Monday, January 19, 2026
One evening I looked out the window, Orion was close, and swollen, to the west of the barn, in front of the kitchen window. Where before in the summer we could only see him in the middle of night, bright and far away, crisp. The Northern lights aren’t showing themselves behind clouds and a cold wind, even though there is a G4 solar flare. When I was a young girl, I loved looking at the stars and thinking about Psalm 8:
When I consider your heavens, the moon and the stars, which you have ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him and the son of man that you visit him. 1
The stars, untroubled by light pollution, in the Adirondacks, were so brilliant, I could be lost looking at them. I felt like I was looking at creation close to God. They hurt my eyes, my neck sore from looking up, my skin stinging with mosquito bites and slaps. Now the utter vastness, miles measured in light years measured in numbers I can’t fathom, feels claustrophobic. Eternity, ages unto the ages, well, whatever that means for my resurrected life I will have to trust the Lord, in whom I take refuge but if I think too hard, I feel a terror that wearies me. This God who heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds, who determines the number of the stars and gives them all names2, is beyond reckoning. And beyond me. When I see a sparrow banging against a window in the barn, to get out, I wish I could be a sparrow to show her the way out. I am grateful God made himself known as a man, who speaks a human language. I can shelter knowing that He has healed my broken heart, dried my tears, and slowly implacably healed my wounds. I choose to trust He will be with me, with all of us humans, outside of time.
I have loved Orion for years. Here’s a poem that was one of my first Northern Public Radio posts:
Riding Orion’s Shoulders
Orion is slinging his leg
over the horizon about the time
I step out to walk the dogs.
He is huge, leaning next to the horizon.
Last spring, he left
like the loner riding into the sunset.
He became swollen
like a sun running out of fuel.
I missed our evenings,
though sometimes I’d catch his eye before dawn.
I rode those shoulders once last winter,
I only let him lift me as high as an aerial photo.
As he stood up, the farm receded.
Night barked when I dropped his leash.
Orion’s shoulders burned under my thighs.
Frightened by that naked height,
I screamed.
Even though he is a hunter,
even though his belt is buckled and stern,
he gently set my feet down.
There just might be something
to the idea the universe longs to help us.
I am no longer startled
by Orion standing in front of our porch,
his hand reaching down,
to lift me to his shoulders.
I know this sounds imaginary, crazy;
but the world is so full of wonder,
it might do us all good if we reached for Orion’s hand,
or took a sip from the Big Dipper
or even just touched a tree gone quiet for winter,
and let them lift us, into terror maybe,
into a new perspective, into joy.3
And then there’s the shepherd Amos’ response:
Seek him who makes the Pleiades and Orion and turns deep darkness into the morning, and darkens the day into night; who calls for the waters of the sea and pours them out upon the surface of the earth. The Lord is his name.4
And there’s God’s questioning Job:
Can you Bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the cords of Orion? Can you lead forth the Mazzaroth in their season, or can you guide the Bear with its children? Do you know the ordinances of the heavens: Can you establish their rule on earth? 5
And the best verse:
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars; He gives to all of them names.6
For fun, here’s another poem with Orion from my poetry collection that is mythic and sexy:
A Woman Grieves
Venus used to pull me as she followed
The sun into someone else’s day.
She drew wine until I was sore
In the praise oozing to a heaven of stars.
I miss the teasing lips; the heroes-her lovers
She sent to drink, tonguing a breeze in my ear,
Their eyes splintering light on a lake.
Men touch me and I’m dry, their fingers
Moisten me until I’m only as damp as their sweat.
There, water once poured like trees breaking.
They’re poured into their work. I’m poured out.
Orion my lover won’t rise until November.
I look for his thigh slung over the mountain
And for some word whether our mistress will bring
Wisdom back from the sun and let me get drunk.7
So many signs in the sky, comets have almost become common, and northern lights down by us, are almost boring because they’ve appeared so often. A few years ago we saw a comet with our very own eyes, not just binoculars or phone. His nose was pointed down, tail flung up behind him, against the amber evening sky. You could almost see his forelegs pointed down, tail flipped up, a sport horse coming off a fence. And this year interstellar comet, Comet 3I Atlas captured my imagination when Avi Loeb thought it might be some kind of spaceship. (It’s a highly unusual comet.) I hoped it was Jesus returning in the clouds, fed up with our wickedness and finally saying it’s time for new creation to rise from the ground when his trumpet blasts. After all He did say,
There will be signs in sun and moon and stars and on the earth distress of nations in perplexity because of the roaring of the sea and the waves.8
Tuesday, January 20, 2026
This morning, Aiden barked at 5 am, not something he does, so we stepped into our day. The sky had cleared. I saw a faint light to the north, faint like an angel might appear. So I wrangled him to stay still and pointed my phone. The purple lights appeared. I snapped a few pictures and walked on. Orion had knelt close to the western horizon, so I didn’t get a good look at him, though I’m not sure I was that interested. I needed to switch dogs, so Omalola could have her potty break. By then the sun was too present and the lights were gone.
Since I’m so fascinated by the sky these days, I signed up for Imitating Heaven a class put out by Symbolic World. Here are the details in case you’re interested: Imitating Heaven, The Structure and Meaning in Ancient Cosmology. Live classes are on Sundays 5 – 6:30 EST. from February 1 – March 8, 2026.
Wednesday, January 21, 2026
Bruce stopped by the milk house. He was hauling the poop wagon back from picking Mrs. Horse’s manure from her paddock. If we don’t keep ahead of it, come mud season, we’ve got a nasty mess. “What are you looking at?” I asked. I walked over. Many honeybees lying in the snow. One was moving, so Bruce lifted it up to the hive’s opening. These bees have lived here for several years. A few years ago, they even split and swarmed. “They must have been warmed by the sun and come out,” he said. Saddest thing I’ve seen in awhile. Sterilizing cold. We’ll see if the hive survives.
