Transfiguration Happens: A meditation poem for the second Sunday of Lent

A meditation poem for 

the second Sunday of Lent

Transfiguration Happens

Transfiguration happens

in each moment.

When a sunbeam cuts 

through the forest canopy 

and illumines a glade with 

sudden glory,

transfiguration

happens.

When a flower unfurls 

and startles 

with stunning 

colour,

transfiguration

happens.

When stillness settles 

in the soul, 

long enough for us

to notice light leaking 

lovingly

into the world through 

leaves, and 

life quietly working 

miracles of 

resurrection from 

the mulch 

of seeming 

death,

transfiguration

happens.

And even

when we, worried,

busied and bothered,

do not 

notice our daily

divine draw

up the 

mountain,

from glory 

to 

glory;

transfiguration

happens

still. 

Moon Memories: a meditation poem for the Full Moon

 For Sister Moon as she rises full tonight...

Moon Memories:

Once,

the Moon followed 

me home,

I know, 

because I watched her 

out the back window of the car.

Occasionally slipping 

behind trees or buildings

like a secret agent,

she kept up with us

effortlessly, 

as I strained against

the straps of my seat

to meet her gaze.

I felt her interest

and her smile,

happy to have made

a new friend.

Once, 

not afraid of the night,

but of the day 

that would follow,

I was invited 

by my Mother

to gaze on the Moon

outside our house,

and greet her as

Our Lady’s lamp

protecting all,

guiding all home,

wisdom

passed down

from her Father,

whom I had never met,

but always felt 

I knew.

He loved the Moon too,

she said.

There is hereditary

of the heart,

as well as of the blood,

it seems.

To this day

I miss her calls

that would begin always 

with

Have you seen the Moon

tonight?

For I cannot look up

at the Moon

without looking

within

too.

Once,

I spent the night

in a wood made pure

silver 

by her presence,

and felt the life in every thing

stir and sing

and dance

in a wild celebration

that is hidden from

the day.

I sat stone still

and watched 

Foxes play

about me

and a Badger

pass by like an ancient sage

busy on his own quest,

and I believed 

in magic again 

by her light.

Once,

I remember her

daytime ghost

appearing during the 

long drawn out days

of dry schooling,

and seeing her

still serenity

so far above

the awfulness

of that age

made me breathe out

a breath 

I did not even know

I had been holding

on to for years.

She felt like a friend

checking in.

We greeted each other 

then,

as we do to this day,

each noticing the other

in the blessed acceptance

of being.

Once,

Sick and fevered I rose

gasping in the middle 

of a winter’s night

and pulled back the curtain

to find her shining

over snow so newly fallen

that not a flake 

had been disturbed,

but glowed in her gaze 

cascading in curves

over a street I knew 

but saw again

for the first time,

now softened 

by snowlight’s reflection

of her blessed touch. 

I looked and looked

at this gracious gift

of enchantment’s echo

until I felt I was being 

looked at in turn

and blessed too.

In the morning,

I woke,

well.

Once,

I walked the pier

between my parents

on the night before

I left to follow

the path.

We watched her rise 

together,

in silence 

and listened to a mandolin

playing in the distance.

We did not have to speak,

the Moon sang for us,

soul songs only we could hear.

Always remember this night,

they said later.

As if I could 

do anything 

else?

Once,

Feeling bereft and lost

I caught sight of her

rising over a strange city

(Though I remember her, 

and the feelings, 

but not the city it was.)

and I did not feel lost 

anymore

How could you be lost

when you are always

under her graced gaze?.

How could you be alone

when everyone you know

and love is beneath her blessing

too?

I asked myself.

Once, 

I saw her,

loom so large

as to almost 

be alarming,

bedecked in harvest

gold and heavy seeming,

she lit the land beneath

so beautifully 

that the cattle on the hills

cried out to her, 

and the birds began their chorus

for a dawn 

that was yet hours away.

I danced in her light 

that night,

beneath the trees,

a slow sandaled

shuffle of monkish sort,

and bowed deeply 

as she passed.

How could you not?

When all around 

and within

was 

psalming

celebration

of her compline

completeness.

Once,

I watched her rise 

sickle sharp

over Assisi.

