Monday 6 September 2021

Be Still and…

 Taking refuge in this one this evening…



Desert Stillness:


Be still 

and know

that I Am..


Would you enter the desert

at the heart of yourself?

Would you allow the sandals of your senses

to fall away?

Would you, finally, recognise

the holy ground your heart

truly is?

Would you behold the burning bush

afire with presence at the centre of

your soul?

Then you must 

enter the desert of stillness.

Be still

and know...

Would you know the call to exodus

from the slavery of self?

Would you pass through the waters

of overwhelming worry?

Would you ascend the holy mountain of prayer?

Would you behold the glory so bright that it is darkness?

Would you enter the cloud of the presence?

Would you keep the covenant of grace?

Would you reach the promised land of peace?

Then you must enter the desert of stillness.

Be still 

and know...

For

This is how the Ultimate is revealed:

as presence through stillness,

as Being beyond being,

as emptiness without absence,

as right relationship,

in which 

we come to know

the self truly

only in the light

of Pure Being as

independent

(where all else depends on love),

as non-contingent:

(where all else arises from previous causes),

as creative:

(where all else sub-creates),

as transcending all,

imminent in all,

beyond all,

but 

holding all

in being

by

Love.

Would you enter the desert at the heart of yourself and see it bloom?

If you would,

then only

be still

and you will know.

Sunday 5 September 2021

Mother Teresa: a mystic of holy darkness

Today we keep the feast of the great saint of the 20th century Mother Teresa of Kolkatta. 



Today we keep the feast of the great saint of the 20th century Mother Teresa of Kolkatta. 


While she is known mostly for her extraordinary work for the poor and the destitute in India and throughout the world very few still know of her deep mysticism of "darkness". This darkness has nothing to do with the darkness of evil, rather it is the effect on the soul's inner eye of those who have behld the bright light of the Divine Presence... We are simply blinded by its brightness and only that light can in time restore our inner vision. It is a mystical path walked by only the greatest of those the Lord calls and one of the most difficult to even imagine... simply put after the direct call of the saint to a particular path and mission the Lord seems to withdraw His light so that prayer is an unremitting desert with only very occasional indications that God is present at all... It is a participation in the humanity of Christ crucified upon the Cross and crucified to this day in the suffering of creation while at the same time, to all around them, the saint is a source of Divine Light and grace but the saint is called to ongoing teaching, working, praying all without any form of spiritual consolation in a dark night of the soul that produces extraordinary fruit in those around them while depriving the one who is going through it of anything other than the grace to contintually welcome and fulfil the will of God in the midst of it all. This was seen beautifully in the famous miracle of the light described by Malcolm Muggeridge in his book about her. Coming to film the work of her sisters in the 70's the BBC crew he was with were horrified to discover just how dark the building in the slums where the sisters lived was. It was so dark as to be completely unsuitable for filming. Telling one of the sisters that they would have to abandon the project the news came to Mother who famously said "I will pray." She did so and despite the objections of the crew Malcolm insisted they would film. It was only when they got back to the UK that they discovered that the whole building appeared suffused in a beautiful calm light. The cameramen confessed themselves stumped... what we were seeing, said Muggeridge, was the light of Mother's prayer.


In some of her last words about this spiritual darkness Mother Teresa promised that she would be a "saint of darkness" and like Padre Pio and St. Therese the Little Flower, she promised that she would remain at the doors of Heaven to guide and help all those going through the trial of darkness in their own lives... She is a powerful advocate for those who are suffering and seeking... I pray to her often for light and suggest you might like to also.


Mother Teresa always said her work (and ours too) is simply to be faithful to God in the present moment and not to worry about success... success belongs to God and from the Divine perspective what looks like success to us can be failure to God and vice versa! Just think of the Crucifixion! To live the Christian life is to live one that ever more surely seems to be at odds with the way the world thinks and acts... in our topsy turvy witness we are those who remind the world of what and who are really important... perhaps that is the way that the darkness of our world and the way it treats the powerless, the poor and the hurting may be overcome by the light of the Gospel.


