Hark! the Cricket
Let the cricket wind his heartspring
And draw the night by like a child’s toy . . .
Sounds gentle, doesn’t it. Almost idyllic.
But night falls. Sometimes, crushingly. Which feels worse during holidays.
And who initiates the winding that changes the scene? In the above quote, it’s the lowly cricket at work, back legs cocked like hinges — rubbing, rubbing — its muscular song a vocation: dispelling darkness.
It’s Advent again. For my husband, Dreamer, and I, this year it’s a hard one.
Crèche, sounds like crush
Or kibosh. A long-term dream, just coming into fruition, abruptly ends. With a phone call. The person in charge will be “going a different direction.”
Plans are scrapped. Tickets, cancelled. Months of labor — and now, nowhere to invest it.
Dreamer and I try to lighten our mood. Like the scene-changing cricket, we emulate stage hands. Our living room, awaiting tree and toys for the grandkids, becomes the stage.
We surround our buffet on three sides with a wooden folding screen. Intricately pierced, the eight panels reflect light from the mirror behind the buffet. Glancingly.
The u-shaped walls will shelter our crèche.
Dreamer leaves me to it. “Call if you need me.”
Paging Jiminy Cricket
As a kid, I knew the wishing star was real. Sky’s the limit, my parents said. “Makes no difference who you are,” Disney’s Jiminy sang, “Dreams come true.”
Alone now, leaning into the screen’s hinged embrace, I position the stable. The beasts and the figures. Angels, lights, miniature grasses and date palms.
Greenery blurs the gape of angled joints, a sprung hinge. Dowels placed across the top suggest rafters. A crude dwelling.
Suspended
I enter the hush. Since childhood, this little world poised within the noisy, everyday realm has gathered me in, an irresistible attraction.
Soon little stars made of straw dance on black threads at the merest breath. I stand back, marvel that staggered heights create depth of field.
Then I summon Dreamer.
Yes
We survey our modest act of Advent. The screen shelters the Story like a murmured yes. Like the arms of a mother. Glancingly, wonder percolates. Sadness abates.
Yes bristles around us, chafing our tender places. But as author Brian Doyle once prayed:
… your gentle hand … has sustained me. Thank you for saying yes not once thousands of years ago but all day every day in ways far beyond my ken. Thank you for … the star-furnace of your love.
… Thank you for this moment. Thank you for being in it with me.
Hark! The cricket winding the heartspring — like the Child, himself — both dispelling the darkness: each embodies grace. Within the crux of the cell, the deep core of gristle and bone, the pulse of blood …
… one small, throbbing Noel — newly perceived — at the soul’s hearth.
Any crickets (or their equivalent) at your place?
You might also enjoy: Sometimes, the Gift Tears You Open
* Cricket quote, Robert Siegel, “Rinsed with Gold, Endless, Walking the Fields”
Brian Doyle, “Prayer to the Madonna,” A Book of Uncommon Prayer
Photo: Bill Klein
Thank you Laurie for your transparency and your bravery as always. The quote from Brian Doyle was spot on for me these days.
Ann, I can’t help noticing the time of your reading and comment. Can you feel my heart going out toward yours? And His? I hope so.
That Brian Doyle prayer encompasses so much for me, as well.
On a different note, I LOVE the work you’re doing with heart and hand, word and brush. Miss you both. Blessings on you now and always.
Marvelous, beautiful. Heartening, helpful. Thank you xoxoox
Susan, thank you so much for these lovely, encouraging words. What a gift at the end of a long day.
May these December hours brim with blessings within, around, and through you!
Laurie, your words read like poetry….. Of course. Thank you for wrapping up your sighs with this sight of your creche. I’m always amazed at your ability to do so. Blessings to you both.
“wrapping up your sighs . . . with this sight” — the response of a fellow poet. I am taking those blessings to heart, thank you, friend. May blessings visit your household all this month of marvels!
Sorry for the disappointing phone call, a challenge to find a way back to peace and joy which you describe with care and beauty. Love your writings of life, and your life.
Diane, I’ve been thinking of you these past days, and here you are. Thanks for your words of understanding and affirmation, a wonderful blessing to read today. Thanks for reading these posts over so many years! And even more, for being my friend over shared decades. Wishing you and your family rich and lasting tidings of peace.
“Paging Jiminy Cricket” made me smile, thanks for this. And, “the screen shelters the Story like a murmured yes. Like the arms of a mother. Glancingly, wonder percolates. Sadness abates.” How comforting, I love this, Laurie.
Glad I also got to read what you shared from Brian Doyle’s prayer:
“… your gentle hand … has sustained me. Thank you for saying yes not once thousands of years ago but all day every day in ways far beyond my ken. Thank you for … the star-furnace of your love.”
As the days are getting shorter, I’m going to try to keep an ear out for that cricket in the dark.
Dear Bethany, thank you for entering into the story, the blast from the past, and, especially, B. D.’s marvelous prayer.
May there be a sighting / sounding near you soon! : >)
Oh my, Laurie. SO beautifully poignant. Thank you for sharing the lovely tradition of your heirloom creche–alongside the pain of a dream dissolved. I pray God will bring beauty out of the ashes–SOON. Thank you also for including that prayer-quote of Brian Doyle. My days on this planet number well above 20,000 now! And when I contemplate that every day, all day, for all this time, he has been saying “yes” to me in ways beyond my knowing. it brings tears to my eyes. A blessed Advent season to you, dear Laurie, in spite of the disappointment you’ve encountered!
Nancy, my friend, thank you for your empathy. I appreciate it so much. And thank you for offering those amazing mathematics of YES! Feeling staggered at the thought of it. May your holy days gently pulse with beauty and grace.
I’ve read this 3 times.
3 levels of depth, I hear:
The mystic…
“In a dark night,
With anxious love inflamed,
O, happy lot!
Forth unobserved I went,
My house now being at rest.”
~Saint John of the Cross
The lyricist…
“You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight.”
~Bruce Cockburn
The lover…
“O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, In the secret places of the cliff, Let me see your face, Let me hear your voice; For your voice is sweet, And your face is lovely.”
Song of Solomon 2:14
Thank you for taking us deeper.
From those three identities you mention, three actions that refocus me today:
to be actively searching
assertive, as needed
engaged in mending
As ever, Rick, my thinking expands as I take in the Word via your words and those you curate from others. You’ve quoted three voices that move me closer to Love’s call . . . and calling.
Grateful. Grateful. Grateful.
YES & Amen!
Oh, how my heart needed this encouragement today, Laurie.
“Wonder percolates. Sadness abates.”
While we have no literal hearth at this house,
my soul’s hearth has been warmed and cheered by your words:)
Gratefully,
Katie
Katie, thank you. I’m grateful to know the words landed gently, warmly, with good cheer.
Lovely and encouraging, Laurie. Thank you.
Linda Jo, may the encouragement you received expand in quiet, fruitful ways. ‘
Thanks so much for letting me know how it struck you, my friend.