The most important part of this writing endeavor, and also the most challenging.  

For now, at least, my pysanky prayer (a reappropriated iconographer’s prayer), said before I ever touch kistka or candle:

O Lord, teach me to use wisely the time which Thou hast given unto me, and to work well without wasting a second.  Teach me to profit from my past mistakes without falling into a gnawing doubt.  Teach me to anticipate the project without worry, and to imagine the work without despair if it should turn out differently.  Teach me to unite haste and slowness, serenity and ardor, zeal and peace.

Help me at the beginning of the work when I am the weakest.  Help me in the middle of the work when my attention must be sustained.  And especially fill all the emptiness of my work with Thy Presence.  O Lord, in all the work of my hands, bestow Thy Grace so that it can speak to others and my mistake can speak to me alone.  Keep me in the hope of perfection, without which I would lose heart; yet keep me from achieving perfection, for surely I would be lost in arrogance.

Purify my sight when I am doing poorly, for one is never sure that the work will turn out badly; yet when I am doing well, one is never sure that the work will turn out well.  Lord, let me never forget that all knowledge is in vain unless there is work.  And all work is empty unless there is love.  And all love is hollow unless it binds me both to others and to Thee.

O Lord, teach me to pray with my hands, my arms, and all my strength.  Remind me that the work of my hands belongs to Thee and that it is fitting to return this gift to Thee.  Yet if I work for the pleasure of others, like a flowering plant in the evening will I wither.  But if I work for the love of goodness, I will remain in goodness.  And the time to work for goodness and for Thy Glory is now.

God, help me.

And a few excerpts to set the theme.  Check back later for more!

Purity shines from the brightness of a white egg: new beginnings on the blank canvas of birth and infancy.  Yellow’s joy embodies the spirit of youth and childhood, and the exuberance of this childhood-yellow transitions into the orange of adolescence by adding the passion of adulthood-red.  Black completes the cycle with eldership and the eternity of the afterlife beyond.  The creation of a pysanka with the traditional colors walks through the stages and seasons of life.

Dark red, though, stands outside and above this sequence, imparting a distinct spiritual aspect to a design; it defines and enhances all the other colors on an egg.  Its darkness adds not a maleficence or corruption, but a quality of mystery, a prayerfulness achievable through no other means.  Dark red is like a revered elder that takes a seat at an otherwise secular gathering, changing the character of the group, as if all in attendance are both diminished and uplifted by his mere presence.  It speaks not of a life-stage but of prayer as an overall theme: somber, reflective—humble, even—while simultaneously pointing towards lofty ideals.  An egg that contains this mystery elevates itself to greater levels of light and purity.  Dark red enriches the spirit of the egg.

Helen declares: “my work is my meditation.”  Even as an observer, I could see how her entire world flowed through the pin-prick tip of an electric kistka, held gently in her elder-hand, not one distraction to pull her attention away.  Her single-minded focus changed the character of the space around her and folded me into its expansive peace. 

Ultimately, though, meditation is but half the story: a vehicle that travels to a certain “place,” but not meant to be the final destination itself.  Meditation alone is like assembling a full orchestra but never playing a single note.  It’s like visiting the kitchen of a gourmet restaurant and eating only spoon-samples of the raw ingredients on the shelves.  It’s laying out all the tools and materials to build a beautiful structure, but instead just staring contentedly at the orderliness of the pieces.  In the eloquent words of a teacher of mine, describing his take on meditation as an end-goal: “It’s time for Buddha to get off his ass and get to work.” 

Pysanky are more than my meditation—my work is my prayer.  Prayer contains all the best elements of mediation: a mind quiet of thoughts, a vigilant watchfulness for physical and mental distractions, a constant effort to transcend those distractions, a pointed focus which renders our monkey-mind powerless and occupied, seeking inner stillness and opening our being to spiritual awareness.  Where meditation often encourages a relaxed approach, prayer instead encourages an alert and mindful tension.  Not to the point of pain or discomfort, though.  The aim of many meditation practices is to ignore or transcend the body as dead weight to our spiritual progress.  True prayer doesn’t forsake this clay, but instead employs the body as equal partner in our balanced duality of existence in flesh and spirit alike. 

What elevates prayer beyond meditation is its otherness, its pointing towards love and connection.  Meditation quiets our mind; prayer launches out from that place of quiet, out to the very edges of existence, and down into the deepest recesses of our souls.  Meditation cleans and clears the slate; prayer adds our good intentions to this fresh and thirsty canvas. Meditation sharpens the sword; prayer picks it up to cut away the darkness.  Meditation heats the kistka to melt the wax; prayer pours that wax upon the egg in an act of creation and beauty.

Pysanky, then, are prayers.  And the process of making pysanky is a realization of prayer’s purpose: a quiet heart’s loving connection with God, with other people, and with the world around us. 

To egg is to pray—not beauty pointing at itself, but beauty as a signpost pointing towards the Divine.  To see in an egg not line and symbol and color, but God.  And not the God of fire and brimstone, nor the two-dimensional God of Sunday-school coloring books.  I seek instead the God of mystery.  To take the awe and reverence of life’s opening and fill my heart to overflowing, mix into it my mind’s need for the logic and form of shapes and signs, then knead it all together and extend it out through the kistka hand, baked in the heat of the candle flame, the warmth of the Divine: prayers made flesh.  A mingled balance of heart and brain, soul and body, written in symbol on the symbol of life itself: life enveloped by life, and gifted in such a way that the awesome Divine Mystery of prayer can be held in mortal hands.

A work in progress…more to come!

Click for next chapter: Baba – Black