As though making manifest

the unseen divine smile

hanging in the air

over this holy place

where joy was married

to peace in the song

of brother-sisterhood.

I smiled back and felt

the saint smile too

behind it all

and wondered what

his long silent nights

of prayer

must have been like,

measured only by her dance 

across the sky

slowly revealing her face

to him,

as grace comes gently 

to fill us

only as we empty,

and so seem

to disappear 

into divine darkness

just like 

her.

Cobweb

 An older one for a Lenten Friday

Cobweb 

I was 

about 

to clean

the cobweb

from 

the crucifix

that hangs

in the 

convent sacristy,

when I 

became 

aware

of the 

tiny scrap 

of 

spidered soul

crouching

behind 

the corpus;

and 

I thought;

how right,

how beautiful 

and right

it is,

that the 

small ones,

the tiny ones,

the ones

we label 

as ugly,

or scary,

or simply

too

different

to feel 

their

kinship,

would

make their

home

with

Love

in the

moment

of its 

greatest

rejection,

in the 

moment

of its 

greatest

triumph.

So 

I withdrew

in 

reverence,

remembering

in my 

bones

the 

web of wonder

in which 

we are 

all,

in

gossamered 

grace

together,

soul spun

from

Spirit.

Calligraphy

 Reminded of this today...

Calligraphy 

A new pen today.

A stranger in my hand.

Capable of so much

but halting as yet in its 

generosity of ink.

There is a courtship of courtesy

needed in every encounter 

with the new,

whether pen or person.

I, with my attention,

now create a partnership

of presence,

that wakes the essence

of the tool and allows 

it become, more.

I must slow down 

and learn its ways;

how the nib wishes to touch

the infinity of paper,

how its character 

comes through

its balance and heft 

in my moving hand.

There is a dance 

to be done here;

I flowing with it,

it flowing with me.

Each in turn leading

the other.

So far though only

stumbles today.

They set me thinking 

of favoured pens

and pools of ink past:

the reed I cut, split and carved,

chiseling staccato letters 

in broad script.

The quill from a swan's wing

that taught gentleness of form,

curved to fit just so 

into the waiting hand.

The chinese brush 

sweeping over the ink stone, 

its line responsive

even to the merest breath.

They all bestowed 

their blessing of form,

carving emptiness 

by their alphabets;

gothic, uncial, 

copperplate, or free 

and flourished,

allowing thoughts 

to become 

presence,

to become sound 

and story, 

maps of meaning 

drawn in ink.

So too are we, 

perhaps, pens

in the eternal hand, 

when, unresisting,

we allow the Word  

manifest mystery,

becoming visible in 

our scribed story,

writing wonder

upon the world,

as from our scribbles,

and crooked lines,

our split nibs,

and spattered ink,

there across the page's

progress flashes

now;

at last

illumination!

Entering the Desert: A meditation poem for the First Sunday of Lent

Entering the Desert:

Go within,

to the deepest

place of

your heart,

and find there

the lenten desert places;

the spaces

of

non-beginning,

perished 

growth,

old wounds,

and

even

sins...

Once there,

in the 

searing honesty

of 

soul's sight,

feeling

its unforgiving heat,

drought driven

and

bowed by 

the

burden of

being,

simply cry,

"Mercy!"

and feel

at once,

Love's 

flooding

response,

as desert

becomes

oasis 

and blooms again

at the 

instant,

not of speech,

but of

intent's

first aspiration,

for Divinity

awaits,

always, 

invitation,

while yearning

through 

the long ages

of our losing,

to breathe life

again

into

Adamic

dust

and grant

an

Eternal Spring.

(Pic uncredited found online)

Ordinary Miracles

 Ordinary Miracles.

Today I am so tired

I have no space in me for big.

So I must return 

to the small ordinary miracles;

to the way the cup 

and the bowl 

laid upon this table, 

once earth themselves, now,

after fire's touch

are something else 

entirely,

and give themselves 

freely,

and with the 

simple symmetry 

of their curved line

to the holding 

of emptiness 

or fullness.

Or I will drink tea, 

and follow it's warmth 

and healing touch 

within and without,

and mingle my breath 

with its vapour and 

touch the journey 

of its essence 

from far away lands 

to here, to now, to me.

