Here, Now, In; 3 Doors to Presence

3 Doors to Contemplative Presence:

Here.

Now.

In.

There is only one time: Now.

There is only one place: Here

There is only one direction: In

There is only one time: Now.

The past can only become a source of wisdom, after that it is left in the hands of Divine Mercy...

The future is hidden, but belongs to Divine Providence... 

So worry and anxiety are useless. 

God intends the best for you and will not deny any gift or grace that will enable you to become all you are meant to be. 

What we perceive as a "No" in prayer to a desire is really always a "Yes" to the fulfilment of the desire in a better and deeper way than we could have imagined at that time.

The Present arises from the moment by moment loving attention of Divine Compassion... 

Your "job" is to get past the distractions so as to see the Now for what it is: 

Divine Love in action... 

Co-operate with this Love that is God, 

yield to it fully and be faithful to its call 

and the present becomes an infinite space 

of encounter with the God who IS Love.

There is only one place: Here

You are nowhere but here. 

Here, wherever it is for you in this moment we call now, is the place of Divine Encounter. 

It is your desert, your temple, your tabernacle, your burning bush. 

“God", said St. Bonaventure, "is One whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere." 

Divine Presence is always fully present to you. You are just distracted by all the thoughts and desires of egoic nature that would have you yearn to be elsewhere in different circumstances. 

If you are here then so is God and your here is where He will work with and through you for the building of the kingdom, if you but tune in and know; and it is this attendance to the present moment that changes our circumstances. 

If you are in a place of trauma or pain then this may require physically moving from that space. But you are never journeying to God. God is with you here in your pain and with deep listening to Him right here, right now the path and call to move and to heal will be made clear.

He is where you are 

that you may be one day 

consciously where He IS.

There is only one direction: In.

All other directions are limited. 

Eventually we tire of them, 

we exhaust them and are exhausted by them.

We discover that they are fading and will one day fade completely. 

All except In. 

Only In lasts. 

Only In is. 

In is the direction that brings us to the true self, and through the true self to the place of stillness and emptiness and clarity, 

beyond the false and fallen self, 

where we finally know our true centre, our heart, 

beholding it in the Light of Divine Love 

from which it first arose as a perfect idea. 

We were eternally an idea in the Divine Mind, 

a movement of the infinitely creative love that we call God, 

who in the fullness of time 

brought us into being, 

loved us into being, 

holds us in being in Love 

and calls us to abide in Love eternally. 

In teaches us who we are. 

We discover we are love loved by Love. 

All other names may change, 

all other circumstances 

may come and go, 

arise and fall, 

change and even disappear. 

Only love is eternal. 

Only In In brings us to the source of real Love.

There is only one time: Now.

There is only one place: Here

There is only one direction: In

Cocoon; a meditation on metamorphosis

 Cocoon

Do not expect cocooning 

To be easy.

It is not a time of rest

But of rebirth.

They used to think 

That the Caterpillar 

Merely slept there,

Awaiting the wonder of wings.

This is not true.

To cocoon means 

The breaking down of self,

Of letting go of all 

that may be considered 

Caterpillar.

Yielding to the chrysalis call.

Dropping all that is old identity, 

All that is desire,

All that is hungry, 

All that is eating, eating, eating,

Endlessly.

When the moment comes, called

To go to the cool dark underleaf, underlog place,

To spin the silk of silent self,

The Caterpillar dissolves,

Touches the point of nothingness

Of being;

Become now

Neither Caterpillar

Nor Butterfly

Become simply, potential,

Until new form is found,

Until the selfmade tomb is too tight

And Butterfly is birthed, 

bursting blessing, beauty.

A journey through stillness 

into freedom,

Into flight,

No one who knew the Caterpillar

Would know it in the Butterfly,

No one who knows the Butterfly 

Would see in it 

Even the memory

Of Caterpillar,

Yet within there is

A continuity of being

A new recipe out of old ingredients

A life remade, a seed flowered, a potency fulfilled,

There is pain in this

I am sure.

How could there not be?

