A prelude
Winter sunlight — however welcome — is startling. Our retinas become acclimated to the overcast, and our souls are keen to follow suit. On those few, treasured days when the sun sneaks a glimpse through window panes, I find myself wondering: who is this guest sprawling himself on my musty throw rug? Then, recalibrate: blink until the green dissipates and concede to the jarring warmth.
The sun insists upon a restful resistance. It does not necessarily dissolve the chill of winter in its entirety, but it does invite my skin to soften, my eyes to lighten. February sun, this boisterous delinquent, is a preamble to our springtime recollections of the resurrection, prompting us to consider what it might mean for death to unwind.
Ordinary reality – or, if you will, the Lord’s daily poetics – is smattered with subliminal rebirths. In her 1980 novel Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson gently depicts grieving characters as they reckon with similar manifestations of refracting light. Consider this following passage:
One day my grandmother must have carried out a basket of sheets to hang in the spring sunlight, wearing her widow’s black, performing the rituals of the ordinary as an act of faith. Say there were two or three inches of hard old snow on the ground, with earth here and there oozing through the broken places, and that there was warmth in the sunlight, when the wind did not blow it all away… That wind! she would say, because it pushed the skirts of her coat against her legs and made strands of her hair fly. It came down the lake, and it smelled sweetly of snow, and rankly of melting snow… The wind would be sour with stale snow and death and pine pitch and wildflowers.
In a month, those flowers would bloom. In a month all dormant life and arrested decay would begin again…. So that wind that billowed her sheets announced to her the resurrection of the ordinary. Soon the skunk cabbage would come up, and the cidery smell would rise in the orchard, and the girls would wash and starch and iron their cotton dresses.1
In the coming season of lent, we at The Clayjar invite you to contemplate the ways in which you daily practice resurrection in the midst of winter’s pangs. We implore you to honor the meaning to be found in unresolved melodies and articulate them as you feel compelled.
We hope you consider enriching our spring issue with your uniquely flavored thoughts on our theme: practice resurrection. We are eager to receive your words and soak in their artistry and nuance.
Submissions for The Clayjar Review’s Spring Issue are now open!
We accept both poetry and prose submissions. For more information regarding what we’re looking for and how to submit, click the link below.
As you go
Our theme is derived from Wendell Berry’s poem “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” which you can read below to stimulate further thought.
And, finally, a curated playlist for you to enjoy while you ponder this theme.
Robinson, Housekeeping, 16-17.
Can’t wait to listen to the playlist 🎧
Apricity- the warmth of the sun in winter.