At the end of the year I want to focus on the light of hope in these troubled times. Let us ignite the light within, and let the light do its magic. Listen to the following shabad as you read this:
The Oxen
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
- Thomas Hardy
In his tender poem The Oxen, Thomas Hardy reflects on a fragile yet enduring hope—a childlike belief in the miraculous, expressed through the story of oxen kneeling in reverence on Christmas Eve. Hardy, writing in the shadow of doubt and skepticism, reveals a deeper truth: in moments of despair and uncertainty, the human spirit longs for something sacred, something that affirms goodness in the world. He leaves us not with certainty, but with the willingness to believe, even if it is only "hoping it might be so."
Let's look at Mary Oliver's poem:
Summery Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
- Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver echoes this sentiment in her reflections on prayer, where she reminds us that prayer need not be elaborate or perfect—it is simply the act of paying attention, of opening our hearts to the divine presence in the ordinary. Both poets, in their own ways, speak to the power of quiet faith and the solace of small acts of reverence.
Gurbani, the sacred hymns of the Sikh Gurus, deepens this understanding by illuminating the Divine Light within us. Guru Gobind Singh Ji's Shabad, "Puran Jot Jagai Ghat Mai," resonates particularly with this idea:
Let nothing enter your mind except oneness
Day & night, rekindle this awakening lamp
You don’t need fasts, shrines, and temples
Adorn the wisdom of real love
Pilgrimage, charity, kindness, meditation, equanimity
None of these have any credence without oneness
If you want to see clearly
Light the authentic lamp within
- Guru Gobind Singh
This Shabad is both a reminder and an invitation. It tells us that no matter how dim the world appears, the divine Light—the Puran Jot—exists within us, waiting to be kindled. This Light is not something external or fleeting; it is eternal and radiant, capable of dispelling the shadows of fear, doubt, and despair.
Today, as we face wars in Europe and the Middle East, the looming threat of climate change, and the pervasive uncertainty of our times, the wisdom of this Shabad calls us to look inward. Just as Hardy invites us to “hope it might be so” and Oliver asks us to pay attention in prayer, Gurbani urges us to awaken this Light within ourselves. It is here, in this illumination, that we find clarity, peace, and the courage to move forward. The ancient bards are urging us to listen.
Hardy’s “The Oxen,” Oliver’s meditations, and Guru Gobind Singh Ji’s Shabad come together as a gentle reminder: in a fractured world, our hope, however fragile, is an act of faith. It is the kneeling oxen, the small prayer, the flicker of divine Light in our hearts—signs that, despite everything, the sacred remains.
This holiday season, and during my first meditation session for next year (January 4), let us embrace these moments of quiet reverence. Let us look for the sacred, not in distant promises, but in the nearness of hope and love. Let us awaken the Puran Jot within and, in doing so, illuminate the path for ourselves and others. Let the light do the magic.
Singing oneness!
