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Seeing Haloes For Anne Even at Christmas, when haloes are pre-tested by focus groups for inclusion in mass market campaigns, they are hard to see.
Annie Dillard was scrutinizing the forest floor at Pilgrim’s Creek when she looked up and saw a tree haloed in light.
She had caught the tree at prayer, in a moment so receptive and full the boundaries of bark burst and its inner fire became available for awe.
But seeing haloes is more than a lucky sighting. It entails the advent skill of sustaining attention, the simple act, as Dillard found out, of looking up.
That is how haloes are seen, by looking up into largeness, by tucking smallness into the folds of infinity.
I do not know this by contemplating shimmering trees. Rather there was woman, busy at Christmas table, and I looked up to catch a rim of radiance etching her face, to notice curves of light sliding along her shape. She out-glowed the candles. All the noise of the room left my ears and silence sharpened my sight.
When this happens, I do not get overly excited. I merely allow love to be renewed, for that is the mission of haloes, the reason they are given to us.
Nor do I try to freeze the frame. Haloes suffer time, even as they show us what is beyond time.
But when haloes fade, they do not abruptly vanish, abandoning us to the sorrow of lesser light.
They recede, as Gabriel departed Mary, leaving us pregnant.
John Shea
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