Spy Wednesday: a meditation poem

          A meditation poem for Holy (Spy) Wednesday

Spy Wednesday

We feel it once again

approach,

as a shiver on the

spine,

the annual reminder,

the telling of the

true tale;

of the betrayal

of love,

of light,

of God;

existing

not just then

but

always;

an option in each

moment.

Beguiled by shadows

of desire,

always appearing

bigger and better

than that whose

shape

they,

in their smoke selves

flickeringly take

falsely;

we tell ourselves

the story

as old as eden:

It is for our good,

or

for their good,

or

for goodness sake,

or

for eventual good.

But we

know,

always,

deep down we

know,

as inch by inch,

step by step,

we turn our back on

Him,

on Love,

and allow

the callous clinking of

coin

to fall upon the

floor

of a once clean

sanctuary,

our fairy gold that

disappears

in morning light,

yet we,

knowing that good is

hard,

too often

take the eden easy

way,

and

descend the

steps of

desire

until despair

beckons...

Hold!

He is looking at

you,

always!

In this moment,

meet His eyes,

who saw you

first in

eternal

gaze of Love

from everlasting,

and hear Him call

your true

name!

Give Him

your

judas shrunken self,

lost in egoic agony,

and let

His betrayed and bought

blood

purchase for you

instead

Peter's

true tears,

crystalising

into repentant

rock

beneath

Easter's

thrice told

benediction.

"The real sin of Judas was not the betrayal of Christ but his rejection of the forgiveness offered for that betrayal."

The Twelve are alive in me: a meditation poem for Holy Tuesday

 

A Poem for Holy Tuesday:

The Twelve are Alive in Me.

There are days when it feels

as though all the Twelve 

live in this poor disciple’s heart.

For, depending on the moment’s mystery

each has his place, and his preaching

is heard in my soul.

Peter is present,

a rock and foundation stone

thrice cleft by betrayal

and cleansed by tears at

cockcrow,

but fitting fully now nonetheless,

this rough fisherman of grace,

overawed at Love that does not depart

in the presence of sin,

or even self satisfied importance,

but teaches patiently

through the impetuosity

of one who would,

build tents to tame heaven

on a hill,

or swing a leg over the side 

to begin the water walk of wonder

until storm tossed seas

recall a quavering heart to the lesson of humility

and later call “Quo Vadis?” 

to One whose way he follows to

an upside down end.

O yes. 

Peter is present in me.

Andrew beckons too,

the announcer of the Lord.

First called and first to call others.

“Come!” 

he cries in me, “I have found Him!”

And this is the life of Andrew in me

finding and losing and finding again;

only to lose again 

so that I may call others to

the finding in their turn,

and in that struggle to perhaps

at the last, find all that I have longed for

and sought in every teacher;

the One from whom all knowledge comes,

the One who is the Wisdom of the Ages,

the Lamb walking wild towards His

Paschal place while saying all the while

“Come and See…” 

“Come and See…”

O yes. Andrew is present in me.

The Sons of Thunder have their place in me,

brothers both and twice blessed

James and John; lions of the Lord,

tamed slowly into Apostles of

mercy and love.

They shine the light

on all unreconciled in me, 

all that is yet to yield

to the gentleness of grace, 

transforming fire into fire,

light into light, they smoulder within 

until finally alight, the mystic flame

burns away my blindness

and gives the eagle’s eye,

the pilgrim’s staff,

to see and walk the way

beyond the way 

of this world 

Matthew dwells here too.

Tax Collector, Publican, 

who yet holds the priestly name

too in his heart, even in his broken days.

Forgiven his compromise 

with the world and called clean

from the heart of horror

by One who sudden stands unbidden

in the midst of the unclean place

to cleanse and call.

His story told me to hope

that I too could be called,

not once only, but daily

from the hard taxation 

of sin’s slavery

and its distractions to become

a living Gospel of His grace,

evangelising all in exultation

over mercy found, not once only,

but many times,

where even the tale of my betrayals

becomes a blessed gate to grace

for all who hear.

O yes. Matthew is present in me.

Philip and Bartholomew,

those brothers of the road 

and companions on the way 

are found in me.

Spirit led preachers and questioners too,

seeking wisdom’s light and imparting

wisdom’s blessings all in the power of

the Word. 

In their pain they preached

and fulfilled their longing

to see with their own eyes,

and touch with their own hands.

They teach the lesson of being open to Angels

met upon the road in all the disguises

of grace; stepping lightly and not long upon the earth

they dance across deserts 

and invite me to flow freely in faith

O yes. Philip and Bartholomew are present in me.

Thomas too is here,

sometimes still appearing as

Didymus the Doubter;

needing the touch of truth, 

the gaping wound that proves Love’s

labour, birthing blessedness in blindness.

