Circle Evermore

a devotional for spring

I cannot dance, O Lord, unless Thou lead me.
If Thou wilt that I leap joyfully
Then must Thou Thyself first dance and sing!
     Then will I leap for love
From love to knowledge,
From knowledge to fruition,
From fruition to beyond all human sense

There will I remain
And circle evermore. 

(Mecthild of Magdeburg)

I was re-reading through my commonplace book this weekend (a collection of personal favorite quotes) when this prayer caught my eye, and I thought I might include it in our devotional this week instead of an original poem. It is by Mecthild of Magdeburg, a Beguine, mystic, and nun living in the 1200s in Germany who left behind fiery works of visionary literature as her legacy. 

To me, there is a very springlike verve to this prayer. The imagery of dancing, of God rising to show us the steps so that we may follow. Of sprouting, growing, and maturing through the spiritual stages: love, knowledge, fruition, and beyond. An eternal circling on the breath of divinity (evoking the work of another mystic, Hildegard of Bingen).

These days, we are surrounded by God’s whirling circle, His joyous dance. In our greenhouse, the leeks, broccoli, peas, chard, and mustard seeds are all sprouting. Outside, the wild osoberry and salmonberry and rose canes have bright green buds on them. In one of my favorite annual miracles, I stop by the old herb beds to see who survived the winter and I’m pleased to find that everyone is showing signs of life: hyssop and horehound, yarrow and feverfew, mint and oregano, comfrey and chives, mugwort and motherwort. The rhubarb is bright and vibrant, like a resurrection. 

All are alive. All are rising. 

The fires are lit below the earth, and the God Who Dances invites each tiny green flame to lick the winter-brown trees. Soon, I won’t even remember what it looked like, so grim and bare. Soon there will be riotous applause in every breeze.

Circles in the puddles, on the pond as raindrops fall. But there’s sunshine in the forecast, and our first taste of warmth. That, too, is a sign that the wheel is turning. 

Spring can feel like spinning, spinning, but I force myself to slow down and watch the Dancer’s steps, to see where He places His balance, to pay close attention to His breath. 

I long to memorize His grace so that I might try it, too.

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