Wingbeats

What a strong link there is between creation and resurrection. - Under the dead green tree I sit and sing my only song. There is nothing else left, the sap has gone. No wonder I feel the way I do, like a root which has dried out. Who or what can restore me? Can I be restored? Or resurrected, which is an entirely different thing?

I am bidden to sing, as Caedmon in the story was bidden to sing by the angel in the tree. 'Sing the creation to me.' This is not the song alone of how the world was formed, but the song which generates the sap in my limbs. Creativity seems too mild a word for something which saves your life, but it is that too.

Like Caedmon, I don't know how to sing on my own, away from the choir, from the support of the thundering organ and the congeniality of company. 'Sing,' bids the angel. My voice is as rusty as that gate behind me, my muscles seem perished with dew. How can I raise a song? 'Sing,' says the angel.

There is no hint of theology here, no god of any religion whatsoever. For my sins I must sing. For all creation I must sing. Only the angel hears. I think the crow in the tree can do better. But it is enough. The choir is here now, the organ pipes are here with me, in my voice. I could write a library of wise volumes and not know what I meant. Or I can sing, and never know if the angel is pleased. But I have done what was bidden of me. 'Sing the creation to me.'

Jay

© Landar 2012. All rights reserved

Picture: Caedmon on the celtic cross at Whitby (from the story in Bede)

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