While she is known mostly for her extraordinary work for the poor and the destitute in India and throughout the world very few still know of her deep mysticism of "darkness". This darkness has nothing to do with the darkness of evil, rather it is the effect on the soul's inner eye of those who have behld the bright light of the Divine Presence... We are simply blinded by its brightness and only that light can in time restore our inner vision. It is a mystical path walked by only the greatest of those the Lord calls and one of the most difficult to even imagine... simply put after the direct call of the saint to a particular path and mission the Lord seems to withdraw His light so that prayer is an unremitting desert with only very occasional indications that God is present at all... It is a participation in the humanity of Christ crucified upon the Cross and crucified to this day in the suffering of creation while at the same time, to all around them, the saint is a source of Divine Light and grace but the saint is called to ongoing teaching, working, praying all without any form of spiritual consolation in a dark night of the soul that produces extraordinary fruit in those around them while depriving the one who is going through it of anything other than the grace to contintually welcome and fulfil the will of God in the midst of it all. This was seen beautifully in the famous miracle of the light described by Malcolm Muggeridge in his book about her. Coming to film the work of her sisters in the 70's the BBC crew he was with were horrified to discover just how dark the building in the slums where the sisters lived was. It was so dark as to be completely unsuitable for filming. Telling one of the sisters that they would have to abandon the project the news came to Mother who famously said "I will pray." She did so and despite the objections of the crew Malcolm insisted they would film. It was only when they got back to the UK that they discovered that the whole building appeared suffused in a beautiful calm light. The cameramen confessed themselves stumped... what we were seeing, said Muggeridge, was the light of Mother's prayer.


In some of her last words about this spiritual darkness Mother Teresa promised that she would be a "saint of darkness" and like Padre Pio and St. Therese the Little Flower, she promised that she would remain at the doors of Heaven to guide and help all those going through the trial of darkness in their own lives... She is a powerful advocate for those who are suffering and seeking... I pray to her often for light and suggest you might like to also.


Mother Teresa always said her work (and ours too) is simply to be faithful to God in the present moment and not to worry about success... success belongs to God and from the Divine perspective what looks like success to us can be failure to God and vice versa! Just think of the Crucifixion! To live the Christian life is to live one that ever more surely seems to be at odds with the way the world thinks and acts... in our topsy turvy witness we are those who remind the world of what and who are really important... perhaps that is the way that the darkness of our world and the way it treats the powerless, the poor and the hurting may be overcome by the light of the Gospel.

Thursday 2 September 2021

September In-Between

 



September In-between


This is the season of in-between,

a sacred door into the dragonfly days 

of sun blushed berries,

and fruits full upon the branch,

when autumnal fire crackles

slowly over leaves, 

unleashing light along their veins

tempting them towards 

the tension of windborn wonder.

These are the days of swallows and starlings 

gathering as slow storm clouds 

before their flocked flight warmwards, 

screaming their farewells,

fountaining forwards,

free upon the foaming clouds.

These are the days of first noticing 

the chill and the dark, 

though not as winter yet, 

only as remarked change upon our skin

walking from patches of conversation 

into silent introspection, 

feeling the old summons of schoolday beginnings, 

the burgeoning pull-tide of term 

we never truly escape from,

no matter the outer age, 

that calls our shuffling feet towards 

the first drifting leaves and 

makes us count conkers upon the trees, 

even if our pockets hold other treasures now.

These are the days of longing, 

yearning for those sunsets and mornings 

just now out of reach, 

that teach us the deeper soul longing 

for Love's eternal Summer, 

yet we rejoice too 

in the brittle sharp newness 

of lowering sun and rising moon.

These are the days of hunting, 

of homing, of harvesting; 

of gratitude given before the gathering, 

of berried blessing being 

between us and all that is,

and though our gaze now looks 

long towards winter 

we join here, now,

in the days of autumnal grace, 

the dance of in-between.


