As I mentioned during a Christmas post last year, the O Oriens Antiphon gets reinterpreted in Old English, to the well-known "Eala Earendel engla beorhtast" which so stirred Tolkien that it gave birth to his Earendil myth, so of course this illustrations is getting the full Tolkien treatment, with our little Lord playing at being Earendil:
The words "oriens" and "earendel" seem to be related, (I went down the linguistic rabbit hole last year on this) and are a part of a whole legion of ear/eos based words and names which all seem to have a fiery/daystar/ dawning meaning to them. For those who care about such things, Carl F. Hostetter has a very good article dealing with this matter (my rabbit holing seems to have been a reduplication of his research) and he lays it all out far better than I could.
And here is the antiphon being sung-- it amuses me very much that "oriens" in German becomes "morgenstern". I mean, it means morning star but morgenstern has such a German banker quality to it. (And since we are on a slightly linguistic track here.... that "or" element in 'morgenstern" could be related to "oriens" and "earendel")
I did not post yesterday, and for that I apologise. I am making up for it by posting yesterday and today's antiphons together.
I am also not going to write anything at all about them, though I shall recommend again that you visit A Clerk of Oxford read all of her delightful research about the O Antiphons and their poetic English adaptions. Instead, I shall tell a story about why I did not post yesterday, and how very indulgent our dear Lord can be towards His idiotic children.
I must begin with, I must admit that I am not, by nature, a particularly social creature. I do not generally enjoy big get togethers (with rare exceptions for family shindigs and the like... and even with those, I tend to require some down time afterwards), and my dislike of them increases the bigger they are, and the more people in attendance whom I do not know. Yesterday, we were scheduled to have a get together at work-- and while I can usually deal with the regular old staff Christmas party (though, again, I do not enjoy them) I get anxious when the invitations start going out to people I do not know, even if they are technically coworkers (insofar as they are employed by the same county as I am). Yesterday's do was a combination of a farewell luncheon for our Library Director, who is retiring at the end of this month, a Branch Managers' meeting with at least 6 people who are effectively strangers (for all I have seen them occasionally over my many years of service) and the usual staff party. And I have been dreading it for months. I would have rather been sick, go to therapy, have a root canal, etc, than to attend this thing... in spite of the fact that for a rarity, it was not on an Ember Day in Advent, and that it boasted a very delectable spread (my coworkers being a very foodie group of people). I was actually praying I would catch the virulent cold going around, so that I would not have to put in an appearance, and make small talk with people whose interests are almost guaranteed to be nothing at all like mine. It wasn't a terribly wild hope-- several people at work have already succumbed, and I might be the single remaining healthy person in my family.
And yet, to my great discouragement, I remained obdurately hale and robust.
.... Until yesterday.....
When I woke up with a slightly scratchy throat, a feeling of great tiredness, and a weariness in my joints, that turned into just a bit of an achiness as I was up an about.
It was all very mild. I have soldiered through much worse. And so I got myself up and to work, feeling rather sad that the cold I was obviously getting, was going to be behind schedule, and I was going to be even less inclined to be around people, thanks to all that tired.
I felt worse once I got to work. This is usual for me. By that time I've been up about 2 hours and am starting to lose the morning sluggishness I have even on the best of days. That is when I find out if my general malaise is a fleeting thing, or if I am actually going to have a bad day. In this case, I did not trust my own judgment in the slightest, as I so desperately wanted to not be there. and figured I was psyching myself into feeling worse than I was. I made a deal with God: I wasn't going home unless I got sent home-- and unlikely contingency, as my boss was in her meeting, and everyone else was excited about morning break, and the coffee cake in the back. Besides, I was healthy, just not wanting to be at work.
... Only, one of my coworkers noticed I was dragging..... and then another..... and before I really knew what was happening, I found one of them ladling up a bowl of soup and another putting a rib and mashed potatoes on a plate to take home with me, and though I protested that I felt bad leaving them, and that I was scheduled to work the desk for 4 hours that afternoon, I was gently but firmly shown the door.
