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

Photo by Vlada Karpovich on Pexels.com

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!

Fiction to Read or Consider

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Family Family by Laurie Frankel had such an unusual feel to me. Themes include teen pregnancy, adoption, and childhood trauma, but it isn’t sad or even serious. Everything almost feels like a joke.

Her main character, India Allwood, is bright, determined, creative, and goes after what she wants. She makes mistakes but makes the best of tough situations too. All the characters seemed weird, too quirky, and bit unreal. The lighthearted feel the characters and the writing had seemed too bright, too glossy, too fake like Hollywood where India lives with her adopted kids. I like that India won’t paint herself as a victim, but she also doesn’t seem to think her poor choices are worth learning from. I found her habit of ripping up pieces of paper and throwing them all over like confetti whenever (and wherever) she celebrated really irritating.

At the end some things come to the surface and are dealt with, but everything wraps up a bit too perfectly. It’s almost as if the book was written from a kid’s perspective, except it wasn’t. If you read it, I’d love to know what you think.

North Woods by Daniel Mason felt like a collection of short stories all centered around one place, instead of a novel. But I don’t like short story collections and I loved this book. It had an element of magic realism with ghosts and also a strong sense of the swiftness of time passing, and of the never-ending cycles of life, death, and rebirth.

There was a deep reverence of wild nature embedded into the novel. When I finished reading it I wanted to bow and kiss the earth and embrace the trees nearby. The author also imbued an interest in human history, starting from Puritan times and going into the future. I found it so creative and refreshing to have story after story of humans interacting with the land, the trees, wildlife, and the house as the years went on. Most were written in story form, sometimes as a letter, article, or poem. Certain characters I cared about more than others, but I never was bored. North Woods is a sweeping, unforgettable novel that is unlike anything I’ve ever read. Highly recommended!!

One of the Good Guys by Araminta Hall is a mystery/thriller that has a few surprises up its sleeve. I knew that all must not be what it seemed as it starts out with Cole’s POV because this novel is a commentary on the #MeToo movement. Cole obviously thinks he’s “one of the good guys” and just seems too good to be true but he’s the only viewpoint for more than half of the book. So something felt off but I just didn’t know what exactly.

And then, as Leonora takes over telling the tale, the reader begins to be clued in to what is really happening. And that there is a clever, daring, carefully-laid trap for one unsuspecting person. It didn’t have the same feel as a typical murder mystery because of the point the book is trying to make is so loud and clear. It takes over any mysterious elements. It definitely held my interest and had some creepy/scary elements. I liked the switching POVs in the second half as it gave a clearer picture of what was going on. Trigger warnings include IVF treatment and violence toward women. Oh and I forgot to mention the book is set on the English coast with dangerous cliffs and mist and cozy cottages and the stormy sea. If any of these elements or the novel’s theme interest you, I think you’ll enjoy reading One of the Good Guys.

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 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 26

The Most Important Thing
by Julia Fehrenbacher

I am making a home inside myself. A shelter
of kindness where everything
is forgiven, everything allowed—a quiet patch
of sunlight to stretch out without hurry,
where all that has been banished
and buried is welcomed, spoken, listened to—released.
​
A fiercely friendly place I can claim as my very own.
​
I am throwing arms open
to the whole of myself—especially the fearful,
fault-finding, falling apart, unfinished parts, knowing
every seed and weed, every drop
of rain, has made the soil richer.
​
I will light a candle, pour a hot cup of tea, gather
around the warmth of my own blazing fire. I will howl
if I want to, knowing this flame can burn through
any perceived problem, any prescribed perfectionism,
any lying limitation, every heavy thing.
​
I am making a home inside myself
where grace blooms in grand and glorious
abundance, a shelter of kindness that grows
all the truest things.
​
I whisper hallelujah to the friendly
sky. Watch now as I burst into blossom.

You can read this poem on Grateful.org.

Evening Poetry, November 25

Full moon rising over snowfields. by Ross is licensed under CC-BY-SA 2.0
Twelve Moons
by David Steindle-Rast

When the wolf moon grows fat
and the North wind roars on the shore,
an angel shall feed your fire
and bolt your door.

When the clean spring moon rises,
an angel, unheard and unseen,
shall clean your seven springs
and keep them clean.

When the sap moon draws sap
upwards from bulb and root,
an angel gardener shall guard
each new green shoot.

When the grass moon makes grasses
nod to each other in bloom,
an angel in white shall greet you
at Christ’s bright tomb.

When the planting moon mirrors
her face in the cold-frame glass,
an angel shall breathe at your seedlings
till all frosts pass.

When the rose moon blooms
in the sky like a silver-wrought rose,
an angel shall show you a rose garden
no one else knows.

When a frolicsome angel
rolls the hay moon over the hill,
you shall dance with the deer in the dark
while time stands still.

When the green corn moon glides
through the ripening corn, row by row,
an angel shall make swelling spikes
sweet as they grow.

When the harvest moon lantern
hangs golden and plump in the sky,
you shall hear an angels scythe zing.
You won’t ask why.

When the hunter’s moon races
black clouds like a galloping prince,
an angel shall draw his bow,
yet, you won’t wince.

When the frosty moon blinds
every pond with a thin film of white,
peeling scales from your eyes,
an angel shall heal your sight.

When the long night moon wanes
and the darkness keeps deepening fast,
an angel shall forge from your fears
faith that will last.

You can find this poem at Grateful.org.

Evening Poetry, November 24

A lovely sunset seen from the fields around Kortrijk (Heule, Belgium). by Jeroen Rotty is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0
Belonging
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

And if it’s true we are alone,
we are alone together,
the way blades of grass
are alone, but exist as a field.
Sometimes I feel it,
the green fuse that ignites us,
the wild thrum that unites us,
an inner hum that reminds us
of our shared humanity.
Just as thirty-five trillion
red blood cells join in one body
to become one blood.
Just as one hundred thirty-six thousand
notes make up one symphony.
Alone as we are, our small voices
weave into the one big conversation.
Our actions are essential
to the one infinite story of what it is
to be alive. When we feel alone,
we belong to the grand communion
of those who sometimes feel alone—
we are the dust, the dust that hopes,
a rising of dust, a thrill of dust,
the dust that dances in the light
with all other dust, the dust
that makes the world.

You can find this poem on Grateful.org.