Three British TV Shows, Two Books on Spiritual Matters, and a Poem on Peace

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I am still getting over Covid, which I had earlier in the month. As someone with asthma, allergies, and some other chronic conditions, it’s taking me longer than I’d like. So, I’ve been reading several books and watching a lot of shows during my downtime.

Let’s start with the poem: I came across it while searching for a John O’Donohue poem for this Substack post I wrote about peace. John O’Donohue wrote in a way that drew his readers toward wisdom, nature’s beauty and the deep things of the soul. His poetry soothes me like the arms of a loving mother: comforting, clear, and kind.

Blessing For Peace by John O’Donohue (from his book Benedictus)

As the fever of day calms towards twilight
May all that is strained in us come to ease.

We pray for all who suffered violence today,
May an unexpected serenity surprise them.

For those who risk their lives each day for peace,

That those who make riches from violence and war
Might hear in their dreams the cries of the lost.

That we might see through our fear of each other
A new vision to heal our fatal attraction to aggression.

That those who enjoy the privilege of peace
Might not forget their tormented brothers and sisters.

That the wolf might lie down with the lamb,
That our swords be beaten into ploughshares

And no hurt or harm be done
Anywhere along the holy mountain.

Next, the two books I finished this past weekend both left me inspired and encouraged.
The first is Elaine Paigels’ Miracles and Wonder: The Historical Mystery of Jesus. I wasn’t sure if this would be the sort of book so high-minded and intellectual that the gospels would be torn into tatters or presented as simply myths.

Instead, Paigels presents any historical evidence there might be to support the stories while also clearly sharing what isn’t there. She looks at topics such as Jesus’ virgin birth, his resurrection, his claim to be God and doesn’t mock or tear down anyone’s faith. She just shares facts that are known and leaves it up to the reader to choose what to believe from there. Paigels, is, after all, a historian of religion, so I would say she did her work thoroughly. If you want to read more about the life of Christ from a historical perspective, I recommend this book.

The second book I read was Ordinary Mysticism: Your Life as Sacred Ground by Mirabai Starr. This book encourages us to find the sacred and the divine in everything we do, everywhere we go. To hear the voice of God in birdsong or our partner’s voice, to connect to Divine Presence anywhere we happen to be: a meditation room, a church, at work, in the garden, making dinner. She pulls in the voices of famous mystics like Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross, Ram Dass and Thich Nhat Hanh, and everyday people she knows such as a writer friend and the woman who does her nails at the local salon.

Mirabai is so welcoming of others’ experiences, opening up the way for any of us to be mystics, to support and enrich our spiritual lives wherever we are and whatever we are experiencing. I also really appreciated her chapter on grief and how grief connects us to the Divine and to one another. I recommend this book if you’re looking to enhance your spiritual life.

Now for the three British TV shows:

Lynley is the latest TV rendition of Elizabeth George’s ongoing DI Lynley mystery series. If you’re familiar with the books or the earlier Inspector Lynley series from the late 1990s/early aughts, this is a fresh take. The mysteries were interesting enough to keep me guessing and the new versions of both the aristocratic Thomas Lynley and his detective sergeant side-kick, Barbara Havers were likable enough. Their chemistry is a bit different, as Lynley’s and Helen’s, his love interest. It has gravitas but doesn’t get depressing and adds just enough lightness to keep it balanced.

Playing Nice is a four-episode suspense/drama about a couple who find out that their son is not their biological child. The boy who they’ve raised as their own was switched with their biological son in the NICU. Their lives unravel quickly as a sociopath attempts to not only take the son they’ve raised, but prevent them from ever seeing their biological son. Starring James Norton of Grantchester and Happy Valley and Jessica Brown Findley of Downton Abbey.

Line of Duty is a police show and I watched all six seasons this month. AC-12 is a police department whose purpose is to root out corruption in the police force and catch bent cops. It’s intense and, if you like this sort of show, it’ll be difficult to stop at the end of each episode! Each season, there is a particular police officer connected to a suspicious incident that AC-12 is investigating, often undercover. The good news is a seventh season is in the works.

What have you been reading and watching lately? Please share in comments!

Evening Poetry, October 9

The Bright Field by R.S. Thomas

I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the
pearl of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.


You can find this poem in Collected Poems: 1945-1990.

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Evening Poetry, January 25

The Moon over the water, Whitby by hayley green is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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Moon Clock 
by Donald Hall

Like an oarless boat through midnight's watery
ghosthouse, through lumens and shallows
of shadow, under smoky light that the full moon
reflects from snowfields to ceilings. I drift
on January's tide from room to room, pausing
by the wooden clock with its pendulum that keeps
the beat like a heart certainly beating, to wait
for the pause allowing passage
to repose's shore--where all waves halt
upreared and stony as the moon's Mycenaean lions.

You can find this poem in The Selected Poems of Donald Hall.