Yet also, and more often

he in me affirms faith and its freedom

describing divinity in mystery 

and Lordship in light

touching presence, yes

by becoming the very vessel 

in which is seen and heard

the One who is the face

of the Father.

O yes. Thomas is present in me.

Three come forward now

Each with their own share 

Of me, in me, with me,

Simon, James and Jude

Of the first two named

I owe the allegiance of the east,

for into the sun rise they walked

their way of faith together 

once healed of the heaviness

of seeming loss and ruin on Calvary’s Cross.

In its sign they bought with their blood too

the blessing of a harvest 

still to be reaped, not just in distant lands

but in this my soul, that lies too often in darkness

and yearns for resurrection dawn.

Of the third what can I say 

but that his gift is hope, perhaps

the greatest grace of all save love,

but can love be kindled 

save at hope’s hearth?

He too lived his hope unto the gates of Heaven

where hope fades into faith’s fulfilment

and where I pray each day these noble three

may yet bring me and all I love safely home.

O yes. Simon, James and Jude are present in me. 

And yes…

There is a Judas place

in which I am the betrayer,

whose faith is so frail

it cannot imagine a mercy

wide enough for me,

and hurtles instead headlong

through temptation’s tumult

to bestow a kiss,

by which the silver coin of self

turns to doubt’s dust

in an unknowing dawn, a mere second away from resurrection

May I be saved from it by this sacred knowing that

O yes; Judas is present in me.

But there is too a blessedness in me,

though not of me,

that kindles faith and hope and love

even in the face of my own weary weakness,

and calls me yet, as they were called 

from out the ordinary occupation of the day to know

that these Apostles, all alive in me, 

are spokes of one great wheel of love,

that turns the stars and drives the sun across the sky

and pours upon us the uncreated light by which we see the light!

Known to those twelve first as Rabbi, then as Christ, and finally as Lord,

He lights my way, loves me and all that is 

into the blessing of being

and asks me now, as then he asked all twelve, and asks now you, 

“Will you not come and see?”

O yes. He is present in me.

(an older one today but one that feels right as the Gospel of Holy Tuesday today encounters the responses of the Apostles to the prediction by Jesus of His betrayal.)

Meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s anointing

 A meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s Anointing

Perfume

They were a people aware of smell as we are not.

Thinking ourselves safe in our sanitised 

and oh so hygienic ways we lose so much.

They lived breathing the breath of Mother Earth,

exhaled in a myriad of mists, miasmas and myrrhs;

the Fisherfolk and their slimy shining scales 

the Shepherds and their greasy fleeces, 

Merchants fogged by clouds of spices, 

and Lepers with their cracked and bleeding skins;

above them all, perhaps, the incense fumed robes of Priests

hiding the metal edge of blood poured out upon the altar stone; 

so they lived and died with their own fragrance 

woven into the warp and woof of cloth and skin and lives, 

to say nothing of the sun’s sweat upon the brow and back 

of middle eastern days.

How it must have exploded then, this perfume,

as with the cracking of the sealed white urn 

the ointment poured out, slow as sunrise, 

felt not just upon His feet but in the air, 

the precious nard,

that held within itself the living breath 

of flowers and herbs 

announcing their ancient edenic essence, 

pouring its power into nose and throat and lungs, 

silencing the room with this sacrament of scent, 

at once so sacred and so animal, 

singing its old song to both soul and sense alike. 

Stored long and held precious 

by the Woman for so many days,  

a gift perhaps, taken down 

only to be put back until the appointed time; 

not yet, not yet, she might have said, 

waiting for the heart’s movement as only women wait.

Until today, when He visits once again this blessed Bethany, 

this place of peace and miracle of friendship, 

watered with His laughter and His tears, 

for sisters two and reborn brother all. 

Perhaps she sees in Him the weary dusting of the road, 

perhaps a presentiment of the future way appears, 

no matter what spurs the gift, 

it is given freely as grace is given, 

becoming a deeper grace in that very giving, 

now an omen, to point the way toward the path of pain, 

a knight’s anointing for the combat coming

for Him who is already thrice anointed, 

priest, prophet, king,

yet named anew for death by perfumed oil’s cool touch,

as with her tears and hair she wipes His feet in welcome

liturgy of love that breaks the bounds of law 

and silences all but one, 

whose sense and soul are long since dulled 

to all but self, causing the Word Himself 

to speak and make it known that Love 

itself permits this scenting scene as prophecy

and extravagance, earth’s last gift for Him 

who in its scent song tastes all the notes 

and knows again the touch 

of crib remembered cooling myrrh, 

and its long foretelling tomb, 

for which the time has now at last, arrived.

His feet anointed for the journey He must take

so all may at last attain their home, 

He will become

the perfumed ointment for our healing, 

the fragrant offering, 

the incense burned and offered up.

