Led by Light

December 31st, 2025 | Click to Comment

I like the way the threshold of the new year falls midway on the arc between Christmas and Epiphany. With the bustle of Christmas preparations accomplished, there’s a set-apart nature to these days before the world takes up its usual pace again.

There’s a tapestry that echoes this sense of transition and bridges this turning of the year. It’s an image of divinity born into the world, which is honored by those with the wisdom to see. It reminds me that the divine indwelling we’ve just celebrated at Christmas is what carries us forward into the unfolding of the new year.

Adoration of the Magi is a William Morris tapestry that took years to complete. It depicts the light that leads us to the heart of our lives, and the hush of the encounter we find there. The model for the tapestry was painted by British artist Edward Burne-Jones. A friend pointed out that he was part of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a movement of artists reaching back toward a medieval aesthetic they experienced as closer to the Source.

The tapestry took almost four years to weave. It was commissioned by the Rector of Exeter College in Oxford, England, who did not live to see its completion. The piece was to hang among stained glass windows, and thus incorporated vibrant color in order to hold its own in that setting. It was completed and installed in 1890.

In the center, an angel uses two hands to hold aloft a source of light. On one side, Mary is seated holding the baby with Joseph standing behind. On the other side, the magi approach the holy family with their gifts.

The light high in the center is what sent me searching out the source of an image I encountered briefly last year. The skillful and beautiful rendition of light held me riveted. Christmas is all about light, and I was glad to find a reproduction of the tapestry to display for the holidays.

This piece of art, like most everything we create, blooms from a long series of artistic expressions offered over millennia. The color and scale of the masterfully woven original tapestry was informed by the work of architects and stained-glass artists. The light conveyed on the tapestry is a study of the painting by Edward Burne-Jones rendered into tactile form. His original work on canvas is elevated by a long history of artistic explorations of light and form, and it visually conveys the story that unfolds in the written words of scripture. That story in turn is translated from the ancient language of a time and place far away, by writers who make it accessible to their own culture. In every iteration, artists keep meaning and beauty alive in a new form, shining its light into their own time.

There’s more to learn about this tapestry, particularly about the symbolism of the various plants in the background. Each would have had its own associations and metaphorical meaning. The work is perceived by the mind along with the heart, with a presence that resonates in the body as well.

When we connect with art it kindles new experiences and new realities. Creation happens anew. We carry the light into an ever-new context, even as the light leads our way.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Illumination

July 9th, 2021 | Click to Comment

For a few minutes in the early morning, the angle of light from the sun, the tree line out back, the frame of a particular window and doorway, all align perfectly to send a shard of light across the kitchen counter. It illuminates a simple notepad I keep there. This narrow pointer of sunlight travels through the house from another room—an alignment that happens only around the summer solstice.

I’m still learning the light in this house and across this bit of land. Even now as I write, the changing angle of light illuminates a small brass nail on the oak floor. It must have fallen there, unnoticed, in a recent round of hanging art on the wall. For a moment the nail is easy to see, though when the light changes it will disappear again.

This week I read David Whyte’s “The House of Belonging.” There’s a subtle trinity in this poem—of wholeness in oneself, belonging, and connection. Whyte’s words embody a peace that comes from knowing that even in solitariness, he’s not alone. His sense of belonging comes from the connection of the soul to its source, to the mystery and beauty of all things, and to life itself. This connection to life is a connection to his own depths. It imbues every interaction with meaning and vitality. The sense of belonging that arises from this deep presence connects him to his home and the “housely angels” that dwell there. The feeling of belonging also connects him to those he loves, whom he welcomes into his home and his life. Belonging fosters an open heart, where others can belong.

Whyte is describing a moment of transcendence when he can see how his life is connected to a greater reality. Sometimes we can see the connection; sometimes we can’t. The golden threads that link our lives to the divine and to one another only show up when the light is just right. In the holy moments when we are most alive, these sacred threads of connection are illuminated. They show us the beauty of our lives. We see them in the light of a poem, a conversation, a loving touch, an image, a ritual, a prayer, a moment of beauty, or countless other ways.

We so easily lose sight of those golden threads. The light shifts, and the sense of wholeness and belonging that they bring seems to disappear. We forget that we’re connected; we lose track of how much our lives matter. It’s an illusion, of course. The golden threads remain as surely as that brass nail on the wooden floor, hidden in plain sight.

Walk on this earth with bare feet, connected to the ground, feeling for the sharp edges, the prick of the nail’s point. Watch for a new angle of light, revealing what is right there, the truth in plain sight that we’re finally able to see.

Susan Christerson Brown

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Winter Solstice and Newgrange

December 19th, 2019 | Click to Comment

It’s easy to feel how near we are to the winter solstice. The exact time of the solstice occurs this Saturday night, December 21, at 11:48 p.m., but we each have our own internal sense of reaching this turn. As the days grow shorter and the dark descends earlier there’s a twinge of dismay. We know better than to worry—the days will lengthen soon enough—but nonetheless we light candles and extra strings of lights to ward off the dark. The hustle and bustle can be a welcome distraction from that instinctive unease.

A dramatic marking of the winter solstice was built at Newgrange in Ireland around 3200 BCE. At the solstice sunrise, the first ray of light above the horizon pierces the center of a long, narrow passage, illuminating a small, womblike room deep within the structure. There is just enough space to stand along the circular stone walls surrounding the chamber’s main feature—an enormous stone basin resting on the ground. The shaft of sunlight at the winter solstice shines directly onto a spiral design carved into the far wall.

We hold much in common with those who built this magnificent structure. Though our culture has made huge advances in science and technology, we are reliant on the same earth and the same sun to give us life. With the growing dark, we are subject to the same ancient sense of dread stirring deep in the psyche. We may not believe that our rituals cause the sun to return, but we wait expectantly and experience a sense of relief when it does.

The festival of lights in this season is something we need, whatever our religious traditions may be. In the midst of it all, there’s a pagan soul within me that insists on marking the solstice. The winter solstice is the herald of the new year.

This year, I’m remembering the wide stone bowl that fills the chamber deep within the mound at New Grange. When I was there, I had the overwhelming feeling that the basin was a place to give birth.

At the solstice this year, I’m holding that basin in mind and asking: What wants to be born in the new year?

What question are you holding here on the verge of the solstice?

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