Wednesday 18 August 2021

The Garden is Burning

 The Garden is Burning




For a long time now
a fire has been burning in my mind
a flood has rolled across my heart
an earthquake rumbles in my soul.
I am afraid it is breaking, 
this world of ours,
how could it not?
It bears so much weight
the weight of sadness,
the weight of fear,
the weight of pain.
Last week in Greece
a two thousand year old 
Olive Tree,
an elder, ancient and wise in ways we cannot even begin to know,
burned, 
as people fled the lands 
that fed them and us for ages untold.
The trees don’t get to leave.
Here in Ireland we smile 
and take pictures of a Walrus, 
a prince of the cold kingdom, 
now an exile, lost, wandering, alone,
iceless, friendless, bewildered by boats.
In Siberia, the tundra burns and mammoth bones have their slumbering rest disturbed
long thought safe and sleeping by the peoples who live and love upon the frosted lands.
In Afghanistan, a wordless groan erupts,
the pain of a tortured soul, 
the ache of a land so long in agony 
its voice is near a death rattle 
despair of a people fearing a veil being drawn over their faces, a stifling of song, an ending of hope, a blanket of hate, and loss, and loss, and loss, and betrayal.
In Haiti, earthquakes again.
In Lebanon, explosions again.
In America, fires again.
In Turkey, floods again.
My litany is nowhere near complete…
Lord have mercy.
The world is breaking.
How could it not?
What was meant as garden 
needs its gardeners,
needs us to be Adams, gardeners, again;
needs us to be Eves, mothers of life, again;
that was the original blessing after all;
to grow, to steward, to bring forth life, 
to bless, to give thanks, to guard and keep
all that lives, all that breathes, all that is.
So what must I do?
What can you do?
Be a gardener.
Now, 
right where you are.
Dig.
Dig deep within,
Dig over the hard soil of the heart 
that cannot bear to hear anymore 
and let it breathe again original blessing.
Plant seeds of kindness.
Plant seeds of compassion.
Plant seeds of love.
Water it with your tears for all beings who suffer.
Grow a harvest of tenderness for those who suffer
Grow flowers of welcome for the lost and the lonely
Grow the fruit of peace in yourself and offer it to all beings to eat.
Act with reverence for all that is, 
for all that is, is holy.
Allow that little plot of life 
and earth around you to heal.
It will spread. 
Remember we are all sons of Adam
Remember we are all daughters of Eve
Hear again the song of sister Mother Earth
Sing again the hymn of creation
Be again, blessing
Be again, the gardener,
Be at last the steward.
Be.



Sunday 15 August 2021

Assumption; Our Lady of the Harvest

Assumption: Our Lady of the Harvest 



Autumn edges 

in,

gilding leaves 

lovelier,

swelling fruit,

and berry,

and shining nut,

filling seed 

with life,

to lie long quiet

until the quickening 

thaw

invites the labour 

of the land 

with longed

for Spring birth.

For now though,

we keep your 

festival

my Lady,

beneath 

a still summered 

sky,

though cooler,

as ever dancing

dawn and dusk,

hearing the autumnal 

music

change their step,

and,

creep closer,

preparing

for their near 

embrace.

O you who are 

our harvest, 

our first fruits 

offered 

and received,

we hail you as

Love's 

healing promise 

made

and kept 

of

always 

a new greening, 

a new quickening,

a new birthing,

made manifest 

in you 

long since, 

and there 

faith futured

for us too,

whose barrenness

yields to

birth blessing,

only

in the fruition of your

virgin womb.

So now you 

shine,

our harvest moon,

gold and glorious,

reflecting Son's

light,

upon our rejoicing

hope

that we too may be,

one day,

with you,

assumed;

and held within 

your holy hands

and there

become your 

golden gift 

to Him

as

gathered grain

of Heaven's 

harvest

home.

Saturday 14 August 2021

Assumption Eve Medicine: a meditation poem




Assumption Eve Medicine:


For two months turning 
the old women, 
they who have the knowing, 
have watched their charges carefully.
Picked at the height of their power
on the short night, after the long day;
the feast of fire, 
that vigils the Baptist’s coming,
when lads and ladies leap 
like hares over flames 
and look with longing for love, 
as children sing the old songs
filled with mystic meaning;
that night they were gathered 
as grace and gift 
beneath the light of sister Moon, 
the Lady’s lamp and plucked
from garden and from forest glade,
by woman’s hands alone.
Now, they, the herbs for healing, 
hang in blessed bunches 
over the hearth of home,
or kept in kitchens 
above the range, 
or bound in byres
where the warming breath 
of the queen kine keeps them
charmed and waiting 
to release their medicine,
the healing pulse 
of sister Mother Earth 
and Brother Sun’s distilled light
mixed, and married, and greened,
in root, and shoot, 
and leaf, and flower.
So they, the healing herbs, 
have rested until tonight
when as dusk comes on 
and begins to breathe her
autumnal quickening, 
these wise ones take them down
and bring them now 
to the old places of prayer
to the abbeys and chapels, 
to the candled shrines 
of the sainted ones,
who themselves bore 
the fruit of blessing 
and were heaven’s healing, 
the salve of souls,
upon the earth.
There they find 
the Lady’s chapel,
and lay their leafy burdens 
beneath the linen cloths
upon the Altar, there to await
Assumption’s dawn,
and as the Mass bells ring
to have the holy words
said over them that render
them thrice blessed again,
and ready to release their
gentle healing gifts,
blessed once in very being 
from first beginning’s breathing,
blessed twice in the burning 
touch of Love’s own resurrection light
when all was made anew,
blessed thrice by the Lady’s prayers,
she who is the stock from which
all healing blooms, 
and in her gathering home raised all
that grows green upon this good earth
to become heaven’s healing help again;
Eden’s elixir restored in her 
and birthed anew as grace,
just as these sainted herbs
ground upon the mortar’s stone 
will give their essence up,
and become the holy way 
by which their medicine 
blesses bodies and anoints 
our souls to ready us 
in our own time,
for Heaven’s
homing.