So I went home, feeling only slightly bad about it, because I had made a deal with God, figuring that I was going to be spending the day Offering Things Up, and He sent me home.
And I slept for 3 hours, which tends to mean I truly am getting sick.
And woke up today feeling fine.
So that just goes to show-- Our very silly, sentimental God can be ridiculously indulgent of His idiot children, even when they do not deserve it in the slightest.
And now, the O Antiphon from yesterday: O Radix Jesse, and the Antiphon for today: O Clavis Dauvid, along with their appropriate music:
The word "Adonai" is an interesting one. It Hebrew, and means "My Lord", though, if you go to this website, you will see there is more to it than a straightforward translation. I like that it more literally means "My Foundation", tough I find the idea of calling God "sir" or "mister" rather more amusing than I ought. But the same root that gave us Adonai (adon) also gives us Adonis. That juxtaposition has always produced a "Miles Christus" image in my mind, so you are getting a sketch featuring what is meant to be a Lordly personage, and though it doesn't show up so well, there is a sword upon Him. The Middle English text translates " Dux domus" as "Chieff Duke" which makes me smile somewhat, in its comfortable familiarity.
Today, December 17th, marks the beginning of the Great O Antiphons. I have written about these days before Christmas elsewhere on this blog, and shall not repeat myself here. Instead, I am intending to do something slightly different this time around: I am going to make little drawings of them, but the wording on them will be in both Latin, and in Old, or Middle English as well. There was a long tradition of English poetry based off these Antiphons, that I find very beautiful, and also, rather homely-- in the British sense. Also, rather than posting a Gregorian Chant of each antiphon, I will be highlighting the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt's compositions.
Today's Antiphon runs thusly: O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodidisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviter disponensque omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae. In Modern English it translates: O Wisdom, who came from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from end to end and ordering all things mightily and sweetly: come, and teach us the way of prudence. For some inexplicable reason, the Middle English source I discovered today (On the incomparable Clerk of Oxford blog) translates "viam prudentiae" as "way of flight). And while I am quite aware that Latin 'p' becomes 'f' in English, and that 'l' and 'r' can be somewhat interchangeable (think of how we pronounce "colonel") I can see no way that prudentiae could every become flight. Nor has an admittedly cursory etymological dig about ze internets turned up anything that might even slightly shed light upon this oddity. Still, I liked the imagery-- the flight of God's Wisdom teaching us to fly as He does-- and so, Wisdom, in my doodle, is an odd, winged thing.
As I have mentioned recently, I am exceedingly delighted by the effect of drawing in white on a black background. I love how that interplay gives off such a delightful impression of light-- moonlight, starlight, snowlight, the gemlight of pearl and crystal. It isn't a particularly warm combination-- you will notice all the examples I give are of quite cold, clear lights. And yet, that is part of the charm of it: stars are brightest in the cold, clear air of winter, and are their most beautiful. The pale light that snow gives off has no warmth to it, but by it, the darkest time of the year is brightened, and the heart is cheered by the sight. (Not, of course, that I am suggesting my own doodling carries anything of that with it; but drawing in this reverse fashion gives me the same sort of feeling.) Therefore, this year's Antiphons shall be done up in white on black:
I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In, seems a good almost-Epiphany song, so that is what I am going to post today:
Today is also the feast day of St. Edward the Confessor, the last Anglo Saxon King of England and the uncle of St. Margaret of Scotland. I did spend a certain amount of the day attempting research on Anglo Saxon Christmases, to very little avail. I did, however, and most happily make a discovery. In spite of my interest in Old English language and poetry, I am only passingly familiar with Cynewulf's Crist -- here meaning that I am very aware of its importance, know that it is an epic poem on about our Lord, and (because I am me) that it is the poem containing the line Eala Earendel, Engla Beorhtast, which inspired Tolkien's story of Earendil. What I did not know is that the first part of the poem-- the Advent part, the part praising the bright light of Earendel-- are a poetic expansion of the Great O Antiphons sung by the Church during the last days leading up to Christmas. This delighted me all out of proportion. So, in order to sneak in a little Anglo Saxon, in honour of King Edward, I am presenting to you the following:
Last year, I posted Hayley Westenra's version of the Corpus Christi Carol, and I was a day late on it. This post is two days past the date of the feast of Corpus Christi - but I have only just discovered this extremely fine version of the carol and have absolutely fallen in love with it. The tune and the arrangement are nothing at all like Hayley's version, but it is quite beautiful:
... Was actually yesterday, so I am a day late on this post. However, I meant to do a post, and was excited about the post I meant to do, so you are getting it today instead. I present to you, The Corpus Christi Carol. Hayley Westenra sings this on her Christmas album, and that is where first I heard it. Obviously, it is not really a Christmas carol, even though the word carol is almost exclusively associated with Christmas these days.