(Picture by Daniel F Gerhertz)

Meditation for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion

Meditation for Palm Sunday

Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday of

the Lord’s Passion; a day to reflect on the extremes within us. 

The same crowd who greet Jesus as King and Lord and sing “Hosanna!” shout “Crucify Him!” barely a week later. It is a reminder to us all of the potential for both good and evil present within our hearts… just because we are crying out hosanna in this moment does not mean that we may not fall and find ourselves crucifying Him in the next… Palm Sunday in its two Gospel passages sobers us… and gives us a vision of human reality, our reality. Beginning in joy and ending in sorrow it reminds us what happens when we try and shrink God, try and manipulate Him into what we want Him to be, or even worse into what we want Him to want us to be. The crowds shouting Hosanna do exactly this. They are good people, God fearing people even, and that may be their problem; they fear but they do not love. Love expands our understanding, fear shrinks it. In their fear and anger their understanding is limited and so they want God to submit to them, to follow their plan. They want Jesus to be their conquering Messiah, a warlord who raises an army and frees the chosen people from their Roman overlords. They don’t want what God wants to give; not a warlord Messiah but a suffering servant who frees, not just a city or a people from physical domination and slavery, but the whole cosmos from the slavery of sin and evil; They do not want it, but they receive not a king upon a throne, but a lamb upon a cross. 

And so “Hosanna!” can turn to “Crucify!” so easily, so quickly. It can do that in my heart, in your heart too. Anytime we try and shrink or constrain God to our plans, our way of thinking, or our agendas, no matter how worthy or good they seem to be, this is what happens… 

So what is our way out of this mess? Jesus shows us… In all of the chaos of palms and processions He is simply Himself, silent, still, present. He submits to the Will of the Father and empties Himself so that we may be filled… In the house of the High Priest, before Pilate and even on the Cross He is simply following the will of the Father and so is serene, secure, still. He is the still-point of pure love around which the world, indeed the whole cosmos turns, and in His stillness He opens for us an ever expanding vision of God, an ever expanding vision of Love. 

Let our Holy Week begin and be blessed by uniting ourselves with the Stillness of the Saviour and allow Him to call us to the simple acceptance of the will of the Father for us whatever it may be, the divine vision for us that never shrinks us to shout “Crucify!” but always gives us an ever-expanding vision of Love that causes us to sing “Hosanna!” We may not even know what it is for us in our lives as yet, but we can be certain that as long as we allow Christ to be the still centre of our being we will pass into the flow of the Divine Will, into the flow of Love.

(Written last year but it my be helpful still today)

(Pic by James Tissot)

The Providence of the Palm: a meditation poem as begin Holy Week

The Providence of the Palm

There is a divine 

tenderness

found at the heart

of the world

still, 

though

often forgotten.

If you do not believe me

that's ok.

But at least 

ask yourself 

why

the Palm tree,

growing silently

and unremarkably

for long years,

then

put forth a branch

a stem,

a flower,

in precisely that

direction;

growing 

inch by

perfect

inch,

to seeming 

touch 

with love

the face of

sacred suffering?

You may have 

many reasons

to say otherwise,

all of them no doubt

are good 

in their own way,

but to me the

providence 

of the Palm

is this,

a reminder

from the ancient

tribe of tree

that we

are called

to stretch toward

the

suffering

and pain of this 

world

and there

tenderly caress 

the 

wounded

face of 

Christ.

The Meeting on the Way: A meditation poem for the last Saturday before Holy Week

 An older one for the last Saturday before Holy Week:

The Meeting on the Way.

I do not think it happened as the pictures show;

the woman swooning into the arms of John,

or held back and cowed by soldiers' spears.

No. 

That is not the way a mother 

is present to a dying child. 

I have stood at the deathbed 

of too many not to know.

No one could hold back a mother

who saw death in the eyes of her son.

Believe me when I tell you

whether in the dusty streets 

or the sterile hospital room

this is how it happens, by and large.

The men?  

They weep and rage there and then as is their way.

But the mothers are a steely silent presence, a rock immovable, 

their gaze granite as they bear their born into the next life.

The swooning and the wailing happen only after 

the final stillness comes.

So it must have been then too.

In that moment of their meeting 

I see a sphere of silence envelope them there,

the sanctuary of their communion 

so present, so profound

that all the chaotic pain of mobbing noise 

seems just for a moment to cease around them both, 

as for the last time upon his bloodied way, He rests.

She had seen Him safely into the world 

and now she will see him safely out of it,

even though nature rebels in the hearts of all parents

who see death in the face of their child.

Even though the ever present sword 

buries itself deeper, 

always deeper into her heart

with every breath. 

She knows its pain well. 

It had begun the moment the angel left.