Vigil of the Assumption 14th August 2019

In many places it was the ancient custom for women to gather herbs around the feast of St. John the Baptist (Midsummer) and then bring them to the Churches for blessing on the feast of the Assumption before they were made into medicine for the Winter ahead. The herbs were placed beneath the Altar Cloths and around the Sanctuary before the dawn Mass there to be offered to the Lord, through Mary’s hands, she who is the “first fruits” of His saving love, so as to receive her special prayers of healing and be blessed in their medicinal use in the year ahead.
The Ritual of the Church still provides for such blessings should they be requested.
 
(Pics in this post found as random uncredited images on the web)

Wednesday 11 August 2021

Saint Clare Aflame; a poem for her feast

 This came to me three years ago for the Feast of St. Clare... 



Saint Clare Aflame


There came at last

the night when,

with Bishop’s blessing,

she drew back the great bolt

and, with sudden strength 

unknown before,

cast open wide 

the ancient oaken doors 

and left the heavy house

of her fathers behind.

Breathing deep the cool free 

Assisi air,

her sparkling eyes, now

a mirror of the canopy 

of shining sisters overhead.

Veiling herself in night, 

and without a backward glance,

she fled to the forested friars

who met this already bright one 

with their lamps lit at woodland edge.

So they beckoned her 

to the little house of the Mother,

where she once again 

affirmed the divinely kindled desire 

of her heart’s longing,

and threw herself into the flames of faith,

a furnace so incandescent 

that hair, and clothing, and even name, 

are burned away.

And so the robe of blessing was bestowed,

and the promises that bind the hearts 

of those who know

true freedom made.

He was there, of course, 

to receive her sacred vows,

as his first sister, 

and a daughter of his prophesying too,

Francis of the dancing fire, 

whose sparking words first

heard through her high window 

open to the world below

found a home in the dry 

kindling of her heart

and became a raging firestorm 

so strong that,

castle walls and binding ties 

could not hold her captive any longer,

but allowed her leap 

into the arms of love itself 

upon that quiet woodland night.

Finding within that 

merry band of brothers 

a garden where

her seed soul spark could 

grow and bloom unhindered 

and unquenched.

What psalms were sung 

and candles kindled through that night 

within that little portion that the Lady 

had allotted them 

who served her Son and Lord anew!

What rejoicing did the Angels make 

drawing even the animals 

to witness this new beginning 

as, unseen but felt, 

the fiery Dove descended 

and warmed with hidden wingbeat 

the heat of grace within this gracious one

now sharing in the lot of those whose

only riches are the gifts of holy love.

So Francis looked 

upon this little plant

newly sown in sacred fire 

and smiling saw within 

the power of her poverty, 

the fire that would,

in time, spread undimmed 

to countless sisters

who would come 

hearing of her wild wonders,

she to whom

Kings and Lords 

would bow

humbled by the humility 

of one who dared to trust, 

as he had trust himself, 

in Heaven’s promise 

to uphold all those 

who dance across 

the rose red coals 

of passion 

so light,

so empty, 

they go unburned 

but incandesce

themselves 

and become

ah!

Fire.


May the great miracle worker and woman of prayer who incarnates the feminine side of the Franciscan charism intercede for us all today!


St Clare’s Day 2018

Tuesday 10 August 2021

The Art of Stopping

 A little breathing space for a

Sunny morning…



The Art of Stopping


Do not be afraid 

of stopping.

To pause 

and draw breath 

is 

an ancient art 

of wholeness 

and holiness.

Too often 

we travel

piecemeal.

Our minds, 

hearts, 

bodies, 

souls,

taking 

different routes, 

different ways,

moving at 

different paces...

Just because 

I seem 

to be here,

does not mean 

I am here

at all.

