I awoke to a cold, drizzly, blue, mist-soaked morning here on Bear Mountain, and immediately two thoughts rose up in me. First, we have entered what I’ve long called the “blue time of the year”, not only in terms of how the season settles on the spirit, but in the rhythm of the Church’s ancient calendar as well.
We have stepped into Saint Martin’s Lent, that old and half-forgotten fast stretching from St. Martin’s Day on November 11th to the dawn of Advent. It was once a season marked by quiet preparation, generosity toward the poor, and a gentle turning inward before the brighter celebrations of Christmas. It is a time for tending the soul with the same care we use in stacking wood, mending coats, or trimming lamps against the winter dark.
And it is also the time when the shadows lengthen for many, when depression and loneliness settle in like unwelcome guests. Every now and then, the fire within us weakens, and we are left with a cold hearth and only a fading memory of warmth and joy.
So I ask you, especially in this season shaped by Saint Martin’s compassion: Please take time to make a difference in someone’s life. Take time to care. Take time to let someone know they are seen and loved.
Help them tend their fading ember. Help them kindle their fire anew, that the flame of love may grow again, warming their own hearts and then radiating outward to those around them. This is the work of Saint Martin’s Lent. And it is the work of love.
Blessing of the Kindling
From the Carmina Gadelica
I will kindle my fire this morning
In presence of the holy angels of heaven,
In presence of Ariel of the loveliest form,
In presence of Uriel of the myriad charms,
Without malice, without jealousy, without envy,
Without fear, without terror of any one under the sun,
But the Holy Son of God to shield me.
Without malice, without jealousy, without envy,
Without fear, without terror of any one under the sun
But the Holy Son of God to shield me.
God, kindle Thou in my heart within
A flame of love to my neighbour,
To my foe, to my friend, to my kindred all,
To the brave, to the knave, to the thrall,
O Son of the loveliest Mary,
From the lowliest thing that liveth,
To the Name that is highest of all.
O Son of the loveliest Mary,
From the lowliest thing that liveth,
To the Name that is highest of all.