There is always pain 

In surrender,

In transformation,

In new life, new birth

Death before resurrection,

Letting go, before letting be

This is the divine order of things

This is why there hides

Even here, even now,

In all your old Caterpillar desiring,

In the hunger at the core of your being,

The promise of Butterfly

If you would but surrender 

To the call

Of the cocoon.

If you would know, 

even for a day,

The wonder of wings

The freedom of flight.

8th May 2020 

Pic without attribution on the web

Entering the Doors of Glory

              The Doors of Glory:

There are 

moments 

when 

the world 

opens up

and is 

revealed

as a door 

to glory;

when, 

between 

the twined trees, 

or upon 

the stacked stones,

or along 

the shingled shore,

or within

the heavy houses,

in a landscape 

long known,

but fading

daily

into familiarity,

the 

slanting sun 

sudden touches, 

in its rising 

or 

in its setting,

details, perhaps 

unnoticed 

until then.

Gilding them 

gold, its beams, 

bell like, 

sound

a soul call

to slow,

to stop, 

to stare,

to attend 

upon the 

filigreed 

moment

when the 

divine depth

welcomes 

us 

home again

to the 

holy beauty

of that 

which is.

There we, 

struck still, 

and wounded 

anew

by wonder's weal, 

find our 

inner eye

opened,

and soul-see 

all afire

with

glory,

now making of 

our 

everywhere 

a door,

a gate,

a garden,

where 

our senses,

barefooted 

and blessed

anew,

behold 

the Light

by which

all 

that is

abides.

Pic of sunset on one of the fairy hills

The Still Point

 On Good Shepherd Sunday may we remember to allow Him to guide us to the still waters...

Still Point.

There is

a 

still-point 

at the 

centre 

of our

being

that,

when

entered

humbly

and with

reverence,

opens

up

to infinite

spaciousness,

invites us

into

eternal

depths

and 

there 

reveals 

the face 

of

Divine Love

as

Fire

burning 

within

and

without.

To enter

its door

simply,

and without

hurry,

travel the 

ancient road

of 

breath

and find 

the

sanctuary

that has 

always awaited 

you

there

at the

crossroads

between 

the

inhale and exhale

of your

being.

When you

arrive,

stop.

Sit 

and 

listen

to the

deep rhythm

of 

stillness

breathing 

through 

you

the 

Divine Name

until its 

sound

is 

your 

song

and then,

you will 

have come

home

to

your

true-self

again.

Suggestions

 Suggestions:

Look at the sky; to do so draws you up and out of your thoughts.

Look at the ocean; in its flowing tides, its calms and its storms it will give you a sense of perspective.

Look at the trees; they will reach you both rootedness and the ability to let go.

Look up from the ground and meet the world with compassion.

Look at each person you meet as a teacher sent with an important lesson for you.

Live seasonally; enter fully the joy and the beauty of each one as it arises and then do not cling to them as they bid you farewell.

There is nothing you can do about the passing of time except to learn from the past and then live in the present.

Experiences without reflection are just events.

Experiences with reflection become wisdom.

Know the difference between the tears that purify and the tears that do not. 

Never hold back the former. 

Touch, taste, smell, listen deeply to all that is, remember, if it exists it has meaning even if it does not reveal it to you.

Living plants are better than cut flowers but always try and have a little of nature near you.

Listen for the birds, greet the dogs and cats and all creatures you meet along the way as fellow citizens of the one earth as brothers and sisters in being.

Live so as to cause as little harm to other beings as is possible.

Advocate for the weak and the downtrodden,

make space for those who have been silenced by life to speak and then listen.

Plant seeds. 

Grow a garden, and, if possible eat from it, it will teach you your dependence on the earth for bodily sustenance.

Sing, hum, whistle; let music be part of you especially the music that arises unbidden and seems to come from deep within.

Spend time with the very young and the very old, both will help you be yourself again.

Share.

Speak less. Listen more.

Pause before you post anything online. Ask will it bring more compassion to the world?

Learn the names of things: 

not just Tree; but Beech, Oak, Ash. 

Not just Bird; but Robin, Jackdaw, Wren.

Be polite and thankful towards those who have the job of serving you; waiting staff, shop assistants, cleaners etc and remember that everyone you meet has a story at least as complicated as yours.