Even in Nazareth days it was present, 

a shadow overhanging, 

present in every childish cut and bruise and tear 

soothed upon her knee,

and held at bay by love.

Did she remember in that moment the day 

he told her the time had come?

Her life was always yes to all that liberates life, 

as every woman’s is,

whether through the womb, or the heart, or the mind,

but surely, no, was near her mother’s lips that day.

Now all she can do is be,

here,

now.

Present to Him who is 

in this moment more than ever 

simply a son in need of His mother

She will bear him now again into new life.

The pangs of this birth will 

touch death itself and conquer it,

as all birth does, and though 

this time the gate will be the heart,

the hidden womb, that sealed tabernacle, 

will weep also in pain. 

For now they simply gaze, a moment, an eternity 

before which even angels hide their faces in shame. 

It is enough. 

He knows now she is with him.

He will see her at the end.

So He stumbles on

as on the breeze he is surrounded

by the scent of Nazareth:

wood dust, frankincense, fresh bread, 

and even in the street of pain He is

for a moment,

home.

(Picture of Our Lady extrapolated from the Holy Shroud by Julian Lasbleiz. What a wonderful talent!)

Meditation for Friday of the Fifth Week of Lent

 Meditation for the Fifth Friday of Lent:

Why the Cross?

Why of all the possible modes of execution was the Cross chosen?

The ancient fathers of the Church list a number of reasons. Here are a few of them:

Crucifixion was reserved for the worst criminals and was considered the worst punishment... In absolute humiity Christ takes on the worst of what Humanity can offer so as to raise us up to the best...

Sin and death entered the world through what hung from a tree... so it was conquered and banished by He who hung from the tree of the Cross.

Christ is nailed between heaven and earth. His arms open wide in the embrace of inifinite Divine Love. He restores the ancient communion between heaven and earth forever in His own death.

The Vertical axis of the Cross represents the Eternal Now of God piercing for ever the horizontal axis of time, thus in the incarnation of Christ and through His passion and death, we have access to the eternal loving NOW of God forever... 

At the centre of this piercing we have the pierced heart of Christ from which flows the streams of Sacramental Grace that we call the Church...

This is the Atonement, literally the "At-One-Ment", that Christ accomplished through His death on the Cross...the rebalancing and healing of the ancient wound of sin that separated Humanity from God and threw the whole cosmos out of balance...now healed by Christ through the Cross it becomes our way home again. As St. Augustine says, "He descended so that we could ascend with Him."

Wherever you are today pause a moment and simply consider the Cross.

Pax +

Annunciation Thoughts

 Annunciation thoughts...

Feast of the Annunciation today or as it was known at one time Ladymas day, (Our Lady’s Mass day):

This is our true Spring day, when the Winter dark and cold of selfishness and sin yields to the green shoot of Mary's total yes to God. The whole cosmos pauses and stills to listen for the answer to the Angel as God makes Himself dependent on a young girl's faith. All graces come to us through Mary's consent including the author of grace who today allows the loving attentive stillness of a woman to change our destiny forever.

A girl becomes the Theotokos: the Mother of God, and in and through Mary we become His brothers and sisters.

Just as the Father willed we would receive the Son through the Mother at the time of the Incarnation in history, so we receive the Son in every moment through the Mother now. Nowhere is this more visibly seen than in His Presence in the Blessed Sacrament. For the One who said, this is my Body, this is my Blood willed to receive both the Body and the Blood we adore and receive from His Mother. So it follows that if we receive Christ into our life in prayer, thought, or Holy Communion, then knowingly or unknowingly, we receive Him through Mary, whose womb was the first tabernacle of the Most High and the Ark of the New Covenant. 

As the old verse put it so beautifully:

Maid that wed Divinity.

Clay that shaped Infinity.

Lady of the Trinity

Keep me in your heart.

Annunciation: a meditation poem

 Annunciation 

Here now,

across the world 

labourers look up 

in longing 

as the 

evening breeze 

of Eden, 

long lost,

is felt stirring 

down the 

centuries once more,

touching faces dusty 

from tired toil.

Divine in-breathing 

gathers itself in 

grace,

and prepares for pouring 

into vessel

where clay 

will shape divinity

and give blood 

and body to Being.

Now, the cosmos pauses, 

in her 

long dance and 

stars still 

over that house 

where 

nature touches the 

sadness of 

its lost and longed for 

divine intimacy 

in she who beckons 

unique 

blessing in her total 

simplicity.

Unknown, and 

unknowing 

but through faith,

she gives Angel assent 

smiling at 

a celestial face 

that reverses 

old order 

in its new 

reverence,

as flaming sword 

is sheathed 

and ancient gates 

are heard 

to creak 

between the worlds,

long ready to burst 

their chains

asunder.

The Father looks!

