We wake, these days, in the lingering dark of winter dawns. I often find it hard to pull myself from sleep. With hoarfrost scratching inward on the window and the kind of cold that steals your breath and makes great swirls of fog waiting for me when I step out my front door, I am often reluctant to face the morning. It’s hard to imagine the possibilities of the day in the grey and cold and darkness.
But every day for the last week, when I’ve run, later than I meant to be (as usual) for a quick glass of water in the kitchen before donning my coat to race out the door, I’ve found a streaked splendour of a sunrise waiting for me out my southeast window.
I’m amazed, every time. I feel drawn, by my sight, into a startled joy. I am stopped, bewildered; I couldn’t see this in the north-ward facing shadow of the bedroom. I didn’t realise that the day had arrived with trumpets of gold and slashed glories of pink in a newborn sky the shade of a robin’s delicate egg. And in that pause in my slow-footed going, there blooms an instant of wonder, a window within me as big and bright as the one looking into the southern sky, and through it I can glimpse what might be worked, or made, or loved within the coming hours. And the day rises, the light comes in my own heart as hope gathers to a brightness in my soul.
Januaries are like cold, winter dawns, I think. They come after the soul-easing joy Christmas; they are blank, grey days in the page of the year. Cold, mundane, they come overcast both with rain (or snow if you’re lucky) and duty, diets to be attempted, debts paid, work resumed. I face them with the same, sleepy, dreading obedience with which I get up on the coldest of mornings.
But there are sunrises to startle the soul even in January, springtimes laughing a promised hope in through the windows of prayer, of friendship, and of course, of books. This year, I’ve found a few that have daily acted as windows for me, whose crafted words and wisdom-lighted pages allow me a wider view than the northward-facing window of my tired self. Their stories shift my own horizons of possibility, show me a starred or sunlit idea and better, quicken my blood and spirit to action.
The first has been Anne Morrow Linbergh’s Gift of the Sea, a calming, contemplative book that is part memoir, part spiritual quest, as she recounts the understanding of self, silence, and centredness that she began to discover during a two-week holiday she took in solitude somewhere on a little Florida island. At the time, she was the mother of 5 (I think), wife to a world-famous pilot, a woman who managed to survive and live through the murder of her firstborn son, and who was a well-known author and pilot herself. What she wrote about though, in this little book, was not her busy life, but how to find the centre. How ‘women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves’. She wrote, not in a frivolous, or self-seeking way, but in a real quest for a centred self in which the essential things – faith, family, vocation – were ordered, claimed, and lived with integrity. Her insight into the disintegration of peace that is inherent to the frenzied schedule of the modern era is quite startling. Her own yearning toward ‘a state of inner spiritual grace from which I could function and give as I was meant to in the eye of God’, has helped me to question how I can find that inner centre afresh as well. I love the motherly voice in her writing as well, her desire to find a centre, not to escape the precious burdens of family or home, but to bear them with an inner strength, with true grace.
The second is Richard Foster’s Simplicity. This has been an era-altering book in my life before, one of those that arrested my spiritual understanding and helped it to a new growth. Simplicity is one of the ancient spiritual disciplines, one involving both the material existence and the inner world of a believer. Foster makes clear that a legalistic system listing what one may possess or do, is never at the heart of simplicity. Rather, it is to love God first, to be rooted in him, gladly dependent upon him for sustenance. Simplicity is not to grasp but rather to receive – possessions, relationships, prosperity – from his hand. I find this book so helpful in calming my heart, helping to identify the root of my desires, to direct them first, afresh, to God.
Finally, a book that deserves the word ‘charming’ more than almost any other I’ve read, The Awakening of Miss Prim. Oh my goodness. This had been recommended to me by friends as a book rich with literary references and a delightful imagined community. But I was startled, tickled, captivated by the little world of San Ireneo de Arnois, a town full of spiritual refugees from the modern world. At the heart of the story, and also the new home of Miss Prim (a well-mannered, well-educated librarian with very set opinions) is an old house with a big library where children perch in various cozy or apple-tree corners reading Jane Austen or Virgil, quoting Homer, discussing Augustine, all under the kind, watchful eyes of Miss Prim’s ’employer’. Miss Prim must get used to the slower pace of the town, one that includes pots of tea and freshly baked cakes at every official meeting. She must adjust herself to philosophic debates with her employer, his love for the monastery at the edge of town, and a ‘feminist society’ whose main object in the book seems to be to find Miss Prim a husband – a goal she slowly comes to appreciate. Peppered with references to classics from Dostoyevsky to Louisa May Alcott, this is a story of charming subversion, one that quietly rejects the claims of secular modernity, and through the curious eyes of Miss Prim, allows us a glimpse into an ordered, sacred, rich world. I love the strong, charming, intelligent femininity in this book, one that values and describes the qualities of womanhood in much different way than those of the modern feminist movement. It reminds me of a Wendell Berry line in which he describes the ‘dance of woman laughing’.
I hope you find a few windows of your own in the cold mornings of this January month. May sunrises lighten your hope and brighten your eyes.