183. Christmas Sestina

—

he is here again — baby Jesus

Bethlehem roads full of crowds

shepherds seeing light

in skies beckoning wisdom and gifts

and Mary’s eyes hold mystery

as her life turns a challenging way

—

fog shrouds the way

of what he means — this Jesus

but in his youthful eyes the mystery

befuddles parents stressed by crowded

times of seeing his strange gifts

peek through in times of light

—

and as he walks, the light

goes with him as he lays out a new way

filled with welcome as a gift

of love from Jesus

and those excluded start to make a crowd

as they feel the magnet of his mystery

—

how do we capture it — this mystery

how do we claim it — this light

do we separate from tradition’s crowd

to walk a lonelier way

with this man Jesus

as he offers gifts

—

do we give ourselves and from him receive gifts

that make our very lives mysterious

with knowing this one Jesus

with walking in the light

with following in the way

regardless of the crowd

—

and do we beckon that same crowd

to join in cherishing the gifts

do we with our own lives walk in the way

and feel inside that same mystery

of being the lampstand light

that he challenged us to be — this Jesus

—

we celebrate you Jesus, announce you to the crowd

we are the light, unwrap the gifts

that show the mystery and love of Bethlehem’s way

—

© Copyright 2007 by Ann Freeman Price

—

I love finding a poem that I wrote five years ago. Sometimes I can barely remember writing it, but I do recall that I was captivated by writing a sestina about Christmas. Have you ever written a sestina? I got totally engaged in it.

First you find six words to end the lines of the six-verse poem—six words that you can find ways to use over and over again. And then you notice the pattern. You set it in the first verse. And then in the second verse you end the lines with what was line 6, 1, 5, 2, 4, 3. Check it out. It happens that way with every verse—you just look at the word endings of the verse ahead of it and write them down for the next verse—just the endings and then create a line to go with it.

In the very last verse which is three lines, the same system is still used, for in the middle of the first line is the word ending line 6 in the verse before. Then at the end of that first line is the word ending line 1 in the verse before. In the second line of the last verse you use the word ending line 5 in the verse before, and at the end of the second line you use the word ending line 2. And in the last line of the poem in the middle of the line you use the word ending line 4 of the verse before and the last word of the poem is the word ending line 3 of the verse before. I think with this sestina I wrote the first verse, and then for the other verses I just drew on the paper six lines over and over and wrote in the last words, according to the pattern above. Try it! It’s amazing!

182. Legend or True?

How about the candy canes? Have you heard the story?

It is told that in 1642 when Oliver Cromwell and the Puritans came into power, they curtailed the celebrations of Christmas. Sort of thought they were too commercialized.

But there’s always someone who can’t deal with the new rule and this time it was a candy-maker. He was Christian and decided to create what would look like a piece of candy—red and white. But it would have an underlying meaning. Shape of a shepherd’s crook as in Jesus, the Shepherd; and shape of a shepherd’s crook as in those shepherds on the hills that night that heard the angels singing “Gloria!” The candy-maker added three stripes and secretly told people that there were three thin stripes to remind you of the Trinity, and there was one thick stripe to remind you of the life of Jesus. The authorities (according to the legend) never knew that the created candy was religious.

One year soon after I heard about this legend I went to the grocery where there was an entire display of boxes and boxes of candy canes. I carefully started moving them around and then moved others, and then others. The store manager approached me and said, “Can I help you with something?” Just then I had found three boxes of candy canes that miraculously had three thin red stripes and one thick red stripe. I smiled, and said, “I just now found the ones I wanted. They had to have the right kind of stripes.” He looked dubious.

So each year after the third Sunday in Advent, I hang candy canes—all over my apartment. Grandchildren help and we find wonderful, magical places to hang them. Look around where you live—see any spot you can hang a candy cane? or two? or twenty? It will remind you every day of a certain shepherd. But when you’re in the grocery looking for the right combination of stripes, watch out for the manager.

181. Ring Christmas Bells

The third Sunday of Advent often has a theme of Joy and to acknowledge that I hang bells on every door knob so that as I and others go in and out of the doors, the bells ring and remind us of the light of Christmas.

I have several interpretations of bells. One is the one I just mentioned—the light and the joy of the birth. The second is the tradition of the bells story. That old tradition says that Jesus was born at midnight—those moments when there is a minute of the last day, followed by the minute of the next day.

And so we are told that there was an English custom to toll sad and mournful bells from eleven until twelve on Christmas Eve. And then at the stroke of midnight, the bells would change to peal with joy to welcome the Christ.