The Son leaps!

The Spirit loves!

Over, 

Within, 

Through,

her;

who is this 

perfect point of 

peace;

who is this 

girl;

who is the 

threefold woman,

Maiden, Mother, 

Spouse of Wisdom,

who

becomes now 

the way, 

the warrior, 

the Word's Womb!

She who births our 

blessing and beginning 

both,

and in whose eyes

the Eden light

rekindled,

shines

at last,

again.

(The painting is one of my favourite modern depictions of this sacred moment and is by Henry Osawa Tanner)

Equinox: a meditation poem

Equinox: 

Now

the point of 

pause

is reached

at last;

our sacred place 

of celestial

rest,

when the balance 

turns

towards 

the light, 

and we

gather

in our 

Springtime

flowering

to

celebrate 

that

moment

when

battle's

scales

tipped for ever

to the

Light,

as eternity 

kissed

time

and 

womb woke 

it

from its

long

sleep

of

slumbering

sin

to a blessed 

beauty 

longed 

for

and found

only

in she 

who

is the

vernal

greening 

of

our human

story,

and

with her 

soul assent 

gained 

for us

our 

Easter

ever 

after.

It’s good to remember in these crazy times that we are still part of the deep rhythms of the cosmos; that we still rest secure in the eternal embrace of Divine Love.

The days of the Spring Equinox were traditionally a time of rejoicing for the coming of the light and in the Christian tradition we celebrate the Annunciation, the entry into our world of the Divine Light, incarnate through Mary, marked at the end of the festival. (March 25th) 

However worried and anxious or even ill you may be remember the Light is growing and the darkness can never overpower it.

Equinox blessings to one and all+

(Pic found unattributed online but I truly love how Our Lady seems to be smiling due to her new “crown”)

Wisdom Lessons from St. Joseph

 For the Feast of St. Joseph today:

Wisdom Lessons from the life of St. Joseph:

A meditation for his feast.

.

We have no idea what God is planning for us, only that it is for our good. Our job is simply to be faithful to the present moment and to its ever new invitation to choose the way of light, to do the Divine Will.

.

God does not pre-emptively remove doubt or fear or suffering, rather He asks us to surrender them to Him and simply follow His way in Love, thus transforming them into tools for spiritual growth.

.

We can make mistakes thinking that we are doing the good or even the will of God, but Angels will always be sent to invite us back to the way; our job is to not allow the despair or guilt we feel to drown out their voices or blind us to their presence however they appear.

.

God uses the most ordinary of our human circumstances: our family, our community, our travels and our daily work to reveal the deepest significance of our being as children of God.

.

God reveals Himself far more clearly in our rest, in our stillness and in our silence than He does in our activity or our words.

.

Mastery is a matter of discipline, repeititon and heart not words, publicity or show.

.

Only by becoming what we are in the mind of God do we touch true peace. Prayer is the path and the instrument of this becoming. 

We will always find the Christ through the presence of the Mother.

.

St. Joseph, foster father of Jesus, chaste spouse of the Blessed Virgin, protector of families, terror of demons and patron of the Universal Church; pray for us+

Forest Faith: a meditation poem

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, 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.

Peace on St. Patrick’s Day

 Tomorrow we will celebrate the Feast of St. Patrick, apostle of Ireland and thaumaturge (wonder worker) 

The pic above is view of the beautiful statue of St. Patrick breathing over the Holy Well of Ballintubber to consecrate the waters of Ireland for baptism and healing. Traditionally the Holy Well here was used by St. Patrick to baptise and has been venerated ever since with the Abbey growing up around it. (You can see a reflection of the Abbey in the water if you look closely). Insufflation, the practice of consecrating or blessing with the breath, is one of the oldest gestures of blessing and directly echoes the in-breathing of the Holy Spirit at creation and the gifting of the Spirit by Jesus when He breathed over the Apostles and at the moment of Pentecost. It is also a reminder that our breath is one of the clearest connections to the Divine as it anchors us in the experience of life in the Now, in the present moment, where we touch the Divine Presence. "His breath vibrates in yours. It is the breath of God that you breathe and you are unaware of it." said St. Theophilus of Antioch. Touch your breath with deep awareness today... come home to it and know it as a connection to Divine Peace and your breath will become prayer, will become blessing, and then we may breathe peace to all we meet on this special feast and every day+

Mothers Day

 Mother’s Day:

While today originally began as a festival of faith that saw people return to their Cathedral or “mother Church” to renew their connection with the larger faith community it has become a wonderful celebration of motherhood in general and a time to give thanks for all those who hold “mothering” as part of their life.

