In Search of Light

I was glad to be up early enough to see the sunrise this morning, because it’s the shortest day of the year; we need all the light we can get. Sometimes the darkness goes beyond the physical.

In my capacity as a teacher, I have encountered some truly wonderful literature, books I wouldn’t have read otherwise because my children are too old for them and my granddaughter is too young. I would never have discovered Sharon Creech’s “Love That Dog” (which I later bought for my poetry loving father-in-law)  or Shannon Hale’s “Princess Academy.” I would have missed the ungrammatical and annoying but funny “Junie B. Jones,” and I might have heard of “The Hunger Games” but I surely would have missed the “Gregor the Overlander” series that preceded it. But not all discoveries are happy. I recently encountered a book called “How to Catch an Elf.” I won’t provide a link; that book hurt my heart.

Let me digress: I have always found elves to be creepy. The idea that Santa exploits unpaid labor bothered me when I was younger. The elves in “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” did nothing to alleviate my unease, and more recent phenomenon like Will Farrell’s movie or the “Elf on the Shelf” have made it worse. This book, though, is worse, because it’s geared toward early readers, many of whom know nothing else about Christmas.

The book is narrated by an elf. The verses are sloppy and the content is worse. The premise is that children who wanted to catch Santa have given up and have decided, instead, to capture the elf instead. Children on Santa’s route have devised traps involving tinsel, candy canes, laser beams and an ornament who, the elf reports, “zapped my tushy” with something resembling a branding iron.  It’s not just that it celebrates greed and violence. It’s that this book defines all that, for children, as what Christmas is. And real Christmas has nothing to do with elves.

Christmas is a miracle of light in darkness, teaching man, who didn’t know how to live, how to turn toward God. God shows us how.

When I was learning how to make the Sign of the Cross the Orthodox way, the priest teaching us didn’t understand why we were still going from left to right instead of right to left. Then he realized that he was facing us. Our hands did what we saw, now what he did. “Watch,” he said, “I’ll stand with you.” He came down among us and faced as we did. “I’m holding up my RIGHT hand,” he said. “UP to my forehead, down, but not below my belly button! RIGHT shoulder! Then LEFT shoulder!” That’s when we got it. That’s when we learned what to do.

Christ did something similar, only, better. He came down to live among us, to show us how to live. He came without rank or wealth, without so much as a room at the inn. He lived as a step-sibling and a refugee, an outcast. And He called to himself similar people, the poor, the fishermen, those who were wounded by illness, happenstance, or their own series of bad choices, and showed them how to turn to God in repentance, not just to be healed, but to become a source of healing unto others.

Light among darkness. In the darkest days and the coldest part of the year, we gather together and celebrate Him, with lights and gifts that we give to each other as He gives to us.

In the physical world of my hemisphere, tomorrow will be longer than today, and the next day even longer than that. And in the spiritual realm, each of us can embrace a little more light tomorrow than we did today. We live in hope. We walk in the light. It’s a gift. And we share it.

 

Gifts, Large and Small

Today I am grateful for the gift of not one but two pumpkins.

A friend who comes to church with me asked me if I use pumpkin. I said yes, I use it my vegan beer brownies* and in cakes, in soups and in pies and as a side dish. She pointed to two pumpkins used in her landscaping and asked if I wanted them when she was ready to change decorations.
I said yes, and expected to pick them up the next week.

However, we had a freeze warning.

(I think my friend is 4’10” and north of seventy-five years old.)

Last Sunday she told me she had the pumpkins for me in the garage, and I could get them after church. When she opened the garage door, she led me to a red wheel barrow.. She had stacked them in there; each was the size of a snowman’s base. I have no idea how she managed to lift and wheel them in. “Careful pushing that,” she said as I wheeled it toward my car, “It’s heavy!” And she gave a small smile.

She also gave me two of her aloe vera plants that she’d had in her garden all summer. One will live in the living room, the other in the kitchen.

My brave husband spared my fingers by carving up the first of the pumpkin for me into chunks, and I am cooking them slowly but surely. We had some roasted with nutmeg and butter on Tuesday, and it was delicious, we ate every spoonful. And there will be more. Some for diabetic friendly pumpkin cheesecake, some to mix into chocolate cakes, some to simmer with coconut milk into soups and some to eat like a vegetable.

Sliced pumpkin, covered with a towel, waiting to be roasted. Copyright Ann McLellan Lardas, 2017

We have reached the portion of the year where Winter wishes to overtake Fall. The leaves have turned and faded; many have fallen. The days are shorter, the darkness comes faster and remains deeper.  The only way to fight the darkness is love.

Love is, among other things, someone protecting her enormous pumpkins, for you, from the squirrels and the frost, so you can bake and share it.

I am grateful.

* Beer brownies — in a huge mixing bowl, combine two packages of dairy free brownie mix, one can of pumpkin (14 ounces, or about a cup and a half of home cooked pumpkin), and one twelve ounce bottle of cheap beer. Stir. Spread the mix into two pans according to the direction on the package and bake as directed. Vegan.

Ekphrasis

I was thrilled to be part of  a small cadre of writers asked to write ekphrastic poems or flash fiction about art on display at the Fairfield University Art Museum. Ekphrastic poetry relates to a piece of art — the way it was made, the experience of seeing it, the experience of being in the picture. I had read some and gone to readings by friends, but this was my solo voyage. I chose to write the poem in two parts, the first about the experience of being able to choose a piece about which to write, the second being what happened to me when I saw the sketch.

