Imagine That

Frederick, by Leo Lionni

All along the meadow where the cows grazed and the horses ran, there was an old stone wall. In that wall, not far from the barn and the granary, a chatty family of field mice had their home. But the farmers had moved away and the barn was abandoned, and the granary stood empty.

Winter was not far off, and so the little mice began to gather corn and nuts and wheat and straw. The all worked day and night. All–except Frederick. “Frederick, why don’t you work?” they asked.

“I do work,” said Frederick. “I gather sun rays for the cold dark winter days.”

Later, they saw Frederick sitting there, staring at the meadow. “And now what are you doing, Frederick?”

“I gather colors,” answered Frederick simply. “For winter is gray.” And then one time Frederick seemed half asleep.

“Are you dreaming, Frederick?” they asked reproachfully.

But Frederick said, “Oh no, I am gathering words. For the winter days are long and many, and we’ll run out of things to say.”

And the winter days did come, and when the first snow fell the five little mice took to their hideout in the stones. In the beginning there was lots to eat, and they told stories of foolish foxes and silly cats. They were a happy family.

But little by little they had nibbled up most of the nuts and berries, and the straw was gone and the corn was just a memory. It was cold in the wall and no one felt like chatting.

Then they remembered what Frederick had said about sun rays and colors and words. “What about your supplies, Frederick?” they asked?

“Close your eyes,” said Frederick climbing on a big stone. “Now I send you the rays of the sun. Do you feel how their golden glow warms our fur . . .” And as Frederick spoke of the sun, the little mice began to feel warmer. Was it Frederick’s voice? Was it magic?

“And how about the colors, Frederick?” they asked anxiously. And Frederick told them about the blue periwinkles, the red poppies in the yellow wheat and the green leaves of the berry bush. And they saw the colors as clearly as if they had been painted in their minds.

“And the words, Frederick?” Frederick cleared his troat and waited a moment. And then he said:

“Who scatters snowflakes? Who melts the ice?
Who spoils the weather? Who makes it nice?
Who grows the four-leaf clovers in June?
Who dims the daylight? Who lights the moon?

Four little field mice who live in the sky.
Four little field mice . . . like you and I.

One is the Springmouse who turns on the showers.
Then comes the Summer who paints in the flowers.
The Fallmouse is next with walnuts and wheat.
And Winter is last . . . with little cold feet.

Aren’t we lucky the seasons are four?
Think of a year with one less . . . or one more!”

When Frederick had finished they all applauded. But Frederick, they said, you are a poet! Frederick said shyly, “I know it.”

Second Reading: The reading is from Emerson’s essay, “The Poet.”

We are all poets at last, and the life of each has high and solemn moments which remind him of that fact in a manner he cannot choose but understand. Each of us is a part of eternity and immensity, a god walking in flesh, and the wildest fable that was ever invented, is less strange than this reality.

Sermon: Imagine That

It is the time of year when many of us try to change a little. We think about improving our habits, eating more fresh vegetables and whole grains, drinking more water and less caffeine, and we try to think optimistically about what is to come, about who we might become in the coming year. But this can be hard, not only because New Years resolutions can seem cliché. It is winter, the string of holidays are over, and we are very tired. As Frederick’s family of mice discovered, winter can bring resistance to movement, while at the same time fostering a hunger for warmth, for color, for hope and new beginnings. The time of year during which it can be hardest to look forward is also the time of year we need to remember, to imagine sun and spring the most. How can we go about it, how can we bring light and a little transformation into our lives? Emerson could not be more confident about our abilities in this regard. We are all poets, he says, we are all gods walking in the flesh. As we sit at our kitchen tables on New Years Day, in fuzzy robes, staring blankly at the newspaper and nursing a steaming cup of coffee (maybe I’ll give it up tomorrow) what can we do to realize ourselves as poets of our future, never mind gods.

I think we should ask Frederick the mouse. He might suggest that we start by staring at the sunset, collecting our colors. The “colors” we need to paint our future are not only those of the natural landscape. Nature is indeed beautiful, but it is not all we require. Think of each color you dab on your pallet as an experience you have had whose inspiration you want to bring to bear on your future. Think back to those moments that brought to you a sense of how you want to live. Stories of sacrifice that caught your breath and made you want to give more of yourself. A kind word or a long conversation with a friend that reminded you what a treasure and a gift friendship is. Watching a child draw or dance or play. Collect your pallet of moments that changed you, moments that taught you again how to see, and you will have the colors you need to sketch portraits of hope for the future.

Frederick’s magic dwelt in the power of his memory to re-create beauty and to bring about the memory of beauty in his community. His recalling of color and his poem, bring hope and meaning to his family’s winter days. So, too, can you collect the instances of beauty from your year and continue their work of transformation in you, by not forgetting them, but rather by imagining your life lit by the vibrant sunset they create. This process of remembering does not have to take the form of writing or journaling, though it might. This recollecting can take place during a conversation with someone close to you, during a time of meditation or prayer, or while composing a work of art. Taking the time to look back at what you never want to forget, and bring it forward into your future, is an exercise of poetic creation.

I want to remember the time I was up in the middle of the night comforting my daughter. As I stood in the ocean blue light of her room, only partially awake, I felt an ineffable sense of companionship and company with people all over the world who were up, caring for children, regardless of cost. I want to remember how my vison was altered when my son looked up in the sky and said that the clouds were the ancestors of bubbles, or when he reminded me with great seriousness that it is important for us to trust wolves. I want to remember the lines in a friend’s poem that transformed my dark image of graves into a possible place to tango when the thunder rumbles the earth. And there are things I would rather not recall, and rather not paint into my future self. Too many scenes from CSI Miami or Law and Order stay with me as dark smudges, reminders of how easily our imaginations absorb the stories and pictures we feed it, no matter how inconsequential it can seem to sit down to late night TV while folding the laundry. It amazes me how images of TV crime scenes haunt my mind, how chase scenes fill my dreams, after an mere hour of TV, even if I have spent the whole day reading poems and watching the ocean. The imagination can be brutally honest about what materials we have given it to work with. Emerson himself knew this all too well, when tragedy challenged his own optimism later in life.

Emerson’s line about us as gods in the flesh reminds me of #3 of Reverend Phillips’s historical affirmations of the Unitarian Universalist Faith on the back of your program. Rev. Phillips uses the excellent metaphor of the “spark” to describe the presence of divinity in each of us. It is a metaphor the 19th century Romantics would have liked. The poets and philosophers of that time were obsessed with the imagination, and the process of creation. Using any form you can think of –poetry, essay, criticism, painting–the Romantics understood the human imagination to be the dwelling place of this “spark” of God’s grace in our lives. To them, God’s raw, spontaneous power to create something out of nothing ignites our perception and inspires us to paint, using our distinctive collection of perceptions, ideas and memories.

So we are all poets. We are all painters of the landscape of the New Year, co-creators of the future. We are gardeners of our imaginations. Go, imagine, collect your dazzling array of colors, of perceptions and experiences and paint a mural of hope. Show it, describe it to those around you, and in so doing, transform the community. As the winter grows colder (and alas, we do want it to grow colder) bring the vibrant inspirations of the year–of your lives–to bloom in your garden. And know that as you toil, God is right there, as intimate to your creative work as the sun is to the green leaves of spring. As the poet composing your tomorrow, you become a god walking in flesh.

Courtney Lamberth