Today, I give thanks that The Lord has given me, (and all of you), His own mother, Mary, to bring us to full Spiritual Birth and to guide our steps each day.  Today, I give thanks for sister Earth, my mother who gave the elements that make my body and to whom one day I will give them back. Today, I give thanks for all my Spiritual Mothers... especially St.’s Clare and Therese and all those who have nourished my soul and keep communion of prayer with me. Today, most of all, I give thanks for my late Mum, a mother, and a grandmother, who gave me life and imparted the greatest gifts a mother can give: faith, hope and love. 

Blessings on all mothers whether spiritual, physical or in so many other ways generative of love and peace in the world today. +

A Year of Lockdown

 A year of Lockdown:

A year today since this little poem was sent out into the world and then went a lot further than I could ever have imagined. It kept moving and dancing during a year that was probably the strangest and most difficult that most of us have ever had to go through so far... we have lost so many, we have learned so much, we have endured and hopefully we have grown...

In the midst of it all the poem has been shared countless times across the web... Royals and celebrities and news services from the BBC to CNN all featured it in their streams and platforms, and it even became part of the Taoiseach’s (Irish Prime Minister) Easter message. But most beautifully to me at least it has been translated into at least 29 different languages and dialects and has given rise to wonderful collaborations with so many different artists that has resulted in short films and amazing animations and educational resources. It has been reborn so many times and used in folk, rock, trad and dance musical versions, to say nothing of a rather wonderful chorale. To all of those artists and collaborators I bow deeply in gratitude. 

It has also led me into many, many deep and hopefully (mutually) beneficial conversations with people of every tradition and discipline imaginable and has led to many surprising connections and even friendships along the way... It has blessed me and I hope it has blessed you...

When I wrote it, or perhaps more correctly as with all poetry, when it came through me, it arose from a desire to seek seeds of hope and compassion in a time of fear and suffering across the world. It felt like a call to seek the good that is always behind the fear, to be mindful and grow in awareness of the sometimes seeming hidden ways in which Divine Love is always inviting us to grow in grace even in the midst of tragedy and pain, especially seen through the simple and most ordinary moments of kindness that unite us with one another and with all of creation... I believe that this is the most important call for any of us no matter who we are, no matter the circumstances we find ourselves in, lockdown, pandemic or no. I do not know what the next year will bring for any of us, none of us do, but I hope and pray it will be better for all of us, and I know that whatever happens we can all seek the good, be kind, grow in compassion and connection with one another, with creation, and with God, 

knowing we are always encompassed by love, we can always sing...

Lockdown

Yes there is fear.

Yes there is isolation.

Yes there is panic buying.

Yes there is sickness.

Yes there is even death.

But,

They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise

You can hear the birds again.

They say that after just a few weeks of quiet

The sky is no longer thick with fumes

But blue and grey and clear.

They say that in the streets of Assisi

People are singing to each other 

across the empty squares, 

keeping their windows open 

so that those who are alone 

may hear the sounds of family around them.

They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland

Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.

Today a young woman I know 

is busy spreading fliers with her number 

through the neighbourhood

So that the elders may have someone to call on.

Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples 

are preparing to welcome 

and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary

All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting

All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way

All over the world people are waking up to a new reality

To how big we really are.

To how little control we really have.

To what really matters.

To Love.

So we pray and we remember that

Yes there is fear.

But there does not have to be hate.

Yes there is isolation.

But there does not have to be loneliness.

Yes there is panic buying.

But there does not have to be meanness.

Yes there is sickness.

But there does not have to be disease of the soul

Yes there is even death.

But there can always be a rebirth of love.

Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.

Today, breathe.

Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic

The birds are singing again

The sky is clearing,

Spring is coming,

And we are always encompassed by Love.

Open the windows of your soul

And though you may not be able 

to touch across the empty square,

Sing.

March 13th 2020

Meditation for Friday of the Third Week of Lent

Meditation for the Friday of the

 

Third Week of Lent:

Centre and Cross 

All 

things tend 

towards 

the 

Cross,

knowing 

or 

unknowing,

yielding 

or 

unyielding.

The sacred centre 

calls;

its eternal weight 

beckoning our 

soul sight 

thither

until we finally 

look 

upon the

One 

we have 

pierced

and are 

pierced 

ourselves,

in turn,

nailed to the 

tree truth 

of our 

broken being,

and 

in that very 

moment 

born anew

in blessedness 

where

we know 

ourselves 

both

whole and holy 

in 

His sight

once 

more.

Nesting Season:

In gratitude for the brighter days of Spring and the hatching of hope they bring...

 Nesting Season

There is always 

a choice.

Perhaps in these 

strange moments

it is a simple one;

to dwell on 

what has been taken away

or to dwell in

what we have been given;

to build our nests anew

weaving safe and soft

a chance to breathe,

with all the terrible 

possibility that brings;

to reflect,

to wonder,

to sit anew 

in the secret depths 

of those actions 

of holy ordinariness;

eating, 

drinking, 

walking, 

sleeping, 

cleaning,

being with, 

being alone,

simply being. 

