Flowering Orchids

Last Sunday something white caught my eye as I entered the room. Glancing towards the windowsill I saw two white orchid flowers softly silhouetted against the window pane. I stopped and stared. Two months ago under cover of darkness I had placed three of my five orchid plants out on the sidewalk hoping someone would come by and adopt them. With no remorse and lots of relief I wished them well, turned my back and walked into the house. The two remaining orchid plants escaped this same fate simply because they were not yet on the point of death.

Every now and then I gave my two orchids a good soaking, drained them as I was taught to do then set them back on the windowsill. Just recently I had cut off huge yellow leaves from each of them thinking this could mean one step nearer the sidewalk for them, too, but my hope was to keep them alive at least for another month.

Two weeks ago I went to Dublin, Ireland for a Spiritual Directors International Conference. I arrived a couple of days early to do some sight-seeing. The first day I hopped on a tour bus to head north of Dublin to Newgrange, the site of a 5000-year-old burial mound—a tomb more than five hundred years older than the Pyramids of Giza. From the outside Newgrange did not impress me: it was just a huge mound of earth topped with grass and encircled by giant blocks of stone. Twenty of us climbed up the wooden stairs leading to the entrance of the mound and then walked single-file down a narrow passage to the burial chamber deep in its center. At one point the passage became so narrow we had to turn and walk sideways. Eventually all twenty of us stood in the inner chamber which was illuminated by electric lights. Our guide then explained that the chamber normally is in complete darkness except on Dec. 21, the shortest day of the year. On that day, if the skies are clear, at exactly 8:58 a.m., the sun passes in front of the entrance at precisely the right angle to permit its light to slowly move down the same narrow corridor we had just walked through until it reaches and then completely fills the inner chamber with light. This light lasts exactly seventeen minutes. Then, as the sun continues to move slowly westward, the light begins to withdraw until the chamber and then the corridor are again left completely in darkness.

They believe the tomb at Newgrange took sixty years to build. Its granite stones weigh between one and ten tons each and came from quarries on two different rivers each about fifty miles away. The huge granite blocks were cut and then floated upriver on the tidal rivers. Five thousand years ago the average life span was twenty-five years so many generations of men worked their whole lives building this structure without ever seeing the finished mound or experiencing that seventeen minutes of light on the darkest day of the year.

After visiting Newgrange I then headed south of Dublin to Glendalough, the site of a 6th century Celtic monastery. This monastic town consists of eight well-preserved stone monuments. Several are churches, one is a thirty-meter-high Round Tower, one a three-meter-high cross carved from a single granite stone. Some stones mark ancient graves, others recent ones. For two days I wandered among the ruins. They had withstood the invading armies of Vikings, Normans and English. They had withstood wind, rain, snow and fire. Carved with Celtic circles, spirals and designs, these stones invited fingering, touching, feeling. No ruin had a "Do Not Touch" sign. I caressed the strong straight walls, sat on the simple altars, put my arms around a standing cross.

Returning then to Dublin to attend the Spiritual Directors Conference I chose to go to one of the offered workshops on writing poetry. I continually struggle with my desire to write. While I enjoy and want to write something always seems to hold me back from sitting down and doing it. As I entered the room where the workshop was to take place, that familiar fear like a gray fog immediately appeared pressing itself against my gut and chest. As I listened to the presenter, fear snuggled up cozily against me. Yet when we were told to write a short seven-line poem, I reached around the fog, picked up my pen and wrote a poem. The presence of the other participants stopped fear from blocking me.

Later the same day while sitting quietly an image came to me. Light fluffy fear in the form of fog came snuggling up against me but as I stood there feeling its strength, the fog turned to a block of cold hard granite. Afraid it would slip from my arms and crush my toes, I tried to tightly embrace it, but the stone was too heavy and slid down out of my arms. I jumped quickly out of its way, dancing around it as it hit the ground, fell over on one side and stopped there. With great relief I sat down on this excellent writing bench.

Returning home from Dublin late last Sunday night I walked into the conservatory and was surprised to see two flowering white orchids on a plant I usually kill. Flowering orchids. Fear turned to strength. Seventeen minutes of light on the darkest day of the year. All seems possible. Today I start my blog.

Twickenham, England