Seeds of New Life
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by Carole Crumley
What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky? -David WhyteLast month I spent a few days away from Washington, visiting a friend whose house sits far back from the road tucked into a wooded hillside. She has a little guest cottage which has been a place of spiritual retreat for many of us at Shalem. This time as I climbed the three steps up to the wooden porch I noticed a bird's nest on the porch railing. How nice, I thought, a "found" nest. It must have fallen out of a tree and been placed there by my friend or another guest. The nest was skillfully crafted, a marvel of twigs and mud holding together. I thought about taking the nest home with me to have a visual reminder of nature's artistry and closeness.
The next morning when I went outside, I was stunned to see an egg in the nest. One perfect beautiful blue egg. One perfect, beautiful blue robin's egg, but no sign of a mama robin anywhere. So I waited and watched, peeking out the window every now and then to check. Suddenly there she was, settled in, and looking around with her black beady eye. Whenever she caught a glimpse of me or of my shadow, off she would fly again seemingly for hours at a time. Sometimes she was gone so long that I thought she had abandoned the nest for good, leaving the egg on its own.
I couldn't imagine a bird choosing such a precarious location for her nest. How was that egg ever going to hatch, I wondered? It seemed so vulnerable and unprotected there on the railing. Any stray animal could easily attack this nest and its precious contents. And often the mama bird was nowhere in sight. Was she watching from afar? Could the egg hatch if the mother bird was away so much, I worried?
I left a few days later (much to the mother robin's relief I'm sure) not knowing if the new life hidden in the beautiful blue egg would be born. I prayed for its protection.
On our recent pilgrimage to Ireland, I was reminded of that experience. We were in Glendalough, home of the sixth-century Irish saint Kevin. Kevin was known for his ascetical practices, in particular praying in the cross vigil position. He would stand or kneel for hours with his arms extended and stretched out to his sides, in the shape of a cross. His palms would be turned up, hands and heart open to God.
Sometimes Kevin would retreat from the monastic community life for more solitude and deeper prayer. The location of Kevin's solitary cell lies at the top on a steep embankment that leads down to a large lake. Three oak trees are growing up among its foundation stones and a wooded forest surrounds the site on all sides. One morning we sat in the little stone circle, all that remains of the beehive hut where Kevin stayed, and imagined the saint at his prayers.
Legend says that because his hut was so small, when Kevin prayed in the cross vigil position, his arms would stick out the windows on either side. During one of those times at prayer, with arms outstretched and palms up, a blackbird came, nested in his hand and much to his surprise (and perhaps dismay) laid an egg. Not wanting to disturb the bird, Kevin stayed in this prayer position, with his arm stretched out, gently holding the nest in his hand until the egg hatched and the young bird was born.
Of course this story is legend, not fact. Still, there is truth in the images. Sitting in the stone circle under the oak trees, I tried to imagine Kevin, the blackbird, the egg and then the patience and pain, the waiting and prayer, the days and nights, darkness and light that finally brought forth the new life.
We are told that in the Celtic spiritual tradition, the blackbird represents the Holy Spirit. As I enter this story more deeply, I imagine the Spirit building its nest right in the hollow of my hand, laying its golden eggs of new life, then brooding, waiting for my stillness and prayer to nurture the birth. As I consider the story further, I realize how often I am more like the mama robin, distracted by many things, frightened by shadows, running off rather than sitting still, leaving this new life of the Spirit unprotected and vulnerable to attack from without and within. I wonder how many gifts of the Spirit have been stillborn or destroyed by my own restless wanderings?
That question haunts me and brings to mind a passage from New Seeds of Contemplation in which Thomas Merton talks about the seeds of spiritual vitality that exist in every moment and every event of everyone's life on this earth. But, he says, most of these seeds perish and are lost because we are not prepared to receive them. The seeds of new life in the Spirit can spring up only in the "good soil of freedom, spontaneity, and love." Cultivating that good soil is a life's work, Merton says, requiring sacrifice, risk, tears and close attention to reality at every moment.
As our calendar turns now to the fall season, I am glad to notice that nature is extravagantly sowing seeds for the future. The abundance of seeds gives me hope that a future springtime will bring new life and growth. What remains hidden now, when nourished by the quiet of winter months, will burst forth in surprising ways. And I can feel my own heart turning inward, drawing me into a quieter place of attentiveness and prayer where, hopefully, the wild and winged seeds of the Spirit will be welcomed and find a home.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.