I could be 

in a million places, 

feeling 

a million feelings, 

passing through 

the present,

fleetingly,

on my way 

into pasts 

long gone 

and futures 

that 

may never be

at all.

So practice 

stopping.

Pause a while 

along the way

and 

catch up 

on 

yourself.

Let your 

breath 

draw in 

the 

sundered parts 

of you,

welcoming them 

home again,

without judgement 

or reprimand.

With each 

breath,

let them 

shuffle into place,

like a child 

in a school

crocodile,

shoving,

just a little,

until

every one 

has enough

space.

Then, 

whole again,

for a while,

smile,

and

take

one

more

step

towards

the only

destination

there is,

the One

who

IS

love.


(This lovely sleepy fox pic is thanks to Sharon Murphy)

Friday 6 August 2021

Transfiguration

A meditation poem for the feast of the Transfiguration


Transfigured


Slowly, 

now, 

upon 

the branch 

and 

bramble 

the bloom 

becomes 

the berry,

fruit filled 

with the 

sweetness 

of

condensed 

light,

a burst of 

warmth

upon the tasting

tongue,

the harvest joy 

of 

summer sun’s

revealing.

On the 

land 

we gather in 

the gold, 

sky sown,

and silent

grown,

the 

riches 

of soil 

and bough, 

swollen 

and heavy

with pregnant 

possibilities 

as the 

womb of earth 

ripens 

beneath 

the 

blessing 

of 

gold and silver 

lights.

Though 

the year 

in her 

ever-whirling 

dance 

tilts now 

towards 

darkness, 

we keep the 

festivals 

of light,

kindling the 

fire of story

around our 

hearth,

singing 

the soul 

songs

that will keep 

the lamps of

faith lit,

dancing 

at dawn

and dusk

along the 

edges of light

after the

long day’s 

gathering in.

So we are 

transfigured

once again,

lights 

kindled

and 

illumined

by 

the divine

fire 

that dwells

always

in the heart 

of things;

the

uncreated light

by whose

benediction 

all arise 

from

darkness,

the One

who gives 

fruit,

berry,

seed,

ear,

the fiery 

spark 

of their 

transforming 

power;

for what 

are we

all,

but 

light

consuming 

light,

becoming 

ever 

brighter,

until the

divine

day

dawns

and on

the summit

we see 

anew 

the 

joy of

our heart’s

gathering

burn gold

and 

harvest light

as

over

our first 

fruits

of offering

the Son

rises.


Transfiguration Day 2018

Monday 12 July 2021

Forest Faith

 Forest Faith



When the edges of my mind fray,

and the golden sacred thread 

seems pulled, gathered, caught 

upon the briar of my broken being,

and my hearthome holds too much

behind its ancient doors 

so there is no breathing space at all,

I take myself to the woods.

For there I become not young,

but small again and feel the rising 

ocean tides of sap lull me at last

into the deep greening rest of soul 

only the old tall ones know 

the sky touchers, earth drinkers 

we call in our dull infant speech, so simply, Trees.

So I place my foot upon the winding path

and dew the way with tears 

and sometimes even blood,

until their windleaf song sounds soul deep, and slows and halts me long enough 

to feel their verdant canopy of calm,

and I greet them then,

as the keepers of the way they are;

the blessed Beech and noble Holly,

the Oak and Ash and Thorn, 

grey brown brothers and sisters 

of the branching dance of being. 

Their familiar oldness a reminder 

of my passing place 

in all this; they leaflean down 

to teach me once again 

the way of prayer as being 

and being as prayer,

allowing the holy breath to play along my spine as within their trunked tallness

while standing through the shifting seasons

they grow slowly, imperceptibly, always,

until flower and fruiting follow in their turn,

then the seeming fall, 

asleep asunder for awhile,

as my life now flutters, cast upon the winds

lost in wildness, a wintered leaf, 

dry and brittle, 

but here in their stately shadows

daring to read the scripture of their state, 

and hear their prophecy proclaimed in stillness; that old roots dig deep 

and deeper still, 

that branches bend so not to break and 

that there is a joy in storms when yielded to.

So for a while I breathe the sylvan air 

and greet the great and green,

these guardians of natural grace,

and then when I have walked long enough to become reminded, rewilded and 

rehomed in heart, I bow in thanks 

and leave the woods to plant their sainted seeds throughout my world and life;

to feel a forest grow within

and make the faith feathered one

a home.