And the third story of bells has to do with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. His son had been wounded in the Civil War. He brought him back to care for him and on Christmas Day sat down and wrote “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

The verses are here. Read them aloud—listen to the words of the bells finally swinging back and forth in triumph over despair. It’s good for me to remember that it is still true.

—

I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet the words repeat

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

—

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled along th’unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.

—

And in despair I bowed my head:

“There is no peace on earth,” I said,

“For hate is strong and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

—

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep:

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men.”

—

Till ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,

Of peace on earth, good will to men!

—

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

180. Closet Meditation

—

I sat within

the empty closet

to feel the dark

—

dense

black

my eyes strained

to see

—

the space closed in

as the darkness grew

—

I struck one match

lit one candle

and the closet

changed

—

suddenly I knew

what Bethlehem

meant to the

world

—

© Copyright 2012 Ann Freeman Price

—

I actually did this. I went into a closet (an empty one without bunches of clothes hanging that would make lighting a candle a real fire hazard). But I wanted the blackness of the dark. And I sat in that darkness.

And then in that deep darkness, I lit a match. It brightened the space, and then when I used the match to light a candle with it, I could see details in the small closet. I sat, holding the still burning taper, experiencing the difference between total darkness and the light of one candle.

Desmond Tutu from South Africa promised us all that goodness is stronger than evil and that light is stronger than darkness. When the Bethlehem baby grew up, He promised the same thing.

179. A Little Hum and a Quiet Prayer

Today there has been a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut. Children and adults have been killed. And as normal things go on in my life, I cannot help but think how un-normal things are in all of their lives.

As I sit at the computer I look for something to post on this day and I find a story of 17 years ago. I was spending the night at my daughter’s house and after midnight as I was reading in bed, her husband Stephen came and said “Come quickly.” I hurried into the bedroom and found Debbie doubled over in pain and we quickly decided that Stephen needed to take her to the hospital.

Just as they were leaving, Elizabeth, eight months old, woke up and I fixed her a bottle. Debbie and Stephen went on and I sat in Elizabeth’s room, lit only with a night light and rocked her and gave her the bottle. She finished eating and we kept rocking. I was worried about Deb, because I had no idea what was the matter. So as this baby and I rocked, I made up a little prayer song and started to softly sing: “God be with them on this night—oh yes; God be with them on this night—oh yes; God be with them, please be with them; God be with them on this night—oh yes.” Elizabeth’s little eyes watched me as I sang and then in a minute I heard a little hum coming from her.

I’m still singing this same prayer song quietly on this night in 2012 as I think of those in Connecticut. Will you hum with me?

178. Kazoos at the Symphony

Every year the Nashville Symphony Orchestra gave a concert especially for children. In 1964 we went—three children and I, along with hundreds of others.

At the end of the concert, just before the last piece, the conductor turned and faced the audience. He said, “The last piece we are going to play is by a man named John Philip Sousa and it is called Stars and Stripes Forever. I am inviting each one of you children to play with the orchestra.”

There was a stirring throughout the auditorium. He continued to speak: “Now, playing with a symphony orchestra requires practice and that is what we are going to do first. The ushers are going to pass out kazoos to each child, and when you get your kazoo I want you to try it out. You hum into it to make the sound and when you all hum, it will make quite a racket, but that’s how an orchestra sounds when it is tuning up before a concert. We’ll do that now and when I step on the podium and turn to you and raise my baton like this, then I want you each to hold your kazoo in your lap and not play it.”

The ushers started to pass out the kazoos and as soon as children got them, there began to be a pandemonium of kazoo sounds, all different pitches, sounds of children saying, “I can’t make mine work” and mothers demonstrating how. The more kazoos the ushers passed out, the louder the sounds became until that moment when the conductor stepped up on the podium again and raised his baton.

The sound subsided and he spoke again, “Now this is how a symphony orchestra works. I am the conductor. You are the orchestra. When I raise my baton, you hold your instrument ready to play it. When I turn my back on you and face the other orchestra, then you put your kazoo in your lap and you listen.”

He continued, “Now we’ll try that because I want you to hear the melody you need to learn. Remember when I turn my back on you, your kazoo goes in your lap. When I turn and raise my baton, facing you, your kazoo goes in your mouth ready to play. Watch and listen carefully.”

He turned his back and you could hear the soft sounds of kazoos landing in small laps. The orchestra started the familiar refrain of Stars and Stripes Forever. When they finished, the conductor turned facing the audience, holding his baton aloft as children’s hands put their kazoos in their mouths. He said, “Now I want you to play that same melody with this orchestra—both orchestras will play together.” The baton went down, and the combined orchestras began to play, at first with kazoo notes sounding off-key but gradually matching the sounds of the Sousa march. The baton went down as the melody ended. He said, “Let’s have one more practice and then we will play the piece from beginning to end.” The second time was better.

