holy comforter
by bam

maybe you haul your wounded self to the water’s edge, to where rocks punctuate the water’s otherwise-unstartled flow, and set things percolating, gurgling. perhaps it’s the roar of the water falling, tumbling down ledges. or the susurrations of a creek rushing through grasses.
maybe you park your bum in the golden glowing woods, squat on a fallen trunk of maple or oak, a log now home to mosses and mushrooms. or you press your soles to the slope of a mountain, hard against granite or igneous rock, where, as the woodsman John Muir (who advised climbing barefoot) once noted, we’re wise to absorb the sacred essence “with our heels as well as our heads.”
the other morning, knocked about by a phone call i’d been both chasing and dreading, i sought triage and solace out where the autumn light slanted in on my garden’s last gasps. holy comfort i found there with my clippers in hand, untangling my thoughts along with the last of the tomato’s serpentine withering vines, soaking in the morning’s few waning sunbeams.
i all but wrapped myself in the strands of this earth’s balms. holy comforter, indeed. the warmth of the harvest sun. the unparalleled green. each late-season leaf expiring its last bits of life-giving balm, or what the twelfth-century mystic and herbalist hildegard of bingen termed viriditas, the divine healing power of green. she once wrote, “there is a power that has been since all eternity, and that force and potentiality is green!” in other words, the surging “thereness” of God, life source of all. and, oh, i basked in it the other morning.
there is something particularly soothing — nay, healing — about the comforts of the late-season garden, about the comforts of each and every season, really.
it’s as if the earth presses itself hard against my hollowed chest, against the faint beating of my worn-thin heart. it soothes without words, the whole of the creation does. doesn’t try to fill in the silence, offer quick fix. the earth, holy comforter, simply is present. stands in certain unwobbling encounter. makes real the declaration: “i am here.”
benevolent, earth offers healing by multiple choice: should you not feel the radiant heat on the bare skin of your arms, inhale the pungent spice-notes of marigold or spearmint as you break off a stem. or catch the fluttering shadow of october’s south-bound monarch playing with the breeze. or the chatter of sparrows, incessantly sparring.
each and every sensory channel stands at the ready, inviting the way in.
there’s a presence, grander, more tender, than i’ve otherwise known. it’s the enveloping bosom of this holy healing earth. or the soft shoulder against which i lay my weary head.
it’s where i turn when the hurt is too big, or not yet sorted out, not pegged into words. and i’m as certain as anything that it’s the one i call God who enwraps me when i step into the wilds, when i carry my banged-up sorry old self into the balm that is this holy comforter earth.
***
Glance at the sun. See the moon and stars. / Gaze at the beauty of earth’s greenings. / Now, think. / What delight God gives to humankind / with all these things….
—Hildegard of Bingen
how has any aspect of the whole of creation comforted you of late, or in particular?
Oh, bam, my heart and love go out to you as your soul aches. Plants have healing powers that modern medicine is only beginning to re-recognize. Just as strong as any botanical extract in a capsule is the scent–chemical combinations plants have evolved to protect them from predators, but healthful for us too. I could never describe the heady fragrance of tomato leaves, but wise Hildegard of Bingen distilled it to the basics–green. Tomato plants are the smell of green. Years ago, when I helped my dad pull up his score or so of tomato plants each late autumn, as I thanked them for their bounty, I leaned into their withering leaves and inhaled the last of their greenness. Those released molecules are an olfactory balm, and yes, I see what you mean as the scent fills the air and wraps us in an invisible but very real blanket that’s calming and healing. All Earth’s comforts and blessings to you.
Ohhhh, soooo gorgeous. You are a luxuriant writer. I’ve plucked those tomato vines to bring in the house at times, so in love with tomato perfume am I. But alas the scent is ephemeral, as are so many precious things.
Giant hug, friend of all creation.
Xox
You have made the cleaning of my garden into a sacrament. One of the only ones I shall continue to receive year after year! Not only the cleaning but seed gathering fills my heart with hope for the coming spring, dreams of flowers and squashes for next year, visions of bounty in the future. The selection, picking, drying,storing and sharing of seeds brings me much joy in the autumn.
Love your use of “sacrament.” I completely concur. I read the loveliest quote yesterday about how all creation is a sacrament pointing toward the Creator. I’m on the road right now but will add once home. Bless you and your autumnal rites in the garden❤️❤️❤️
Alas, this little box doesn’t allow me to post photos, but the early morning moon yesterday and today has been glorious. Holding close your achybreaky heart. xoxo
I often wish we could add pix here, but alas. Your words though are everything.
God’s Holy Comforter – the garden. I will use “viriditas” in my writing today as I talk about the true healing powers of being in Nature, the Creator God’s gift to us. Thank you, bam, and thank you, Hildegard.
You are most welcome❤️
My holy comforter is going for a walk preferably by water. Getting my body moving calms my mind. A cup of tea or a glass of wine or a big ole hug can do the trick too. I know a girl, now young woman, who is still comforted by her hole-y comforter, a blanket given to her when she turned 4. Peace to your heart, dear one. xoxoxo
Even your descriptions of your comforts are comforting. And I love the hole-y comforter, of course. ❤️
From shards of light to holy comforter, your words inspire me to contemplate the cosmos, appreciate the beauty of Mother Earth and to look inward, deep into my soul, for my connection to our Creator. You have always been, and always will be, a special blessing in my life. As a timid freshman at DHS, passing you in the hallway was always a bright spot in my day because you offered a cheery “Hello!”. And now, so many years later, that brightness returns every Friday. Even when you share that you’re struggling to understand something or are trying to cope with a concern, you bring things back to the divine-a brightness. What a gift! Thank you!
oh, honey, honey……if i could jump through this screen right now, and wrap you in a hug….well, it’s just what i want to do right now. so blessed to have such long roots with such a beautiful heavenly soul. i’m so touched that our roots twisted and turned and found the light toward each other again, after all these years. xoxoxo
Me too, Barbie! And, oh! I forgot to mention that I just finished reading “Motherprayer” and I loved it! I could go on and on about the things that I could totally relate to, the stories that made me laugh out loud and the sweet snippets that brought a tear to my eye. It’s a labor of love and a wonderful book ❤️.
it was a work of pure love. i wrote it against the advice of wise folk in publishing, but it was an act of defiance in love. it is perhaps the most priceless to me. for, as i’ve said a million times, it will stand as the record (partial) of how very deeply i loved my boys, and was fully aware at every turn that they were the gift that gave me my life….some day, long after i am gone, those boys might slip that book off a shelf, turn to a page, and remember again….thank YOU for taking the time, and heart, to read it. xoxo
Sitting with you and reflecting on the sacrament of transitioning from summer to fall took my breath. I recently saw a quote that said ” in autumn the earth moves toward REST”
So as I pull up the remnants of my last okra plant I say thank you to Mother Earth.
Ohhhhh, Marsha, I am so happy to find you here❤️❤️❤️ and I love that you bring your southern vernacular — make that “low country” vernacular— to the table. Sending a hug from my northern kitchen. Xox
Barbara, but time I commented. I do visit from time to time but plan to make it a regular visit now that fall and winter are circling. Hugs!
and i am delighted to plop onto your porch every week!