My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I could have sworn I’d read this before as I remember reading quite a few of L’Engle’s nonfiction books before. But it doesn’t ring a bell when I flip through it. Regardless, L’Engle has a beautifully reflective style that melds faith, art, and life even when it is simply her journals. I’m looking forward to this book, which has been on my “to read” stack for much too long.
Wow. This is good. So much so that I find myself marking passage after passage, only to realize that I would be excerpting practically the entire thing. L’Engle is speaking to the artist of faith here, but I think her insights valuable to practically everyone.
When I am constantly running there is no time for being. I will never understand the silent dying of the green pie-apple tree if I do not slow down and listen to what the Spirit is telling me, telling me of the death of trees, the death of planets, of people, and what all these deaths mean in the light of love of the Creator, who brought them all into being, who brought me into being, and you.
This questioning of the meaning of being, and dying and being, is behind the telling of stories around tribal fires at night; behind the drawing of animals on the walls of caves; the singing of melodies of love in spring, and of the death of green in autumn. It is part of the deepest longing of the human psyche, a recurrent ache in the hearts of all God’s creatures.
So when the two messages, Listen to the silence. Stay open to the voice of the Spirit, and Slow me down, Lord, came, I was forced to listen, and even to smile …