Lulley, lully, lulley, lully,
The faucon hath born my mak
away.
He bare hym up, he bare hym down,
He bare hym into an orchard
brown.
In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hanged with purpill and
pall.
And in that hall ther was a bede,
Hit was hangid with gold so
rede.
And yn that bede ther lythe a knyght,
His wowndes bledyng day and
nyght.
By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both nyght and
day.
And by that bedes side ther stondith a ston,
"Corpus Christi" wretyn
theron.
The medieval imagery is intensely allegorical. Most obviously are the symbols of the Wounded Knight, Who is a figure of Christ Crucified, and the weeping may (maiden) who is a figure of His most holy Mother. The barren, brown orchard is open to numerous interpretations: the desolation of the world after the fall of Adam; the emptiness of a soul in sin; death itself, perhaps. The colours too suggest meanings. Purple is the liturgical colour for Lent, and days of penance. Red is used for feasts of martyrs and symbolises blood. Gold is used for high feasts, such as Easter. The word mak here, is an old word for mate, or more specifically, love. The phrase itself is ambiguous, and lends itself to numerous interpretations, but it reminiscent of Mary Magdalene's cry, "They have taken away my Lord; and I do not know where they have laid Him".
The figure of Christ as a knight, or a warrior was very common in medieval allegory. So does he appear in the Old English poem, The Dream of the Rood. In The Vision of Piers Plowman, He appears as a knight, jousting for men's souls. There is a very old poem by William Herbert, Quis est iste qui uenit de Edom contains the line 'what is he, this lordling, that cometh in from the fight?' The imagery is particularly vivid - the Young Hero who dies love - and ties in very beautifully with the Sleeping King/Sleeping Hero myths that abound in mythology.
At the beginning of "The Lord of the Rings" Tolkien mentions that hobbits' homes tend to get cluttered up with mathoms - a lovely word he took from the Old English, meaning something precious, a treasure. This tendency of the hobbits is one of a goodly number of things about them that reminds me very much of myself. I am much given to the acquiring and collecting of things. Some of my things are very ordinary things. Books, of course. I do not have a bedroom so much as a library in disguise; music as well, and a shocking amount of bric-a-brackacquired, hobbit-like over the years, from friends and family, and of which I am very fond. Some of my things might seem rather odd at first glance: cap badges, for example, or metal soldiers. But I have everything neatly arranged so that I mostly manage to avoid clutter, while still being able to enjoy my possessions.
My most recently acquired mathom is this. It is a soldier's rosary from WWII.
I came across across a picture of one on the Internet about a month or so ago, when I was looking for something else entirely, and was terribly intrigued by it. So I did a bit of research, and discovered that it is hard to find out very much about them at all. They were made during the First and Second World Wars, and are generally referred to as 'standard issue'. They are made of brass pull chain, and while the crucifixes can vary considerably, the overwhelming majority of them have identical center medals, stamped with an image of the Sorrowful Mother on the front, and Our Lord carrying His cross on the back. (Mine has that medal, though you can't really see it in the picture.) Sometimes, they would have been plated in silver, but most were plain, and looked just like this one. I decided that I would dearly like to have one for my very own.
Much to my surprise, I discovered several of them on ebay. To my further surprise, and breathless delight, I actually managed to place a winning bid on one, within the budget I prudently set for myself. It came in the mail a few days later, and I have been saying my daily prayers on it ever since.