Wednesday 23 June 2021

Meditation for St. John’s Eve

Meditation for St. John's Eve:





Now, as Vespers sings itself
to dusk’s silent sitting,
the beacons begin to burn.
Men watching for the moment
of Moon’s waning,
in twilight midsummer sky
lit by a Sun too lazy to truly set,
so to kindle flame for the Forerunner;
John.
He whose element is fire.
Both lamps now hanging
in cloth of such deep blue
that the world seems enfolded
in the mantle of one
who midwifed his birth,
even as she joined her magnificat
to old Elizabeth’s pangs,
and doubting Zechariah’s silence,
beneath the shining stars of desert sky.

Now, as Matins touches midnight
of Monks long vigilling,
the herbs are gathered.
Women seeking
the helpers and the healers
in wood, and dell, and garden bed,
where, blessed by dew and moonlight
and the long warmth of Sun’s summer,
the Yarrow and the Bracken,
the Fennel and the Rue,
the Rosemary and the Foxglove,
always the Elder and
the great yellow flower of the Forerunner
willingly give up
their essence on the night
that marks the first whisper
of the Word’s healing breath,
breathed through the one
who is His herald Voice;
John.
Dried, and hung,
and laid upon the Lady Altar
to become more than they are
they will bestow divine healing.
Twice gifted and graced
by Summer’s picking
and Autumn’s
Assumption blessing,
they reveal the medicine
present always, beneath.

Now, as Lauds’ psalms sun skywards
the pots and pans
and ancient drums are beaten.
The children sing the old songs
and the rhymes long lost to meaning,
as young men and women, harelike,
leap heedless across the
dying flames together.
Recalling he who leapt with joy,
filled with fire, even in womb’s waters,
so near was the One who first kindled flame,
rendered the rivers holy and made the wells
vessels of new birth.

Now, as Mass bell tolls dawn’s daily resurrection
monks and men,
and women, and children all
hear the summons of the Sanctifier
and His herald
loud upon morning’s breeze
as embers die down, and herbs are hung up.
Beneath the vaulted stone they gather
to join their voices to praise
that vastness veiled
in simple bread and wine,
and hear again the word first spoken by
the herald,
the lamp,
the flame,
the leaper,
the prophet,
the angel,
the voice,
the Baptist,
whose birth they have
blessed anew,
cry across the ages
“Behold the Lamb of God!”

I wrote this in 2016 to illuminate so many of the customs we have lost that wove the wisdom of the wild and the faith together so beautifully. On St. John's Eve, (The Vigil of the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist), the last official day of the solstice, bonfires were set burning to commemorate the fire of the Baptist's faith and the facing into the waning of natural light after the longest day.
Couples leaping across the fire was an old betrothal custom. This was also the traditional night for gathering the herbs that would be used as medicine for the year to come. Gathered tonight and dried until Assumption Day they would then be blessed in the Monasteries at the first Mass at Our Lady's Altar... The songs and noise making around the boundaries of the hills and the fields was to frighten away evil and stagnancy so as to refresh the fields and prepare for the Harvest... Our faith was and is both holy and holistic and we must return to such deep knowing again... May the Baptist pray for us on this the feast of fire!

Sunday 20 June 2021

Meditation for Midsummer’s Eve

I post this for Midsummer’s Eve each year and each year it seems more true for all of us… the blessing is in the paradox!



The Paradox of Presence; 

a Meditation for Midsummer's Eve


Here I am Lord;

I am a passing shadow

I am a breath on the edge of being

I am a body of dust and ashes

I am a child of earth

I am from nothing

I am only ever almost

I am a ripple in the pool of life

I am a whisper in the silence

I am lost in time

I am unfulfilled yearning

I am a distorted reflection

I am delusion

I am desire

I am for now

And yet,

Here I am Lord;

I am made in your image

I am growing into your likeness

I am an idea in the Divine mind

I am called forth from nothingness

I am an exhalation of love

I am a child of God

I am an eternal soul

I am a word spoken by the Word

I am the temple of the Divine

I am from Being itself

I am called by name

I am held in being by Love

I am interpenetrated by light

I am sustained by pure attention

I am healed by Divine Compassion

I am redeemed by Mercy

I am for eternity

And so, I answer once again

caught in the pain of paradox,

on this point between the

shortest night

and the longest day:

Here I am Lord;

To be light in the shadows

To be your breath of love

To be the place where Being heals being

To be the moment where time touches Eternity

To be the voice who speaks the word into the silence

To be the torch aflame in the darkness

To be the temple of Divine encounter

To be the emptiness without absence

To be the call to compassion

To be the wound that heals

To be the child of heaven and the child of earth

To be in time and dwell in eternity

To live my I am in the I AM

To lose all so as to find all in you.

