Miracle in Slow Motion

It started out as the practical task of cleaning the book shelves, something I do only once every several years or so – that is, taking books off the shelves, shooing out whatever dust balls are behind them, extraditing books I have outgrown, and reminiscing about others.  I won’t list the laborious titles I discarded, but many of them were a penciled and highlighted “self-help” variety of book, things that had absorbed me at the time before I absorbed them – or didn’t – and so let them collect dust.  Some of those books weighed heavily on me now; I no longer wanted them in my peripheral vision.  I ended up with two grocery bags full of books to discard in one way or another.

The way . . . dust particles pass through glass doors

As I chose my piles: which to discard, which to keep, which to peruse again and think about and later decide, I reminisced about the hopes and plans they gave me at the time.  But mostly I contemplated the mystery of dust balls – how they accumulate, why all those random particles comingle behind books on a shelf . . . and, more improbably, how dust particles must sometimes pass through glass doors before gathering into groups behind books on a shelf.

I thought . . . a single particle of dust must fall from who-knows-where and then hover at the shelf near the top of any given book. Then, by some volition either internal or external, it must traverse the top of the book, horizontally of course, before releasing itself to descend to the narrow bit of shelf space in back of the books which are lined upon it.

“Now this improbability must happen thousands and thousands of times over before a dust ball can be formed,” I said to a person in casual conversation about what I had done that day.  Only then did I begin to understand in myself the miracle and meaning I gave to it.  I was only talking about cleaning dust behind books on a shelf when I spoke to this person, mind you – and only later did I realize the significance of my contemplative task.

This improbability must happen thousands and thousands of times over . . . I thought this to myself the remainder of the day and the day after that too . . . traversing improbable odds before gathering and coalescing to form a dust ball behind a strip of books on a shelf . . . What a miracle!  It was a contemplation of dust balls and the gathering of random particles – not really a task of cleaning out books and dusting shelves.  Dusting behind things is a thankless job no one will ever notice when it’s done anyway.  Those others will not arrive home and announce, “The dust particles that I never saw are now gone.”  It is a vision and science known only to those privileged few who partake of such hidden work.

The lessons they hold . . .

To get rid of the books one no longer needs because the promises or lessons they hold have been absorbed into one’s life – or were never meant to be absorbed at all – that too is a miracle traversed over time.  It was a miracle in slow motion – the way all those books’ meanings and lessons and insights became part of me – one small change at a time, brought about from the inside or outside or an interaction of both – gathering and coalescing, like dust particles traversing the tops of books and landing upon a narrow strip of space behind them – hidden, dark, insignificant, unseen by most – until we excavate and look behind the apparent, until we see what has gathered over the course of time.  That‘s how miracles happen, I suppose – a painstaking accumulation of causes and effects, the way dust particles gather behind books on a shelf. 

Iconography, Day 7: Correction

One of the few choices given us came at the end of the last day – the choice to make Mary’s eyes gaze downward to her infant – or to make them gaze slightly outward to the world in front of her.

I intended to make Mary’s eyes gaze only at her infant – through means of placement of those white moon slivers near each iris.  I intended to place them at the top of the iris so she could appear looking downward.

But once I was home, and a day had passed, and I gazed at it thoughtfully – that’s when I strangely realized that I’d done it just the opposite of what I’d intended!  It was a mystifying experience because I had been so conscious of wanting to make it this way – gazing down at her infant.

I experienced a few moments of disappointment at my error – almost wondering if I’d picked up the wrong icon. This was one of the few choices given to me and I had messed up – until I realized that I preferred it this way, the way I had erred.

After all, a woman, albeit devoted to her infant, should also gaze outward to the world.  I much prefer it this way.  What if I should have made it the way I intended – eyes only for her infant – what disappointment I might have experienced in the days and years henceforth as my own life struggles to look forward.

A mother – or woman, or human – should keep her eye upon the world as well as her infant.  Even in the Tenderness Icon, she is part of the world.  I’m glad of this ‘mistake’ – not a mistake at all, but a correction made – or given – in spite of me.