A new online course on Storytelling

 

Becoming the Storyteller: a path to Wisdom with Brother Richard

Hosted by the Sanctuary Centre, this 3 week online course with Brother Richard will look at the place of story and the storyteller in mysticism and invite us to journey to 

a contemplative way of being in which our lives may be read as personal myth and become part of the great story of Creation. 

Day & Date: Tuesday April 29th, May 6th and May 13th

Time: 7pm-8.30pm (Online)

Duration: 3 sessions over 3 weeks

To book your place go to https://sanctuary.ie/2025/03/31/becoming-the-storyteller-a-path-to-wisdom-with-brother-richard/

A poem for the first frost of the year

 Frosted Dawn 

There 

is a 

moment

of perfect

stillness

between 

the 

in-breath

and the 

out-breath;

small,

silent,

vulnerable,

and so often

missed;

but, 

when we 

attend,

always 

infinite 

in 

depth.

It dwells

where

the now,

radiant and

eternal,

is touched

as transformation,

as grace;

for there

the

Risen One

is revealed

in the 

burning

bush 

of our breath,

of our being.

Just

as a garden,

emerging

frost tipped

from night's

entombment,

knows 

the delight

of dawn's 

first touch

and yields 

to the 

daily

moment

of resurrection

with the

inhalation

of light,

with the 

exhalation

of

birdsong.

Chatting about Meditation and Calming the Storms

 Going to try and update this a little more often... 

Poor blogs, they tend to be forgotten about by all and sundry... even their authors! For now though, here's a link to a nice little chat I had about all things mindful and meditative some weeks ago. It's only about 25 minutes long so shouldn't be too taxing on the muscles of attention.

Blessings to all those who still check this from time to time! Link is below

https://www.rte.ie/radio/radio1/clips/22435264/

A poem for Lughnasadh and Lammas Night

A poem for the ancient feasts of Lughnasadh, (Lunasa) and Lammas that mark the liminal time of Summer yielding to Autumn’s first fiery touch…. 

Lughnasadh night

The hay has all been saved.

The wheat and grain are gathered in,

stacked in stooks across 

the night silvered fields,

still ringing with the sound of song,

the drum of dance,

and graced and grateful voices 

raised in harvest thanks. 

The holy wells are dressed in flower form,

while vesper bells are rung 

and old pilgrim feet take to the hills 

to bless the land anew 

awaiting dawn in stillness.

While down amongst the berry bushes,

the songs of youth are sung 

and purple sweetness tasted on the lips 

in valleys where now

the air has the feel of thunder, 

the keen edge and promise of rain 

that has not come yet, but wants to.

So the Moon, the Lady’s lamp, appears between the curtains of the clouds,

and the ancestors and keepers of the land draw close, feeling the first 

autumnal thinning of the veils.

Now the Lammas loaves lie 

cooling on the sill,

awaiting benediction’s gentle fall

as blessed and broken they will become 

the covenant promise of a faithèd fullness, 

to ward against the bite and blight 

of winter’s empty song,

as He, who is the true Sun 

by which we see all light,

is Himself our first fruits promise,

of that last and longed for harvest 

when we shall at evening’s coming 

put down our tools,

and enter into barns ourselves 

to share the bread of Angels,

blessed in our very brokenness,

our emptiness at last made full,

our ever dancing steps 

now leaving only 

prints of light.

Calming the Storms: a new book

Moon Bathing

 Moon Bathing

Moon Bathing 

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice,

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched.

Woken from sleep 

in the deep night,

I came to the window weary

and wondering why

I had been summoned

from the sacred steps 

leading to the gates of horn?

But now I gazed 

breathless, and

beheld the beauty of 

a land illumined, changed,

silvered by the waxing 

Moon looking lovingly

upon the hills, the trees, 

the waters. 

She, lending them her light,

itself a loan, though made her own,

mirrored and magical by mystic 

alchemy, now embraced the land 

and silvered and softened her in filigree

appearing like fishscale glinting 

up from some dark water’s wave.

I watched a while then, 

as across the silent land of night 

her white light walked, blessing 

all it touched with beauty unknown

to all the sleepers resting in their beds.

Until at last she found the old pool 

and seemed to rest there a while.

Playing in its fountained waters 

as falling drops became white diamonds,

she filled the pool with liquid light

charging the waters once again with love,

as by the light of grace 

a soul arises from 

the dark of spirit’s night

and finds again the 

gift of life appearing 

at the very darkest moment,

when all seems lost,

for mercy comes always, gentle 

as moonlight upon the waters, 

disturbing nothing, yet 

rendering all anew in beauty 

ready for Sun’s appearing.

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched

and I am ever grateful for 

the wonder of being woken,

for the blessing of it all.

A Storm of Starlings

 Starling Shower

Rain came with the flower moon, 

presaged by a deluge of starlings

into the cloister garden,

falling like chattery stars 

they festooned the old cherry trees

only lately leafed and now blossoming birds.

Where and how they came 

we do not know,

but welcomed their 

electric shock of arrival 

and the throaty whistle of their calls 

as a surge of wild energy exulting 

on the edge of Summer storms,

like schoolchildren at term’s end.

Raucous and rowdy, even the robins

retreated before their squabbling,

sparking from iridescent wings 

shook over shoulders that jerk

along in time with their staccato steps.

They have birthed wonder anew 

these sudden garrulous guests,

reminding us of the joy 

that comes from summer laughter, 

from cocking an ironic glinting eye 

at life from time to time,

and living with a gusto

that erupts in flight at grace’s 

sudden swift appearing, 

unknown and even unasked for from above.

Oh we thank these rough and tumble gangsters of the sky for however long

they make our garden home,

before the ancient call sounds along

their hollow bones and makes them

sun seekers once again 

and storm warnings,

leaving us their life lessons 

on a murmuring cloud,

in the glitter-glint of a starling’s eye.