So,

Here I am Lord;

journeying from nothing to something

journeying from darkness to light

journeying from emptiness to fullness

by

journeying from something to no-thingness 

journeying from light to light so bright it blinds and darkens my still too earthly sight

journeying from fullness to emptiness of being...

Here I am Lord;

a pilgrim on this paradox path

lost and found 

and lost again

but with faith in the finding always...

and on this night of edges and shadows and barely there darkness 

I surrender to the 

silence of the Word

and simply say with open hands and 

broken heart,

Here 

I

am

Lord.

Saturday 19 June 2021

Holding on to the beads

Saturday Thoughts: hold on to the beads.



These are Rosaries that were made by Catholic prisoners in Nazi concentration camps.

They made them from bread and thread from their clothes.

They made them from bread.

They were starving and they gave up their tiny rations of bread to make the beads.

They were freezing and they took threads from their clothes.

They made Rosaries knowing that to be found with them meant a beating, torture or even death.

But they held on to the beads.

They held on because they knew that to hold on to the beads is to hold on to the hand of the Mother.

They held on knowing that not even the power of hell can cut the cords of love between the Blessed Mother and her people.

They held on to the beads knowing she was with them in her pain and in her sorrow and that she would be with them always.

They held on to the beads when Mass was impossible and the Church looked like it would never live again.

They held on to the beads as a witness to the power of faith, of hope and of love to light the darkest of times.

They held on to the beads and their testimony speaks to us down the ages.

Whatever you are going through… hold on to the beads… 

Your Mother is holding on to you.

Thursday 17 June 2021

Waking up. Beginning Again. Being in the Now

 Time to wake up... again… and again…



Now is always

the time

to wake up.

Do well and 

you 

will wake to 

discover 

that 

deep down,

past the chaos,

past the sin,

past the pain,

past the wounds,

past the brokenness,

at the deepest part there 

is,

at the very is-ness of it 

all,

all is beautiful,

all is ok,

all is well,

for

all is held in being

by Love...

and then,

waking up to 

this

marvellous and

terrible 

reality,

you will find 

to your

unfailing wonder 

and

astonishment

that,

all is 

transformed.

Chaos becomes peace,

sin is forgiven,

pain is relieved,

wounds are healed,

and the broken is

made whole again

in Divine Love's

embrace.

For there is 

nothing and 

no one

outside of that

holy

communion

of being

arising 

moment by moment

from Love’s

breathing.

If we live from that 

point,

from that 

whole and holy place,

then,

truly,

in stillness, 

we shall 

know,

that all is well

and 

all manner of things 

are

well.

So, 

wake up,

now.

Monday 14 June 2021

Shadows: a reflection

                     Shadows?





You
say you
feel
your life
is
simply
a
shadow
cast upon 
the
wall of
time,
without meaning
or purpose,
a
random occurrence
without form,
just
function?
But ask yourself
are you seeing 
truly?
So,
look deeper brother,
look deeper sister,
what is a 
shadow 
but
a revelation
of where the 
light
is 
already 
resting?
Your body,
stardust,
forged in the heart
of a 
fire aeons
old.
Not one 
atom of 
your existence
lives 
now
that did 
not also
then
see
the vast 
distances 
of space,
did not
fall through
the long generations 
of
ancestors,
or pass 
through 
many shapes,
on its journey
to bestow 
the form
your senses
perceive as
solid,
a form 
called 
to dwell 
and 
dance 
with 
Divine breath 
in its 
making of 
your marvel 
and your
shadow
until its covenant,
dissolved by
death,
liberates 
love.
Look deeper brother.
Look deeper sister.
You see 
out of infinite 
possibility
you exist.
You.
Here.
Now.
For now 
would be
incomplete 
without
you;
your reason for 
being
passing beyond 
all causes
to the One 
who 
intended 
you
and made you
necessary,
whose love 
attends 
your being,
moment 
by 
moment,
in-breathing love
lest you fall 
away 
into
nothingness.
No 
shadow 
you,
but a 
place 
of 
graced luminosity
so bright
that dazzled by 
your own 
form
your inner eye 
sees, 
for now, 
only 
darkness
describing
a point
of light 
so bright
that Divine Love
dims vision
until 
you are 
ready
to turn
from 
shaped shadows
and face
fully
the brightness
of 
your own
blessed
being.

