This afternoon, I had an unexpected pause in the day, around 3:00 p.m. I was able to stop for awhile, and park near a famous cove on Cape Ann, Folly Cove.  The name came from a failed experiment of harvesting salt, or so I hear.  I thought it was named for the the “folly” structure overlooking the Cove from one of the ledges nearby, an octagonal building, in gazebo style, or perhaps a Japanese style–hard to tell at a distance, looking across the water.

It’s a quiet afternoon; very little traffic on the road next to the Cove. A few parents drive by, to wait up the street at the bus stop for their children. I think someone recognizes my car, and honks.  After several minutes, I lose awareness of the time, though the waves of the water keep pace with heartbeats.  A small flock of buffleheads, black and white males, brown females, bob in and out of the shallows; the tide is mostly out. Ice travels down the crevices of the granite ledge, and the sun shines in low on the north side.  It’s just cold enough to feel like winter, though warm enough to keep the car window open, and even to get out and wander on the rocks, take a few pictures of the afternoon. More and more I wonder what it would be like just to paint them, as so many others do, here in the warmer months. Now and again, a hardier painter sets up near the water, but usually painters paint at other times of the year.  It’s so quiet.

We are just passing into the third phase of Christmastide–Epiphany was yesterday; the Baptism of Jesus is celebrated on Sunday, and then followed by a few weeks of so-called Ordinary Time.  We’ll take down the greens, and the stars, though the memory will be strong. January weather will chill us, but so far this winter, we haven’t had any big snows. Everyone in the neighborhood is grateful for that.  I am so grateful for pauses in the day, especially after stressful mornings and afternoons, like today’s.  I’ve already driven over a hundred miles today, back and forth, here and there, my car, my monastery in motion, silence in between conversations; too many phone calls, too many emails go out, from my side, and are mostly unanswered.  I took a survey recently on pastoral work and technology. “Does technology help you feel more connected to your community?” the surveyors asked. No, not at all, I answered. It’s more distancing.  Unlike rock and water, flesh and bone.  What makes me feel closer are moments like these, when I know the sight, sound, smell, of the ocean will catch anyone who goes by, and more likely than not, we’ll remember and pause in the day, in reverent awe, even if it’s only a few seconds, of the immensity of sky and sea, the solitude of rocks, the friendliness of buffle-heads bobbing on the depths of mysteries too great to fathom.  The baby was born, the light shines, the afternoon passes, the January night draws in, the stars emerge, now, with the promise that God so loves  the world, he shoulders our humanity in himself, and from the cradle reaches toward those who will hold him near.