Evening Poetry, December 3

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Advent Calendar
by Rowan Williams

He will come like last leaf’s fall.
One night when the November wind
has flayed the trees to the bone, and earth
wakes choking on the mould,
the soft shroud’s folding.

He will come like frost.
One morning when the shrinking earth
opens on mist, to find itself
arrested in the net
of alien, sword-set beauty.

He will come like dark.
One evening when the bursting red
December sun draws up the sheet
and penny-masks its eye to yield
the star-snowed fields of sky.

He will come, will come,
will come like crying in the night,
like blood, like breaking,
as the earth writhes to toss him free.
He will come like child.

You can find this poem in Haphazard by Starlight.

Evening Poetry, December 2

Moon setting over The Sound of Arisaig by Dumgoyach is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Why Are Your Poems So Dark?
by Linda Pastan

Isn't the moon dark too,
most of the time?

And doesn't the white page
seem unfinished

without the dark stain
of alphabets?

When God demanded light,
he didn't banish darkness.

Instead he invented
ebony and crows

and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask
"Why are you sad so often?"

Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.

You can find this poem on the Poetry Foundation website.

Evening Poetry, December 1

Approach to B9119 junction by Stanley Howe is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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Slow Down
by Michelle Weigers

This morning I'm so tired
from pushing myself hard,
that as I drive down this country road
I can't bring myself to go

anywhere close to the speed limit.
I feel like a silver haired lady
peeking over my steering wheel
as I creep along, letting

the cars whiz by me.
I always assume the elderly
go slowly because they're cautious,
not wanting to hit anyone

or miss the ambulance
racing down the road with siren blaring.
But maybe they've figured out
a secret that I'm still trying to learn.

What if driving slowly
is the only way
to live my best life,
to keep from running so fast

that I go right past myself?
Running by the small child inside
who seeks to fill herself with wonder,
passing up the chance for rest,

for play, to slow myself
long enough to notice
how pleasant the rain sounds
dripping onto the roof

of the house next door,
tiny wet whispers tapping
those few remaining leaves
clinging to the maple

in my backyard,
an almost silent thrumming
slowing down my weary soul.
The steady chime

of church bells ringing
in the distance, in this moment,
reminding me, I've already
been given all that I need.

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.

Evening Poetry, November 30

Frosty morning near New Bridge, Taw Valley, near Barnstaple. by Thor Beverley is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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The Only Way I Know To Love the World
by Julia Fehrenbacher

It's not just a cup of coffee
but the warm hum of hello, an invitation
to wake, to sip, to say thank you
for another chance to dance
with another new day.

It's not just a ceramic mug, but the one she
shaped with her own 16-year-old
hands for me. For me.

It's not just one heart held open
to another, or a kiss blown in the mirror,
not just the soft circle of smile,
but a nod of--I see you. You are not alone.

Not just life. But your life. Your very temporary life.

It's isn't just the earth you stand on
but the giver of every single thing, a reason
to get down on humbled, human knees
and say thank you thank you thank you.

It is not just another moment but a door flung open,
a flooded-with-light entrance to every real thing

not just a poem but a prayer whispered
from one listening ear
to another. The only way I know
to love the world.

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.

Evening Poetry, November 29

Frost in the morning. by Paul Beaman is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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Poem of Thankfulness
by Nathan Spoon

Today I am thankful for morning frost
touched by sunlight and sparkling

on lawns and fields    I am thankful too
for you and the warmth provided to my feet

inside ordinary socks and shoes and the way
the music of your voice enters my ears

and warms my heart leaving this planet of ours
spinning (if only slightly) more easily;

and I will consider how the world is good
difficult and good and how a lifetime

is both too short and too long
and how the injured heart cannot heal but

as researchers in Sweden have discovered
the muscle of our disadvantaged organ also can

and does slowly replenish itself      Today
when the bigness of the sky asks whoever

is standing beneath it are you ready
the gray trees drowsing and temporarily losing

the last of their burnt sienna leaves will say yes
and you will say yes and I will say yes too

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.

Evening Poetry, November 28

Thatchers Coppice at dusk by Peter Facey is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0

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November Praise
by Joshua Michael Stewart

The smell of ferns and understory
after rain. The tick, tick of stove,

flame under kettle. Bing Crosby,
and not just the Christmas records.

Cooking meat slowly off the bone,
and every kind of soup and stew.

To come this close to nostalgia,
but go no further, leaving behind

the boy who wore loneliness
like boots too big for his feet.

That time of evening,
when everything turns blue

in moonlight, when darkness
has yet to consume all for itself.

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.

Evening Poetry, November 27

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What the Roses Said to Me
by Lahab Assef Al-Jundi

Don't forget me!
Always remember
my beauty is for your eyes.
My fragrance is for your spirit.
My unfolding 
is my invitation to you
to yield to your own.

When your skies seem darkest,
when your heart is gripped by pain,
when uncertainty and fear
creep into your days,
come back to me.
Come into me.
Camp between my scented sheets.
Let me show you
a passageway back
to love.

You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.