Thursday January 22, 2026
I walked out this morning with both dogs who are way too much to handle together, but I must take both for their first potty break because Aiden has been known to pee in his crate if I don’t. Mrs Dog is not happy to share her walks with the Mr Dog. She lets us both know by barking, by grabbing his leash, by dragging him. He chases her back. With the below zero wind chills, our walks are short. (I’ve decided to call them Mr. and Mrs. so I can stop misgendering them.)
My goodness what a beautiful morning with the sun breaking over the horizon, the slightly orange, slightly yellow and gray clouds broken enough so we saw blue sky, and shadows on the ground.
Then I turned them out in the newly fenced yard to work out their relationship and burn off their energy. Mr and Mrs Dog are like racehorses dancing in the gate, when I unhook their leashes and open it. They burst out and run hard. It’s a beautiful sight to see them lean into their run, chasing each other, blowing off energy. It’s also not all bad that Mrs. Dog shows Mr. Dog who’s boss. When Omalola was a pup, Mrs. Dog’s breeder told me to let the older dog have her way to teach her manners, but Dolly was too old to rough house.
It’s winter and I have come to ground. I have no desire to take them to dog class, even though both dogs pull too hard when they walk out, they challenge each other, and my mittens with handwarmers are too clumsy. It’s too bitter to offer treats from my pocket which brings them under control. Besides Mr. Dog leaps for my loose glove when I pull my hand out. I walk into chaos first thing in the morning but I thank the sun breaking over the horizon for the shine on my face.
Even with dogs to train—it’s easier to think of those exercises as games--I can’t take my eyes off the chaos in our country, as if witnessing the turmoil, as if deciding what I think about confusing narratives, will change anything. I’ve already been committed to not sharing my opinions. What’s the point? The news cycle will move along, and new chaos, new conflicting narratives will rise. Likely I will be sparked by new outrage, someone’s comments making their home in my sleep, so I wake up repeating arguments I could make instead of the Jesus Prayer.
(Someone said we’d might do well, to wake with thanksgiving, which would be a good practice, but too many things happen in my sleep, not to grab onto “Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, be merciful to me a sinner.” The Shepherdess on Substack has modified it to: “Lord Jesus Christ, son of the living God, thank you for everything”.9)
Psalm 37, the Daily office Psalm, took me up short:
Fret Not Yourself because of evil doers,
be not envious of wrongdoers!
For they will soon fade like the grass
And wither like the green herb
Trust in the Lord, and do good;
Dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness
Delight yourself in the Lord,
And he will give you the desires of
Your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord;
Trust in him and he will act
He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
And your justice as the noonday.10
It seems to me this not only applies to personal interactions, it might also apply to the chaos, the work of deciding what to think. Whenever there’s a national trauma, I can’t take my eyes off the news. I open a thread in my favorite political group and read along. The “wrong doers” in this verse might be the chaos itself, the thing that wiggles its finger, enticing me to look and look again. It’s a sticking my nose in the death that William Stringfellow says comprises how American society has “kindship of principalities with the moral reality of death.” 11 The principalities and powers hover behind nations, directing our culture to choose death, a choice that has become blatantly obvious.
Why even bother trying to figure out if a person’s actions are justified or not? My opinion can’t change the outcome or anyone’s mind, but I can pray.
I can aspire to keeping my nose out, but I’m easily sucked in. Just now I opened my phone to Facebook, got sucked into a thread about the latest drama. “Fret not yourself because of evildoers.” My gosh I need to hang that phrase in my heart.
Wouldn’t it be better if I tore my eyes away from the drama and cracked open a book, or played with Mr and Mrs Dog or meditated on the above advice or asked Mrs. Horse to dance with me or actually tasted my meals or sat with Bruce in silence or took a nap? I trust this advice warning us to not be riled up by someone’s opinion.
I resent. I resent. I resent the pastors who spout their politics but then I catch myself. I’m not refraining from anger or forsaking wrath as it says farther down in the Psalm 12. If I don’t catch it, a root of bitterness might spring up. The principalities are jerking my chain to resent other humans. See to it that no root of bitterness springs up13. See to it.
And there’s so much to delight in the Lord. The way clouds and blue sky and fields can dab color even on a bitter winter day. The biting, sterilizing cold. The barn cat peeking out from the barn door to catch sun light. Both he and Ma Cat are in my prayers to survive this. They have a barn full of hay to insulate them and thick coats. We keep them fed and watered. The row of icicles hanging off the barn. Mrs. Horse eating hay so rich it’s still green against the snow. The curtains pulled away so the sun can warm the south facing rooms. The liturgy that leads us to take Christ’s body and blood. The pastor charged with offering those sacraments and tending the people in his or her care. Neighbors’ stories. The blessed water, we are dunked in the Names, we get to die, we get to rise to new creation, here, now. The prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, thank you so much.
References
1 Psalm 8: 3 – 4, ESV
2 Psalm 147: 3 – 4, ESV
3 Perspectives, December 22, 2015, WNIJ
4 Amos 5: 8 -9, ESV
5 Job 38: 31 – 33, ESV
6 Psalm 147: 3 – 4, ESV
7 When the Plow Cuts, Thorntree Press, 1988, 46
8 Luke 21: 25, ESV
9 Shepherdess. January 24,
10 Psalm 37: 1 – 4, ESV
11. William Stringfellow. An Ethic for Christians and Other Aliens in a. Strange Land. p.18
12. Psalm 37: 8, ESV
13. Hebrews 12:15, ESV
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