Or spend time 

simply remembering

that between the covers 

of the books 

upon my shelves 

are held minds, lives, worlds, 

stories, wisdom 

that will all last longer 

than this little body of mine.

Or marvel 

at the striped stones 

upon the shore 

that tell deep time, 

layer by layer 

and recall wild days 

of disaster and dancing 

in their still sea vigil 

slowly loosing 

their grains and building 

beaches for children's hands 

to make sand castles with 

until the next tide 

sets them swimming again.

Or just knowing 

that already I have seen 

a seed become a tree 

become a log 

become a fire 

become dust 

and become soil 

for seed's planting.

Or watch the sky 

and know that the blue 

is still behind the clouds 

and the stars still shine 

even in the day.

Or simply sit 

with the slow rhythm 

of breath

knowing its biology 

as blessing, 

its divine anchoring 

as presence and prayer.

Today, I am so tired 

I have no space in me

for big questions, 

queries, feelings, 

problems, pains, 

plans, 

whether mine 

or others,

so I will just sit 

with the small ordinary 

miracles of being; 

breathing, watching, 

touching, tasting 

the now, 

and in the now 

knowing

the love 

from which all that is, 

is.

I will dwell there, 

today, 

in the wonder 

of it all,

in the wildness of 

the small 

ordinary miracles

of being.

(An older one today but its how I’m feeling and a good reminder to me to seek and find the extraordinary in the ordinary. May it be such an invitation to you too in these quarantined quiet days)

Meditation for the first Friday of Lent

 First Friday of Lent:

In silence 

and 

stillness

humble yourself

and enter

in

to the 

Holy of Holies

where,

at the deep centre

of your heart,

Divine Love

dwells. 

Once there,

anchor yourself

with the

stability of breath

and,

with quiet

tears

of true

knowing,

invoke mercy

from the 

One

who IS 

compassion

and

love.

For there,

lost in the 

embrace of 

the One

whose breath 

holds 

all things 

in being,

you will touch 

the fire 

of 

graced awareness,

and 

slowly 

be unmade

enough

to truly 

become

what you already 

are;

an Icon

of

Divine Light.

A meditation poem for Ash Wednesday: The Remembrance of Dust

The Remembrance of Dust: 

A poem for Ash Wednesday

Perhaps the dust remembers the first breathing; when its inner elements were infused with fire becoming suns and stars and stones and eventually Palms all evergreen in the divine embrace.

Perhaps the dust remembers

a day when it knew the blue of the sky,

the rich rootedness of earth,

from which its fronds rose tall, lithe and lovely seeking light, wafting windward

becoming the green vocal chords of the wind’s own whisper, a sacred song sounding in rustling reeds, in the piping of the Palms.

Perhaps the dust remembers the pain of sudden plucking; the shearing, cutting, trimming into a new shape tied, plaited, twisted, torn into the sign of pain, or lifted high in procession or laid low before long remembered hoof and sandalled hosanna tread.

Perhaps the dust remembers the long months of nothing; drying, dying from

green grace to brittle brown all while holding blessing, a touchstone token hallowing the halls and keeping the thresholds true.

Perhaps the dust remembers the taking down, the first lick of flame’s hungry tongue tasting its bitterness; then the crackle of dryness breaking into bits, the sudden rush of power as fire invites creation’s energies to firework heavenward in stubble sparks.

Perhaps the dust remembers the gathering, the slow grinding down of cinders, the rhythm song of the pestle, pulverising into black ashes resting in the cool marble of the mortar.

Perhaps the dust remembers the blessing, the chants, the prayers the sudden imposition of thumb to forehead the branding of another in the kinship of dust, in the coming of the kingdom.

Perhaps the dust remembers the journey from Palm to pain to ashes placed cruciform so that we too would even once, perhaps, remember that we were, and are, and will be dust.

Why do we eat pancakes today?

Why do we eat Pancakes today? 

Read on and find out...

Today is Shrove Tuesday, the day before the Holy Season of Lent which begins with Ash Wednesday tomorrow...

