Agape Love and the Great Blue
The sky outside my window is covered in a layer of white clouds, the kind you see swirled onto a painting with light strokes, perhaps a bit of grey on the brush mixed with the white. A promise of blue peeks from underneath, and I choose to keep my eyes on it and invite the new day to come -- another merciful gift of a fresh start. A new day with no mistakes in it.
Reading about Agape love-- unconditional, two-sided, freeing and other-centered love--my heart opens and my prayers pour forth into the morning. Soon enough, my coffee cup is empty and I am drawn, on my short walk to refill it, to a book of poems.
I open, randomly, to Mary Oliver’s “Blue Heron,” and having just had a truly marvelous encounter with nesting blues myself, I read.
Inwardly, I shift to my recent hike, a friend at my side, her camera bouncing against her leg as she walked. Coming upon the marsh we quieted as though entering a church. It felt right to be silent. Our minds, bodies, and souls crept forward to sit in the front, a large boulder our pew. Soon, the gentle ripples of the wind on the water made music, and slowly, in our stillness, we were treated to other gifts of creation. I could feel Elohim around and in me, and my spirit trilled along with the birds I spied flitting from tree to tree.
Counting five large nests in the dead or dying trees, some resting at the very top and others perched below on the still strong arms of what was once a magnificent forest, my eyes searched for the owners, but were not strong enough to see.
My friend brought the camera up to her eyes, and through the powerful lens, she spotted a female heron sitting upon her nest. She showed me the picture. Because I could not detect it with my own power, my awe was magnified. The great blue was there above, just the same, resting and watching, protecting her young.
As dusk descended, her mate returned. A great presence filled the air as he flew toward her. His wings stretched out wide, shadowing the nest before he landed, his pointed, strong beak full of offering. Presenting his mate with the twigs he had foraged, she got to work weaving them. They worked together, naturally. I could see him without the camera, standing tall, on the edge of the nest over her, before he flew away again.
In the poem, Mary Oliver describes the ease of the heron as he feeds, plucking frogs and flinging them upward in just such a way that they easily slide down the “long throat.” She goes on to ask a question, but first, admitting unfamiliarity, she confesses:
I don’t know
about God,
Who can know the mysterious ways of God? I look upward and one of my favorite verses comes to mind, Psalm 91:1: “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” I think of the heron’s wings, overstretching the nest. I picture myself as the small chick; trusting, and protected, hidden in the shadow. Nature is a good teacher, I remind myself.
But didn’t Jesus say:
“This is my body,”
In the next stanza Oliver refers to the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 26, verse 26: “While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “‘Take and eat; this is my body.’” Jesus was getting ready to be the atoning sacrifice; paving the way to heaven. It was the Last Supper--you’ve seen the painting. The bread was eaten and the wine swallowed as a reminder of what he was about to do, and the significance of it.
I invite my mind to open and grasp the significance. I feel the presence of the seen, and the unseen. An eager expectation for the unfathomable beauty of heaven makes me wish I had a telephoto lens that would show me the colors and flowers and wonders to come. Instead, I open my heart to the promises revealed to me today through this breathtaking view of nature at work before me.
meaning, the bread--
and meaning, also,
the things of this world?’
The bread I make at home from scratch invokes tradition. I am an artist who has purchased her tools from other artists, those whose work has yielded the yeast and flour and salt that I have chosen from the grocery store shelves. The loaf I eventually take from my oven-- risen, warm and fragrant--is a masterpiece that has taken many hands besides my own to create. The bread is an icon of community coming together in communion, in sharing. We understand that this petition in The Lord’s Prayer for our “daily bread” is vast. The provision we receive is much more than the bread we devour fresh from the oven, it is a spiritual sustenance, as well.
This isn’t really
a question.
Sitting in the stillness, I ponder this question that “isn’t really a question,” seeking answers from Elohim, the creator of the universe. So often I use my own intellect to solve riddles like this one. I am reminded now, through the Great Blue and his simple following of the laws of nature, of the possibility of the simplicity of my own following, should I choose to take that route. To choose to have the Creator of the universe be my authority makes my life simpler, easier. I don’t need to know the answer, or whether or not the question is even a question.
It is the hard
and terrible truth
Reaching for my coffee cup, I take a sip, and cringe. Hard and terrible. Sighing, I put the poem down for a moment, feeling a heaviness descend. Life can seem that way. I search for a moment then pick up the bible and read Matthew 11:28-30: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, 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. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” My mood lifts.
we live with,
feeding ourselves
every day.
I love the idea of the heron quietly soaking in the water before lifting in flight to care for and feed others--in this case, the mate and their offspring. It is in this soaking, this receiving through stillness, that the invisible qualities of Elohim can be clearly seen from what has been made. Like a tired out dry sponge, when we receive, we become saturated and flexible. John, one of the Apostles, said that Jesus is our living water in John 7:37-39: “On the last day, the climax of the festival, Jesus stood and shouted to the crowds, “Anyone who is thirsty may come to me! Anyone who believes in me may come and drink! For the Scriptures declare, ‘Rivers of living water will flow from his heart.’”
By accepting Jesus’ offer of refreshment, we become so fully hydrated that our hearts burst with joy. In turn, it is natural to rinse out our joy onto others with this beautiful gift of unconditional, two-sided, freeing and other-centered love.
The bird
stared again into the water,
and dashed forward a little,
and stabbed
and swallowed,
The bird stared again. Again, and again, and again. Multiple times each and every day.
Out of this overflow, this river of living water that we have tapped into, this Christ, which we have “stared” into, we are able to “dash forward” to begin a fresh day full of new mercies, “stabbing” all those we find along our path with the sword of the Spirit of grace, and “swallowing” the daily bread of joy, and peace.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the male return again to the nest. The female blue lifted her beak to the male’s to be fed. Several times he touched his beak to hers. She received the offering. Renewed, I saw her hop to the edge of the nest. The male nestled down in her place. She flexed her wings in preparation for flight. I thought of Mary’s description of the bird:
shining,
like a blue rose.
Rested, fed and standing tall, she absolutely was shining like a blue rose, in the last rays of twilight.
Smiling, I whispered, “Amen.”