I’ve always been fond of things inside other things—smoky quartz crystals inside the plain exterior of geodes, a ruby burst of pomegranate seeds inside the rough old skin, the ballerina and the little mirrors in the music box, fragile blue eggs in a wren’s nest in the alcove for our washer and dryer, paper flowers in clam shells floating open when immersed in a water glass, piñon nuts in those hard seeds in sticky pods in fragrant trees in deep red canyons . . . nested Russian dolls, chocolate-covered cherries.
And so I love this blue-hued church inside a wall,
a church in time and out of it, a church in Lindisfarne, in northern England,
in my mind, just peeking through.
Things hidden, cradled safe, emerging from the
openings. Mysteries and mirth and miracles.
This bit of poem, I think, conveys the wonder of
their emergence.
There are openings in our lives
of which we know nothing.Through them
the belled herds travel at will,
long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.(Jane Hirshfield, from “The Envoy”)
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Lindisfarne Priory
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I saw that church. I was there too!
ReplyDeleteThings within other things. I suppose a sense of protection, of mystery, of sublime, of unknown all contribute to making it more special. I've never been fond of matryoshkas, but I admit there's something ancient and mythical about them.
The maternal womb, a cradle, a nest, an aura, oh how many concepts you brought up!
Thank you!
I'm not waxing philosophical today, but I would love to be at Lindisfarne! (Oddly enough, I usually seek the OUTside of things when I'm traveling . . . Probably my Gemini nature?)
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