Transfixed and Dancing
Dear ______,
Today was the most wonderful day. It had snowed, there was sunshine, blue skies, and scudding clouds. As soon as we got up, we let the sun in our eyes. We stood barefoot on the cold concrete in the breezeway and absorbed the solstice sunrise. Snow sparkles danced into our irises where they transformed into perceptions of light by the rods and cones in our eyes.
It was the happy light of midwinter when the sun rises as far southeast it will all year. After this it will slowly move away from the road, back through the oaks, to the hemlocks, and finally, in June, it will rise over the tall pines in the back corner of the yard. It's a slow wax-on-wax-off that never gets old.
But it's cold. We head inside. We avoid the TV and play with wooden trains and marbles. We play music—harmonicas, ukuleles, drums—slapping our hands on our bodies, the counters, anything we can reach. We sing along with Raffi: Mr. Golden Sun and New River Train. It's a Sunday, it feels fun and holy, like the good old days.
When I was little, my brother Jeremy and I loved to play with infinity. We would lay under two facing mirrors and observe the infinite reflections without our faces getting in the way. We took glass panes out of the medicine cabinet, held them under our chins and walked around, enjoying a new reality. We would lay with our heads together on my parents bed and compete to see who could imagine eternity first (whoever freaked out first won).
When we were little at church me and my brother would roll around on the floor, overcome by the holy spirit. My mom once told us we looked like happy hotdogs on the grill. That was one good thing about growing up in a Pentecostal church. You could just roll around laughing like a hot dog marinating in the love of Christ and people thought it was totally normal.
It's been a while since I went to church. I don't have anything against it, I actually enjoy it. But so far I’ve stayed away for one reason or another. But today was holy. We put up two nativity sets. One small, and perfectly matched, is from my mother in law. My son, who is newly enamored with baby Jesus, was delighted. The tiny figures came in a special box, with a tiny barn, tiny animals, and a perfect, tiny baby Jesus. We set it up in the dining room with a prayer votive of Mary and a photo of my brother.
The other set contains sixty antique Italian porcelain figurines of all sizes. We inherited them from my husband's paternal grandparents. We cleaned the bay window before bringing up four huge boxes from the basement. I had never opened them before—the last time they had been wrapped might’ve been by Gram, who passed away several years ago. It was a tender but joyful unveiling of each figure. We found Jesus in the second box. My son was literally beaming with joy. We jumped and clapped, there he was!
We spent two hours setting up the display, before finally placing the “star” (another votive) behind Mary, where its flame reflected in the window. We live in a hollow, just like I did growing up. The sun sets early here - even when it’s not midwinter. By the time we were done, it was getting dark. I watched the candle and realized it had three reflections. First, in the weatherization plastic. Then in the glass window panes. Then in the storm window. Four flames—the candle and its three reflections.
At that moment I had my own Epiphany, one of those simple and profound realizations that changes everything: A reflection needs a place to live. A reflection implies a recipient. If someone observes a light, they are holding its reflection. This meant that there were two more reflections in two pairs of eyes. Flames entering through irises, transformed by the rods and cones, showing us a golden flicker.
Our eyes and the glass, two mirrors facing each other, and between them a light dancing forever. Like a sheet of glass, I, too, hold a dancing flame within me. It doesn't go anywhere, can't burn anything, doesn't create heat or light, and yet is eternal. It is, on one hand, simply the image of the candle . . . and also maybe my entire existence.
My body is the place where love's light, Christ's light, and the sun’s light, enter and become transfixed and dancing. I have never thought of myself as a mirror before, let alone a vessel for divine light. But seeing those flames trapped in the panes it became clear that I was just another pane in another direction and that, if I could somehow lay underneath the two of them, I would be able to observe infinity.
While I was observing this, my son noticed that all the figurines had their hands over their hearts. I told him: That's ‘adoring’. Like 'O come let us adore him'. Just like how I adore you. It's love. What do you feel when you put your hands on YOUR heart?
I feel Zeus, he said (Zeus is our dog who died two years ago). I feel uncle Jeremy, he said (my brother who died almost twenty years ago). I feel baby Jesus, he said, smiling at me. He continued: Baby Jesus is the only one with his hands up. When is he going to put them over his heart?
Well, I said, maybe it's like when you blow a kiss, and someone catches it. I think Baby Jesus is so special, he is sending out all the love, and everybody is catching it in their hearts and saying ‘Oh don't you just adore him?’
I loved sharing the joy of my childhood with my son who does not go to church. To see that it doesn't really matter about religion, and that a four year old knows how to keep love alive, to light candles in the dark, to play music and notice sacred things.
And it made me happy, too, realizing all those flames of love and divine connection were still burning inside of me, and that now they are reflected in my son.
I’m ridin’ that New River train
I’m ridin’ that New River train
The same old train that brought me here
Is gonna carry me home again.
Happy Return of the Light,
Xx
m
(Today’s song is New River Train by Raffi, which we loved because it’s about Trains and also because it was great to play along with!)