Traditionally the Lenten fast of 40 days was the strictest on the Christian Calendar and for those who were obliged to fast this meant abstaining from meat, animal fat, flour and even, in some cases, dairy products, for the weekdays of Lent. (Monday-Saturday)

So as to make sure that such substances would not be around the house to tempt people away from their fasting the house was “Shriven”, that is cleansed from all of these food items for the week before Lent, from which we get the custom of Spring Cleaning. The people would then eat the last of the flour, milk, butter and eggs today in the form of a pancake. And that is why we eat Pancakes today!

So as you enjoy your pancakes and maybe even do a bit of Spring Cleaning...ask yourself what will I be fasting from this Lent and prepare yourself for the spiritual spring cleaning or shriving it brings!

Who was St. Valentine?

 Who was St. Valentine? 

Read on and find out...

There are four early saints with the name Valentine, but the one whose feast we celebrate today was a Bishop who was martyred during the persecution of the Church by the Emperor Claudius II around the year 270AD.

 Claudius had banned marraige for any man who was entering the army, in the belief that the soldier having no ties to family would be more likely to die for the empire, added to this he had also banned the worship of any god except the Emperor. Valentine continued to perform secret marraiges for the soldiers who were Christians, but was eventually betrayed to the Emperor. 

On being brought before him for trial, Claudius was astounded by the conviction and courage of the man and offered him a high place in government if only he would renounce the Christian God. Even after torture Valentine refused to offer incense to the Emperor and was eventually sentenced to death. While in prison he became friends with the daughter of the jailer and wrote to her a final letter which he signed, "from your Valentine", from which the custom of sending "Valentines" arose. 

He was martyred on the 14th of February a day that was around the pagan feast of lupercalia when couples were betrothed and a day traditionally picked by bird keepers for the pairing of doves for the year ahead. Because of this Valentine quickly became the patron of engaged couples and those seeking a spouse. 

His relics lie in the Carmelite Church of Whitefriar St in Dublin, Ireland. The custom has arisen of blessing engagement rings on this day in his honour. So there we go... a feast of love as compassion, as healing, and as self sacrificing for the highest good... that's what we celebrate today... isn't it?

The images show the shrine of St. Valentine in Dublin and shows his major relics in the casket beneath his image there. Other relics are preserved in Glasgow (skull)  and Rome (bones)

Saturday: Our Lady’s day

Saturday is always Our Lady’s day so for a little peaceful pause this beautiful reading from Saint Sophronius as given in the Office of Readings today is a wonderful meditation...

Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. What joy could surpass this, O Virgin Mother? What grace can excel that which God has granted to you alone? What could be imagined more dazzling or more delightful? Before the miracle we witness in you, all else pales; all else is inferior when compared with the grace you have been given. All else, even what is most desirable, must take second place and enjoy a lesser importance.

The Lord is with you. Who would dare challenge you? You are God’s mother; who would not immediately defer to you and be glad to accord you a greater primacy and honour? For this reason, when I look upon the privilege you have above all creatures, I extol you with the highest praise: Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. On your account joy has not only graced humanity, but is also granted to the powers of heaven.

Truly, you are blessed among women. For you have changed Eve’s curse into a blessing; and Adam, who hitherto lay under a curse, has been blessed because of you.

Truly, you are blessed among women. Through you the Father’s blessing has shone forth on humankind, setting them free of their ancient curse.

Truly, you are blessed among women, because through you your forebears have found salvation. For you were to give birth to the Saviour who was to win them salvation.

Truly, you are blessed among women, for without seed you have borne, as your fruit, him who bestows blessings on the whole world and redeems it from that curse that made it sprout thorns. 

Truly, you are blessed among women, because, though a woman by nature, you will become, in reality, God’s mother. If he whom you are to bear is truly God made flesh, then rightly do we call you God’s mother. For you have truly given birth to God.

Enclosed within your womb is God himself. He makes his abode in you and comes forth from you like a bridegroom, winning joy for all and bestowing God’s light on all.

You, O Virgin, are like a clear and shining sky, in which God has set his tent. From you he comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber. Like a giant running his course, he will run the course of his life which will bring salvation for all who will ever live, and extending from the highest heavens to the end of them, it will fill all things with divine warmth and with life-giving brightness.