Taking the time

to watch the earth 

reset and heal,

to allow our inner

sky to clear of

all our worry weather,

often as grey 

and insubstantial 

as clouds,

until the 

one thing necessary

shines through

at last,

and we see

the present moment,

sky blue,

and fragile

as a blackbird’s egg,

nesting secure 

in the heart,

deep within 

the brambled hedge 

of our thorn tangled 

thoughts, 

awaiting the stillness 

of a spring morning 

when we grant ourselves 

new greening,

awaiting the sunbeam 

of divine attention 

to warm it to life,

awaiting our 

sitting breath,

faith feathered 

and yielding,

to hatch within us

a new way.

The Softening of Spring

The Softening of Spring a meditation poem:

The Softening

There will be cold nights still,

and frosty mornings, a few at least.

For another few weeks I 

will still need to put the lamp on 

to read in the early morning 

after meditation,

but now when I open the window, 

though it is still dark 

the birds are singing 

in that quiet reassuring relearning 

the words once again kind of way.

The evenings too are taking a little longer before shuffling off stage out of winter night’s sparkle starry way. 

But, I felt the softening some weeks ago now, that deep moment of knowing, 

just knowing in the blood, in the bones 

that Spring has come. 

It is not marked on any calendar, 

receives no celebration, no parade, 

and yet it always arrives.

Arrives in its own way, at its own speed, regardless of the weather 

or the arguments over whether Spring begins on this date or that date. 

It knows no dates, owns only divine call.

It is a breath of life, a subtle change upon the breeze exhaled by the earth as she wakes, stirs, stretches.

It comes perfumed in subtle notes of fox musk and the honeyed tones of hyacinths and daffodils.

It is the colour of new green tips reflected in the golden lights of sharp sun, the deep wisdom of the old frog’s eye squat settled in love’s spawning in the weedy ditches.

It sets the world to loving, to nesting, to feeding, to flying home.

But for me, for me it is a softening of the heart, 

a dropping of the shoulders, 

a breath exhaled, a promise fulfilled, 

a remembrance of sacred resurrection trust, an ancient oath remade that tells

no dark, no night, no winter cold lasts forever and Spring comes always,

and when it will, 

So, yes;

I shall wear my scarf a while more, 

and smile now at the touch of frost 

and pray my heart, old and wintered though at times it may be shall ever soften too 

and breathe the grace of Spring.

Seeking the Grail

 Seeking the Grail

Would you offer

the heart chalice

upon the altar 

of your being?

Beware then,

for the path 

to the chapel

is perilous 

and the way long.

First, the precious

metal of your mind,

thrice purified as gold,

will be forged anew

in the fire of faith,

must be then

hollowed to be hallowed,

beaten thin to be 

blessed by blood’s filling.

O my soul, remember

remember, remember,

the quest for the grail 

is all within you,

a space, 

an emptiness,

a cup of being 

to be filled 

to overflowing,

once you 

first find it 

beneath the ruins 

of your fallen life,

behind the trials of time.

Go then.

Hear again 

the soul song

calling you to the 

hidden chamber

at the centre, 

Go with grace

to the heart, 

to the fulcrum,

to the white stone,

from which 

the fountain

flows.

There, let fall 

the sword from 

your clenched hand.

You have carried

it long enough.

How much of 

your own blood 

it has drawn.

Then, drop

the armour,

the false clothes 

of shame,

bathe again 

in blessedness,

and receive 

the longed for 

anointing 

of your wounds

from the healers 

who await

your waking, 

your walking

into wonder.

Only then;

blessed, 

bathed, 

bandaged,

and bearing 

your life wounds

as stars, 

will you be able

at last,

to hear the 

sacred summons

of the

Fisher King,

and pass 

unburnt 

the flaming sword,

entering the garden

to become 

at last

the cup,

the grail,

the chalice,

you have sought 

for all along.

There in 

the emptiness

of death

discovering 

the One

who is 

the call, 

the quest,

the master

of the mysteries,

and the end

of all 

our longing.

A meditation poem on the mystery of becoming the “grail” the vessel of Divine Presence, a path to which all are called most especially in this Lenten season.

(Pic is Galahad’s vision of the Grail by William Morris)

Meditation for the second Friday of Lent: The Mystery of the Heart

 Meditation for the second Friday of Lent; 

the mystery of the Heart.

On the Fridays of Lent we meditate on the mystery of the Cross of Christ as the revelation of God's Infinite Love and Mercy.

At the center of the Cross we find the heart.

In Christian (and Jewish) spirituality the noetic centre, the centre and totality of all you are as an individual, as a person, the centre of your soul, is referred to as the "heart". 

