Celebrating with the archangels

 Today is my birthday. It’s a big one—80 years old. Some time ago I discovered that on the liturgical calendar, September 29 is the feast of the archangels. We Quakers don’t pay too much attention to the liturgical calendar, but, even, so—what a day to be born! I’ll take it. Here’s my song of celebration:

 September 29
(The Feast of the Archangels)

Every year on September 29
they gather.
Raphael brings the drinks,
while Michael and Gabriel
raid the pantry for caviar and taco chips.
They congregate in the fireside room,
spread the food on the table,
pull out the Parcheesi board,
and take off their shoes.
Then they sing.
They start with the old songs
--Psalm 100, the Magnificat,
"Behold, I bring good tidings"
(a favorite after all these years)--
work their way through Gregorian chants
and Martin Luther to New World
Yankee Doodle, Southern gospel,
and somewhere in the process
they sing Happy Birthday to me.
With voices like whales
or arctic wolves,
strange, far, and wholly holy,
the archangels celebrate.
"Don't be afraid," they tell me.
Planets realign.
The juice of the sun flows free.

The Feast of the Archangels

September 29, 2022

Today I turn 77.
All birthdays seem like a new chance
to grab hold of life, to breathe
as though this were the first day,
to be gob smacked by sunlight,
to turn around in amazement
at trees and bird song,
the smell of coffee and the smile
of my beloved as he says,
Happy birthday, Nancy.
Yes.
This is the day.
This is the life.
I am the one.
Yes.
Come, all you archangels.
Let’s dance!