Crocus: a meditation poem of hope

 

Crocus

Once, long ago,

during a winter more grey within

than cold without,

when the house was filled

with seeming endless

sadness, and anger,

and emptiness,

I came down one morning

to a chilled and silent kitchen

to discover that outside,

a crocus had bloomed overnight,

under the old cherry tree,

in a place none had ever bloomed before.

How had it come there on that day,

in that place?

Bird carried, wind blown,

or old planting stirred anew?

But, why wonder at its coming?

All it asked of me

was to be seen.

I stood, still,

empty kettle in hand,

staring into the grey garden,

now sunlit, with the yellow frail petals

of an unexpected 

and unlooked for flower.

It lasted just long enough

for us to hear,

behind the song of sorrow

we were singing in that house then,

a note of hope, a sound of Spring,

not now, but coming.

I knew then, and for evermore,

that at the right time, in the right place,

looked at in the right way,

even a tiny yellow crocus

can be a word from the Word.

So today I know that 

when sadness sings her song

around my roots,

it is ok, 

it is beautiful,

it is necessary,

but also it is an invitation

to wait and watch

for the yellow crocus

to bloom again,

as it always will,

announcing angel like,

the nearness of spirit's Spring,

not now, perhaps,

but always coming.

(Pic not mine; found unattributed on the web)

Lourdes Light

A meditation poem for the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes

Lourdes Light

Here heaven 

is,

as cave yields 

darkness

to admit her light.

She,

who 

in her “Yes”

first

restored elemental 

balance;

earth, air, fire, water

re-unify 

here as

healing grace in 

her

presence.

Where she 

rests,

in cave's crook

roses now 

bloom,

candles kindle, 

and the world is 

gentled 

at her touch.

Where she 

stands,

springs fountain

faith forth

and cure

creation,

drawing venom's

poison

from the oldest of

wounds.

Where she 

is,

time stops

and enters 

Eternity's

grotto of

wombing

wonder

where,

bowing 

now,

we 

behold the

Divine blessing

of new

beginning,

Wisdom manifest

now as

Mother 

and Maiden

both.

Where she 

is,

He is,

who makes 

of her

person 

and point

in time 

and place

where

all that is 

broken

becomes

whole

and births

blessing

as

Bernadette

beckons

us

heavenward

home.

Snow Blessing

 Snow Blessing.

Early morning air 

is cold, clear, pure,

sharpening as

the sky bows down 

in its grey cloaked 

and wintery embrace.

I stop.

Aware, as, all around me

is Mother Earth's sudden

hushed anticipation,

palpable as the excitement

of a little girl on her first communion day,

or a bride before her wedding,

both awaiting their new clothing

signifying Love's coming gift.

Now, birds sudden cease 

their song and seek 

shelter in the ever green

as first flakes fall.

Bestowing blessing of beauty,

they come, smoothing and 

sharpening both 

land and sky with their crystalline grace.

I gaze upward, blinking as

snowflake resolves from sky

and manifests as manna does.

Settling on sandled toes,

and uplifted face,

while they announce their 

presence with tingle touch

before disappearing;

letting go of form

as freely as Angels do,

once divine dream is delivered.

Leaving behind only 

thrilled stillness and 

soul senses sharpened 

by Heaven's sudden gift.

An older one for the day that’s in it!

Becoming Fire...

 A day for the fire today so this old poem came to

mind with a few inspirations after it too...

Becoming Fire

Throw 

the old log

upon 

the fire

and watch

as it

surrenders 

its story

to the 

flames.

The dried out 

moss,

the brittle bark,

every old

yearly ring

and marking

from life,

now

consumed,

it becomes,

eventually,

itself,

fire.

Dancing 

now

as flame

its old 

earthy

life

forgotten

as it 

frees

old energy,

yielding

like

a lover

to the 

lick,

to the 

kiss,

of the 

flame;

cracking,

splitting,

breaking,

burning,

until

all

is 

given,

until all

is 

one

fire.

Afterwards,

you may 

watch 

the ash

fall through 

the grate

and ask

where did 

the logs 

go?

You could 

ask

the same 

of the

saints.

The answer

is the

same.

They too

yielded to the 

flame,

They too

became

fire.