The exhibit was “Sketching the Landscape: A Plein Air Journal” by artist Michael Gallagher. I was moved by the sketches, and chased down the artist at the opening to ask about his technique. He sketches in charcoal and paints in water color, but he enhances his work with wax — beeswax. candle wax, even crayon — which changes the quality of light in the piece.

In the poem, which I will link to, I describe finding the piece of art that captured me. I wrote about the one that left me breathless. I took a picture, Carey Weber from the Museum took a better picture, and I looked at it, repeatedly. I visited it at the museum a few more times. I looked at the lines and the colors, the strokes of the brush and the pencil and wax, squinting close and standing back, until finally the words bubbled out. I had been torn between writing about the experience of choosing a picture or about what the picture evoked within me, so I decided to do both.

Others wrote poems and stories about different pieces, and the Museum had them all in a binder. Visitors to the exhibit could walk around the gallery with the poems and stories and stand in front of each piece, reading. I enjoyed seeing all the different takes as much as I enjoyed seeing all the different sketches.

Finally came the day when the artist and writers converged. First Michael Gallagher gave a lecture on some of his restoration work. I was fascinated at the amount of detail that goes into analyzing the pigments, stripping the varnish, replacing the damaged section, and insuring that the repairs can be fixed again when time wears away again at the colors. In his restoration work, the artist removes himself, and focuses on keeping the work intact, restored rather than repainted. In his Pleine Air sketches, he does the same, he said, leaving no sign that he had been to the places (temples, seasides, forests) that he depicted.

Later, we had a reading of the pieces. It was a joy to watch the artist actively listen, leaning in toward each of us as we read our pieces in the gallery, surrounded by writer and artist friends who themselves crowded in to see and to hear. As a group, we walked from sketch to sketch, listening to each new response by a writer. Over wine and cheese after, we talked about writing and the museum, art and what it inspires. I went into the experience feeling like a recent grad student. I left the museum feeling like a writer among writers and artists. I am so grateful for the opportunity, for the inspiring art, and for all those who brought together words and images.

Many thanks to Carey Weber from the Museum both for organizing the event and for obtaining for me both such a brilliant copy of the sketch and permission to post it. I also appreciate Elizabeth Hastings and our program leader, Sonya Huber, from Fairfield University’s MFA in Creative Writing Program for connecting us with the museum and for attending the reading. And special thanks to Michael Gallagher, whose striking images inspired each of us differently.

Here’s the poem. 

The image was provided by the artist himself, for which I thank him.

 

 

 

Maine

Maine

  1. The Exhibit

Not since my uncle gave us a one hundred dollar gift certificate
for Filenes of Boston for our wedding
have I had this sense of being a discerning shopper
choosing among so many quality things.

“Twelve of you may each choose a painting to write about.”
At Filenes. I had ogled the things no one buys any more –
china and silver, mohair and linen – with two thoughts in mind:
“I could buy that!” and
“I don’t have to!”

Downstairs from donors sharing champagne and shrimp,
I could choose what I liked best,
me,
amid the exotic temples and azure skies,
paintings in water color, pencil and wax
of places so much more substantial,
mountains and oceans, sea and sky,
places I never had been.
A dizzying gift.

In a humble corridor, narrow walls were hung
with glimpses of Maine, a different sort of place
that I also had never been to.

Here were no jewel tones, no azure skies, no piercing sun.
The trees defied color and even shape.
Grey and white clouds with ocher shadows
copied the outline of the landscape
above the stony shores
in skies that attempted to be blue,
and fought being brown.

I tried to walk past one painting,
but had to stop.
“That.”
That was the piece I was missing.

2. The Painting

This was the place that my grandmother left.
Mother of twelve, grandmother of forty,
porcelain skin concealing flint,
humble smile disguising brains;
She gave us this without us even knowing.

I thought she had chosen Boston, had left Maine because
it was ugly, or dull, or boring, or poor.
When I saw the painting, I realized she left
because she was ready.
The place had formed and informed her.
And she had infused us, in turn.

This strangely familiar unknown place is mine.
I do not know the name for the colors of the rocks,
but I have seen each of my aunts wear them.
The shaggy trees are the kind that each of us plants,
because they surrounded the house we loved.
You cannot put a blanket on those stones,
nor would we want to. We seek out seas
like these for contemplation, not for sport.
We want our water cold.

Swimming, then, becomes an act of prayer.
We throw ourselves on something big
and trust it to support us as we part it and kick,
part it and kick, until the sand is no more with us.
Then we float, belly to the sky of muted grays and blues.
Our eyes come in these colors. Like into like,
we stare and wait for answers
and the questions they create.

This painting, though, has no one on the shore –
no bird on any tree, no fish, no crab;
a birdless sky, no crafts float in the sea.
It is waiting for the viewer
to come, fill the seascape,
just as the seascape waits
to fill the watcher.

(c) Ann McLellan Lardas
Stratford, CT 2017

 

 

Meet the Author — 9/7/2017

I am excited to be one of eight or so writers reading at the Bellarmine Hall Galleries at the Fairfield University Museum of Art on Thursday, Sept. 7 at 6:15 p.m. This is my first venture into ekphrastic poetry, basically a response to a work of art.

For details, and to make a reservation, please click on the link.

I met and spoke to the artist, Michael Gallagher. He is giving a lecture before the reading, and that should be fascinating.

While there, I will ask about sharing the poem and artwork.