He spoke again. “That was much better. I think you’re ready now to be a real part of the symphony. Your section comes near the end of this piece. The orchestra and I will start it out and you will keep your kazoos in your lap. When it is almost time for you to play I will turn and you can get your kazoos ready and when the baton comes down you will play your melody.”

He turned his back. Kazoos in laps. The Sousa piece began. The children listened, alert, many sitting on the edges of their seats, poised and ready. Finally he turned and noiselessly the kazoos went into mouths. Their melody began as the baton came down and the kazoo orchestra played triumphantly with the symphony, with as clear notes as kazoos can possibly manage.

Applause at the end tumbled excitedly toward the conductor. He turned and applauded his new orchestra. Children and parents hurried onto the streets and out of the auditorium with kazoo versions of Stars and Stripes Forever  tripping over each other.

—

A year passed. Two months before the children’s concert, there was a notice in the Nashville paper that once again, the conductor of the symphony would invite the children to join him in a kazoo version of Sousa’s famous march.

Music stores in Nashville sold out of kazoos as children rushed to practice. The libraries found all copies of Sousa records checked out. Record stores in town had a run on Sousa marches. The children were getting ready for their second performance.

The concert day arrived. Excited children poured into the auditorium with parents. There was an anticipation excitement that ran through the audience as each piece was completed and the ending drew closer and closer.

Finally the moment arrived. Printed on the program was the last piece: Stars and Stripes Forever by John Philip Sousa.

The conductor turned on the podium to face the excited audience. He said, “I have an announcement to make. It seems important for you to know that at a symphony concert, the audience does not play an instrument. Their job is to listen, and you have been good listeners.”

There was a slight stirring in the seats. He continued, “Therefore, you will not be asked to play with the symphony this year, but instead I want you to listen to this final piece.”

He turned and raised his baton for the orchestra. They started. Throughout the piece there was the restless noise of angry children and explaining parents, some whines and stamping feet of a few.

The symphony had made a mistake.

And I figured out that someone had gotten to the conductor and somehow convinced him that if he didn’t stop the kazoo playing that he would be responsible for twenty years from now grown men and women going to symphony concerts with kazoos. I wrote him and told him that he had missed such an opportunity, that those children might never again have the excitement that they had going to that concert and then had it dashed with his announcement. I reassured him that the children there would not continue to take their kazoos to concerts, but that in this instance he was the one who panicked and who made a mistake.

177. Incarnation

God With Me

—

incarnation

God with me

today

yesterday

tomorrow

—

around me

a part of me

within me

—

I breathe differently

when I feel

God within me

—

I move with awareness

when I think of

God in me

—

I speak with consciousness

when I hear God

reverberating within me

—

body

self

and

God with me always

—

incarnation

—

© Copyright 2003 Ann Freeman Price

176. Delights of the Season

From now to then I hear the lament of the commercialization of Christmas. And I respond: “I think the entire season is filled with delight.”

The story tells of a star—–and in this season we suddenly have lights galore.

The story tells of a crowded, jostling Bethlehem—–and the stores and groceries and streets are crowded.

The story tells of high taxes and registering and even then things cost too much—–and in the thrift stores you can find treasures and I watch throughout the year for small surprises.

The story tells of life—new life—–and it is now in the season of Christmas that I revel in all that is around me that is new, and all in the months to come that I can add to the world that is new.

It’s right! There is new life! Gloria!

175. A Child

I came across this saying and smiled to myself as I thought, “Oh—how true, how very true.” It’s another one from Meister Eckhart, and I’ve quoted him before. This time he said: “If I were alone in a desert and feeling afraid, I would like a child with me.”

174. Music Changes the Tightness

I’ve written before about the things that music can do. This is another one.

I was playing the piano in the nursing home. After an hour of both light classical music and popular 20’s and 30’s music, the 86-year-old woman who had been in the nursing home only three weeks motioned to me to come to her.

“I want to tell you what the music does,” she said. I agreed that I would like to hear. She continued. “You see, I did not expect to come here and there is a tightness here.” She put her hand six inches or so below her throat and rubbed her center chest area in a very small circular motion.

“It gets tight here because I hold it in. I do not talk to others about how sad I am. They don’t want to hear that I am upset, so I hold it here and it gets tighter.” She paused as her hand continued to make small circles on her chest. She started speaking again, “And then the music—I sit and listen to the music. Sometimes I sing. Sometimes I just listen, and the tightness starts to change.” She still rubbed the area but starts to breathe differently as she smiles.

“It loosens—the tightness does—and I can breathe in a different way, and it is wonderful. Thank you.”