"Yes, you may burn until you are translucent, but it is by way of this burning that your wholeness will be revealed." Matt Licata

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, ‘Abba as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?’ then the old man stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, ‘If you will, you can become all flame.’

(Sayings of the Desert Fathers)

Sanctuary Lamp

 An old one speaks to me tonight... It may bless you too... that we may all become Sanctuary Lamps leading to the Presence of the One who is the Source of Light:

Sanctuary Lamp.

Tonight

in the long quiet 

of moonless

midnight 

I will sit 

in the Holy Dark

of day done 

weariness;

work behind me,

pain within me,

chaos around me.

I will just 

sit,

and try to come

to the only 

stillness

in which true knowing is

possible;

sitting past the storms 

that rage

within and without

discovering,

discerning,

desiring,

I flounder

until my 

distracted 

eye is drawn 

to you,

faint flickering 

flame,

swinging serenely

in some tiny

blessed breeze.

Wondering at 

your wavering

light,

last

struck from 

resurrection

spark of long ago,

I will rest in 

your gentle

ministry of 

presence;

little lighthouse

for the storm-lost,

hearth fire

calling home

this weary 

wanderer.

Your light,

playing

upon the 

white washed 

wall

of sacred silence,

describes

an 

arc of grace

to be entered

only

barefoot

in burning bush

awe

and whispers 

in the desert 

places of my

ill-attentive soul

the name of the Love

you

guard,

solitary sentry

of the silent

hours,

and so 

I will come

to attention

too.

Tonight

in the long quiet 

of moonless

midnight 

I will sit 

in the Holy Dark

of night's deep 

healing,

activity behind me,

healing within me,

quiet around me,

and led by your blessed

beacon

I pray I may 

arrive at last to 

storm eye 

stillness,

in which the true knowing

is possible,

and become

myself,

again

and,

at last,

a 

lamp

of

Presence.

Holy Communion: a meditation poem

 An old reminder that all is part of the offering of creation to the One from whom all arises in Love... and the offering of Love for the healing of creation...

Holy Communion.

If we look 

deeply enough,

If we pause 

long enough,

If we become 

still enough,

If we gaze 

simply enough,

If we are

quiet enough,

then we begin,

at last,

to understand

that

the seeming silence 

of 

creation

is a dwelling 

in the deep Eucharistic 

mystery of 

reality 

itself .

Where all that is, 

comes to us

through Him.

Where all that is, 

offers itself 

with Him.

Where all that is, 

exists 

in Him;

and He is

Love.

And then we,

sons and daughters 

of the Most High,

and,

brothers and sisters

of all

being,

may join this

eternal dance 

of 

creation's

consecration

and offer

our sacrifice

of presence

and praise

to the

One

who descends 

daily,

and, who,

humbly in

the hands

of His

priests,

invites our

entry

into

holy

communion

once 

again.

.

Breakfast Epic

 Breakfast Epic

We are soulfire seasoned with stardust, 

you and I.

Kind kindled from all eternity,

our first quickening arose from the mind of divine love;

wombed from wonder, we were

born into this time, this moment, 

heavy with our own history,

but cocooned in ancient story and song

to inspire our soul and be 

exhalations of the of the Word’s wisdom.

Sun seasoned and moon tided,

we are nourished by starborn elements 

long born from creation’s conflagration.

So we find ourselves connected crossways 

to all that is or was or will be

in the dance of divine love’s unfolding.

Known as sons and daughters

of the kingdom, we now know ourselves 

only as exiles from our own blessed being,

seemingly as false and fleeting as shadows upon the wall, 

yet longing for love’s light to rage so full around us 

that all that is not may be lost in one luminosity of being.

For now we know not even the real earth beneath, or the real sky above,

for we look as yet through sin veiled eyes that weep, 

for feeling in resurrection seeded heart the light that shines 

behind, before and through, and seeks our spirit sight 

to raise us to our thrones.

Ah! All this awaits my knowing, for, 

if only I could truly see the sainted being 

who sits in front of me, 

here at table on this simple morning,

and is a blessed bridge between eternity and time

who sighs and smiles and says in answer 

to the first deep question of this day

“Coffee, please; then porridge.”

The Early Shift

 

The Early Shift

To rise early.

To sit in the holy dark.

