
The blessing of  earth
God, every night is hard.
Always there are some awake,
who turn, turn, and do not find you.
Don’t you hear them crying out
as they go farther and farther down?
Surely you hear them weep; for they are weeping.
I seek you, because they are passing
right by my door. Whom should I turn to,
if not the one whose darkness
is darker than night, the only one
who keeps vigil with no candle,
and is not afraid—
the deep one, whose being I trust,
for it breaks through the earth into trees
and rises,
when I bow my head,
faint as a fragrance
from the soil.
-Rainer Maria Rilke, From The Book of Hours II, 3

Alzheimer’s, courage, and rhubarb: link notes

On getting Alzheimer’s… I resonate with Margaret Morganroth Gullette’s hopes in “Our Irrational Fear of Forgetting” that we make “cognition-related fear-mongering shameful and rare” but also with Alan Jacob’s response that perhaps fearing losses associated with Alzheimer’s disease isn’t as irrational as she suggests. (I also liked the comments at Jacob’s post and the further link to “The Human Face of Alzheimer’s.”)

I confess to anxiety around Alzheimer’s/dementia, which rises in me particularly when words and names go missing or I forget to do something obvious. In reading these articles and reflecting on my fear of getting the disease, it occurs to me that a big part of it concerns what my children may go through should it happen to me. And that, in turn, grows out of my experiences around my late father’s Alzheimer’s and the process I’m living now with my mother’s decline — milder than his so far, but significant cognitive decline nevertheless — and the way it changes, well, everything! I’m not navigating these things as smoothly as I wish, so I project that forward to what my children may encounter, IF… Ever the mother, I suppose. (Even though, as they say, the kids will be fine!)

Brave woman… Rachel Held Evans took on Mark Driscoll, and it did some good, at least she’s graciously taking it that way. But wouldn’t it be nice to have fewer flippant comments, fewer explanations, and some “real man” changes in his attitude?

Oh, just take a break and read fiction instead… Short shorts, if you like, four of mine, over at Rhubarb magazine. Or bake a rhubarb pie. Which I certainly would, if my oven hadn’t crashed on me, that is. Repair guy said they don’t make the broken part any more. “Go shopping,” he said, sounding way too gleeful. Links to appliance places next; sigh.

Through the unremarkable, beautiful gate

Twice this past week I’ve been drawn to St. Benedict’s, a short drive from my home, to walk and pray the labyrinth there. Both times I found myself completely alone, basking in the quiet and in the use of this simple prayer tool cut into the grass. It’s a little dry now, because of the current heat wave, but still dotted with tiny white clover. There’s one large tree at the edge of the labyrinth and others further back and all of them carry the sound of the wind when it blows.

Once it was “help” and “please” all the way into the heart of it, and “thank you” on the way out. The next time it was slowing down to become aware of God’s presence, and the images that kept coming to me concerned Following: a cloud, a fire,  a shield, the cross, and Christ.

The gate into the labyrinth is simple. Unremarkable, really. It marks a place to start and to finish. It’s a measurement of time — the time to pray and listen. Unremarkable, but somehow beautiful too, in the way that a good invitation can feel so wondrous to our spirits. Jesus spoke of himself as a gate, and seeing this one, I can’t help but think of his call:

Come to me, all that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  (Matthew 11:28-29)