Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot

Ash-Wednesday
by T S Eliot

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I
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.

IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

TRACES

Today I poured through old email messages attempting to find an attachment of a paper I wrote. I wasn't quite expecting to find so many memories. An "acceptance" letter from Duke Religion Department with the addendum that we won't fund ya asshole, evites to parties, well-wishes upon the birth of Johanna, church business from my summer internships, old interlibrary loan reminder, and at the very beginning a note from Doug about our impending nuptial. I also found old discussions about Christian community: Doug's tortured letter to Naj and Anne, News of Mike and Heather's trip to Chicago, John's lobbying to have all the community kids named after him, and his excitment with Johanna and Jonathan, and most recently notes from Ben and Angela about when to expect the delivery truck. As a budding historian I don't know what sense I would make of my own records. The facts are there: marriage, birth of children, intimate friends. There is also a considerable academic history: the theology of disability, bio-medical ethics, law and the new testament, sin and sanity in Aquinas and 19th century America, and most recently Foucault and the tangles of what he calls biopolitics, and cultural history. But, I wonder if I could ever reconstruct a life from this material. A life that looks anything like the day-to-day of Durham or Toronto. Anyway, as I continue to think of myself as my own historian I will keep you posted.

happy birthday johanna

Johanna Nancy Hatlem turned three today. She enjoyed a green cake, green ice cream, and spagetti dinner. She got a three wheeler from Grammi Deb so watch out if you happen upon Toronto, CA sidewalks.

Sunday Night Prayer

Father God,

Thank you for full moons on the snow and for cats whose tails are too large for their bodies and for impish toddlers. Thank you for love over and above us and all around and for the way your wake can be felt in the chills of a cold winter night. Thank you for homes to return to and for friends to mend us. Forgive us for allowing ourselves to be sheltered from the cold of other's nights. Forgive us when we forget not only to care for our enemies but when we even fail to care for our friends--even the very gift friends whose love burns at the center of our hearts. Forgive us for not knowing when we do wrong. For not fighting apathy and the seductions of our own schedules. Mend our hearts that pentitence has broken so that we will not become proud in our confessions but merry in the grace that binds us to you and tears us from ourselves. Give us joy that sees in strangers the possibility of conversation with you and towards you and the thrill of experiencing the freedom of your law. Amen

The first three months

Our life together here in Parkdale is now about 3 months old. As we can see daily with Jacob (who is 2 mos. old) this is a vulnerable and exciting age. Jacob has learned to smile. We too are learning to negotiate one another--read each others expressions and nonverbal cues and the inflections in each others voices. Jacob is looking around soaking in the world. We too are soaking in this neighborhood and learning about it--learning slowly (much slower than Jacob) about this new world we are entering. We are experiencing little victories--a table that could ultimately seat 20, finding church communities, finding fresh veggies, keeping our spaces hospitable, sharing our vision with the local newspaper, and finding jobs for Doug and Ben. We are also experiencing setbacks. We wish there could be more of the original new year's crowd about. We feel weak with all our commitments to budding families, school, and new jobs to start creating rich networks or inviting the people that already have expressed interest to our table. We still might need sometime more of nuturing and comfort and peacefulness. However, we are here. Hoping that we have given birth to something really special.

From Ben and Angela

Hello, Ben here. Job is going fine at Mt Sinai, it feels good to be 15 seconds away from the ER in case anything goes horribly wrong. (I'm just kidding, nothing can go horribly wrong.)


Hey all - it's Angela here - I can't remember my password, so I'll probably sign out as Ben...

We began our visioning process at our community meeting in preparation for our retreat in mid-February. It was good to begin talking about things that have been on our hearts for a long time and realize that we are really doing this community thing.

Our lives continue in a daily routine or not so routine of child care, work, meeting people, baby yoga, dishes, dishes, and paper writing. Our lives swirl around each other during the day, we converge around dinner and then swirl off again - often touching during the day at various points sharing life's events. Oh and lets not forget our visits to St. Josephs hospital that have also become routine.

I am discovering the art of allowing caring for my child to be an accomplishment in and of itself - something I am allowed to check off my checklist of my oh so guilty calvinistic work ethic mind that pushes productivity driven by tangible daily deeds and activities. Yes, breastfeeding can be checked off, and that dirty diaper, and that rocking to sleep and that gazing into eachother's eyes for endless moments marveling in the beauty of my child....