To sit like a mother 

keeping watch over their child.

To sit like a lover 

who watches the gentle slumber 

of the beloved.

To sit like a sage 

watching for the ripples of wisdom 

on the face of the deep pool 

of the soul.

To sit and mingle our breath

with the fiery breeze of the 

hovering dove.

To sit and allow our silence

to become a word of the Word

who unseen holds all things

in being.

This is our work.

To sit.

To breathe.

To pray.

To be.

To watch with holy attention 

the places and times that so few see,

that so few notice.

To sit with the last star in the sky.

To sit with the first bird’s tentative song,

little more than a whisper,

little more than a breath.

To watch for the hidden point of turning,

when it is no longer night,

when it is not yet day,

when it is the holy time 

of ending and beginning,

after moonset, before sunrise,

when for the briefest of moments

the sky is the colour of heaven.

When the mind ceases its chatter,

when the heart may be surrendered to the silence,

and the silence warmly hold 

all tears,

all suffering,

all sorrow,

all pain,

to itself

in infinite compassion.

Breathing peace,

breathing love,

witnessed by our sitting,

witnessed by our presence,

witnessed by our silence.

Until the silence yields 

to the sounds of slow waking

as the world pulls itself together, 

puts off the little daily death of sleep 

and stumbles towards busyness anew,

and thinks only now,

only now,

do things begin.

The Feast of Candlemas

 

The Feast of Candlemas: The Feast of Light

 

 

 

In the Christian tradition today is kept as Candlemas Day, the feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple by His mother Mary and foster father Joseph. It was then that the babe was recognised as the Christ for all peoples and proclaimed as such by St.'s Simeon and Anna. He will be and is already the Light who enlightens all people as Simeon sings in his prophetic canticle, the Nunc Dimitis. This song is chanted and prayed by the whole Church during the office of Compline every night 

 

This feast is understood as one of the pinacle moments when the two strands of Jewish Revelation; the Prophets and the Priesthood, both recognise Jesus as the Christ who fulfils Prophecy and as the perfect High Priest who enlightens the world and who is Himself the sacrificial offering for its salvation.

 

Falling 40 days after Christmas and mid way between the Solstice and the Equinox it also reminds us of the great cosmic rhythms of light and darkness and the uncreated Light from which they both emerge. It is also since ancient times the definitive end of the Christmastide season and looks forward to the growing light of Spring.

 

As part of its ritual the candles that will be used in the coming year are blessed today thus giving it its ancient name of Candlemas

 

 

For this day enjoy a meditation on Light by the poet TS Eliot 

O Light Invisible, we praise Thee!

Too bright for mortal vision.

O Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less;

The easternlight our spires touch at morning,

The light that slants upon our western doors at evening,

The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight,

Moon light and star light, owl and moth light,

Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade.

O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

We thank Thee for the light that we have kindled,

The light of altar and of sanctuary;

Small light of those who meditate at midnight

And light directed through the coloured panes of window

And light reflected from the polished stone,

The gilded cavern wood, the coloured fresco.

Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward

And see the light that fractures through unquiet water.

We see the light but see not whence it comes.

O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!

A Litany of St. Brigid

 A litany of St. Brigid for her Feast

Brigid of the hearth and the hare

Brigid of the spark and the flame

Brigid of the cloak and the veil

Brigid of the herb and the stars

Brigid of the byre and the kine

Brigid of the ill and the old

Brigid of the young and the wild

Brigid of the poor and the voiceless

Brigid of the oak and the staff

Brigid of the long nights watching

Brigid of the Sun's slow dawning

Brigid of the Moon's spring rising

Brigid of the first bloom’s flowering

Brigid of the well’s gentle healing

Brigid of the Earth’s old wisdom

Brigid of the Nun’s deep chanting

Brigid of the High King of Heaven

Brigid of the rush woven cross

Brigid of the shaven head

Brigid of the lost sword

Brigid of the royal house

Brigid Abbess of the dual house of prayer

Brigid Eldress of the sanctuary’s light

Brigid Wise Woman of the healing touch

Brigid patron saint of Ireland

Brigid named Mary of the Gael

Pray for us!

(Icon by the late Sr. Aloysius McVeigh)