Sunday 13 June 2021

St. Anthony of Padua


Reflection for the Feast of St. Anthony 





Anthony Ascends:

His long travelling days over,
there is now only one direction left;
up, or is it, perhaps, 
more truly, in?
The hilltop hermitage
was not high enough
to discourage those
who would still
seek his words,
disturb his deep prayer,
his long sought peace.
So now the boughs 
beckon him higher
to a cell, a nest woven
between the branches
by the brothers.
This is his place now;
held halfway between
Heaven and Earth
What matter?
His heart has lived this way
all his life;
now the rest of him does so too.
Here, finally, the weariness
of the world may be dropped,
as he, worn out from roads
and crowds, and even from miracles
climbs just a little nearer 
to the clouds.
His body, almost too frail now 
to hold Heaven’s fire. 
Still, there are glints
of golden flame along the edges,
in his flashing eyes, 
in his measured movements,
or on his tongue 
as it tells the hours
in psalming whispers.
He is now,
a prophet become a burning bush,
a priest become a burnt offering,
a brother following the seraph song
all the way to Heaven’s vestibule.
He leans his back 
against the trunk, 
sits still and slowly fades.
A brown robed, grey-friar,
a hooded crow, upon the branch 
as weather beaten as the wood 
on which he rests.
His chapel vault, 
an arching branch.
The greening sunshine 
through the leaves,
his stained glass window.
His choir, the birds.
And he who has learned 
at last, their song of innocence,
hears, understands, and smiles
at their skyborn summons.
From here he will ascend,
this sylvan stylite,
and will be ever after known,
and busied even in eternity as,
Finder of the lost things,
Friend of the poor ones,
Pilgrim preacher of peace,
Brother to the sisters 
in their needs.
But for now, at least, 
there is a moment’s rest,
here upon the hillside
under the passing sun 
and moon,
beneath the branches, 
and breeze played leaves,
above the earth,
alone, at last,
where all the words
are dropped
like leaves
upon the wind,
Anthony 
simply
is.

(At the end, St. Anthony retired to a hermitage but owing to the crowds who came the brothers built him a treehouse in in which to spend his days in uninterrupted prayer. Icon by Br. Robert Lentz)

Feast of our brother St. Anthony of Padua today! Known as the "Good Doctor" for his immense wisdom and learning he was an indefatigable preacher and teacher of the Gospel and the first teacher of theology to the Friars from amongst their own number. 
Known for the immense number of miracles worked during his life he was granted the title of Thaumaturge or Wonderworker. He also worked tirelessly on behalf of the poor and opposed corruption wherever he found it. His last years were spent living as a hermit (in a treehouse!) and teaching the brothers. He is the patron of the poor, of children and pregnant women and of preachers and teachers, and is invoked to find that which is lost and, above all, of miracles! 
He is one of our truly extraordinary brothers and one of my own special spiritual teachers and friends. We entrust ourselves to his prayers this day and always +





(Photos include wonderful moment I got to venerate the cross St. Anthony burned into the wall of the Cathedral in Lisbon with his finger when only 12 years old in order to repel a temptation of the devil to leave his studies to become a priest.)
.
SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018
.
Glorious St. Anthony, I salute thee as a good servant of Christ, and a special friend of God. You once were favored to hold the Christ Child in your arms as you cherished His Word in your heart.
Today I place all my cares, temptations, and anxieties in your hands. I resolve ever to honor you by imitating your example.
Powerful patron, model of Purity, please win for me, and for all devoted to thee, perfect purity of body, mind, and heart I promise by my example and counsel to help others to the knowledge, love, and service of God. Amen.

The creator of the heavens obeys a carpenter; the God of eternal glory listens to a poor virgin. Has anyone ever witnessed anything comparable to this?" .
"The birds are the saints, who fly to heaven on the wings of contemplation, who are so removed from the world that they have no business on earth. They do not labour, but by contemplation alone they already live in heaven." ~ St Anthony of Padua

The relics of St. Anthony of Padua (of Lisbon originally) exposed for veneration. A detail of them that always makes my heart ache is that upon forensic examination of his bones it was found that his foot bones were worn almost away due to the countless miles he walked to preach the Gospel and serve the poor... Miraculously, his tongue and vocal chords have remained incorrupt to this day.