It is the heart that loves, forgives, wills and contemplates and this centre of life, personhood and love is often identified in the physical body with the heart organ and so the journey of the Spiritual Life was often spoken of as the journey of the mind into the heart there to find the presence of God dwelling at its centre.

At the centre of the Cross we find a heart, but not just any heart, we find the Sacred Heart of Jesus... a human heart yes, a heart that existed in time, that was formed in the womb of His mother and there began to beat, a heart that pumped life's blood and a heart that felt all of the strains of human life until the last breath, the breath upon the Cross, a breath of Love freely surrendered to the Father. A heart that after death was pierced through and poured out on the world the twin streams of blood and water, of mercy and grace. The two streams that to this day pour into the world constantly through the Church. A heart that lay wounded, cold and still in the grave for three days until Easter Dawn... 

Our God has a heart... a human heart that knows our weakness and our pain, even the pain of death.

Our God has a heart... a Sacred Heart filled with infinite Love and Mercy for each of us. 

His risen Heart beats with love for you, is on fire with love for you....

At the centre of the Cross we find the Christ.

At the centre of the Christ we find the heart.

At the centre of our own heart we find His Sacred Heart, 

dwelling within us and holding us in being through Love.

Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in thee...

Let this be your prayer these Lenten Fridays...

A time of Grace

 

The Novena of Grace in honour of St. Francis Xavier which begins today and runs until the 12th of March has a very special place in my heart. It was a particular devotion of my Mother and Grandmother all their lives and I was born just after Mum had completed the nine evenings one year. She would always say it was a time when if you were silent enough you could feel the grace flowing around the Church. 

If you would like to keep it as a time of prayer for yourself and those you pray for then the novena prayer follows:

Saint Francis Xavier Novena Prayer

O most kind and loving saint, in union with you I adore the Divine Majesty. The remembrance of the favours with which God blessed you during life, and of your glory after death, fills me with joy; and I unite with you in offering to God my humble tribute of thanksgiving and of praise.

I implore of you to secure for me, through your powerful intercession, the all important blessing of living and dying in the state of grace. I also beseech you to obtain the favour I ask in this Novena 

(here mention the favour to be asked for):

but if what I ask is not for the glory of God or for the good of my soul, obtain for me what is most conducive to both.

Amen.

Concluding Prayer

O God,

who was pleased to gather unto your Church

the people of the East

by the preaching and miracles of blessed Francis,

mercifully grant that we who honour his glorious merits,

may also imitate the example of his virtues,

through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Wood Walking

 Feeling the call of the Woods today... 

Wood Walking

When you walk

the woods,

do so at their pace.

Not yours.

Pause before

you enter

their embrace,

and breathe deep.

Slow down to their

ancient pace

of root,

and

branch,

and

story.

Then,

with a bow,

enter;

and allow their

cathedral coolness

to enfold you,

and their greened light

to anoint you

with

sylvan sacrament

of stained glass

dappling;

and

your healing

will begin.

As over the craggy

bare nerves

of

your busyness,

and

sharp

exhaustion,

and

the rough edges

of your

broken heart,

a gentling of moss

will begin to

grow

as slowly as

blessing.

Feel their tallness

stretch you.

Their deep dark

womb you.

Their leaf,

and flower,

and nut,

circle you,

with knowing,

of a kind unknown to

fleeting minds and

restless hearted

humanity;

greening you to

wholeness again.

Passing into

their sanctuary,

stop;

and become

one

with them.

Let them teach you their

communion mystery;

their secret

homing of

rustling life that

feathered sings

and

furred shelters,

both

beneath,

and,

above.

Listen long

enough

and they will

teach you

their tongue:

words of wood,

and weather,

and water,

united in one

song of praise

that began

with the first

Divinely led

step

into

the dance of

inter-breathing

that you have

forgotten

how to sing

until now.

Sit your

tiredness

down

in the crook

of their

rooted gathering,

with your

back

trunked;

and let them be

your

spine,

just

for a while.

Your sap will

rise

with theirs

in the four-fold

benediction

of the

treed seasons

which

foreshadowed

their

glorious gifting

of their own element

to be

the rood throne

of

the Word

by whom

all is spoken.

Touching

their great slowness,

be reborn

of their wisdom

that promises,

for every Winter

a Spring,

and roots

deep enough

to outlast any

Summer drought

until Autumn’s coolness

comes.

When eventually

you rise from

their embrace,

stretch to the heavens

and breathe deep

of

their largesse,

while ground gripping

with toe tap-root.

Their knowing,

now with you

once again,

dusts you golden

like pollen falling

in the breeze.

Then bow deeply

to your elders

and fellow servants

and walk back

to your life

now luminous once again.

When you walk

the woods,

do so at their pace.

Not yours.