Bend, stretch, move, dance; do not become confined in or separated from your body,

honour it with respect and kindness. 

Tell it you love it until you do. 

Rest.

Draw, paint, doodle, play with colour and shapes and as you do so watch what emerges. 

Do not characterise it as good or bad.

Compare yourself with no one. 

There is no universal map for a human life, but there is a universal destiny; to become love.

Remember the greatest potential for good or ill exists just as much within you as it does in others

Watch the dawn and the dusk often, both are great teachers in their own way.

Seek truth always. 

Be open to the fact that you could always be wrong.

Apologise.

Be polite.

Smile when you feel you are able to,

but be honest about how you feel.

Teach yourself the value of unstimulated solitude. 

The fear of being alone can lead to poor choices at any age. 

Treasure solitude and treasure connection. The balance you will need between them is unique to you.

Let your eyes rest on books more than screens. 

Read the older stories. 

If they are still with us it is because they have much to teach us. 

Laugh, as much as possible, as often as possible. 

Do not make the mistake of surrounding yourself with sad media when you feel sad. 

If you can’t take being happy at that moment at least choose that which brings equilibrium.

The most difficult mystical teaching of all is this: forgive everyone for everything and remember that Love is an act of will, not an emotional reaction.

Learn to sit still, to breathe consciously and to watch your thoughts and feelings as they come and go. They are not you.

Pray, meditate and do so as much in silence as with words.

Honour your ancestors. 

No matter their story they have something to teach you about how to be, or how not to be.  

Realise the vast majority are doing the best that they can with the knowledge that they have in that moment.

Be.

Finally; 

before all else and above all else; 

act justly,

love tenderly

and walk humbly with your God.

Meeting Otherness; a poem for these days

 A reminder for these troubled days...

Meeting otherness.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

stop.

Just stop.

Stop 

long enough

to become

present

to their

being

as a door

to

Divine Presence.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

bow.

Just bow.

Bow 

low enough

to reverence

their being

as a gift

held in existence

by

Divine Love.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

listen.

Just listen.

Listen 

long enough

to hear

their truth

revealed

as a page

of the story

written by

the

Divine Word.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

stop.

Just stop.

Bow.

Just bow.

Listen.

Just listen.

And then,

only then,

in the 

hallowed

space

between you

and the other,

whoever they are,

speak.

Earth Day 2021

 A meditation for Earth Day:

To live in Contemplative Communion is to live with the eye of the heart open; to see behind and beneath the veils of sense into the mystery of sacramentality, the mystery of divine presence made manifest in and through creation. 

It is to see the earth in its beauty and maternal seasons of fruit and plenty as a call to trust in providence and live according to its rhythms and patterns; and then, in time of scarcity to feel the call of compassion and mutual sharing. 

It is a call to know its very stones as a lesson in stability and stillness, to know its trees as torches lighting the way to heaven, their leaves as sparks upon the wind. 

It is the call to recognise in every creature the living breath of the Holy Spirit who sustains life, and to bow in reverence before such temples and tabernacles of the Most High. 

It is the call to recognise the wholeness at the heart of our brokenness, the mercy that is new each day and in each moment. 

It is the call to know time itself as a revelation of the eternity from which it arises and to find infinite depths of love and service available in each moment. 

It is to know that even sin and evil may be turned to our good when seen in the light of Light and surrendered to the grace of Love's love.

It is simply to dwell in grace, and then in and through grace to become grace for others.

(Pic found on Google with no attribution)

The Soul’s Garden

 An older one today as the gardens all around us come to life and bloom...

The Soul’s Garden

 

The Garden

of my Soul

is an old one.

Filled with the deep

chocolate smell of

rich worm-tilled earth

and fallen leaves.

 

A place of wild peace

and gentle fires,

with, here and there,

a secret corner;

warm old pavement,

damp fenny reeds,

cracked urns 

fountaining flowers;

descendents of 

ancient planting

by long forgotten hands.

 

Fireworks of blooms

of a sudden season’s turning

illumine thick wild hedges,

silent,

but for the rustle

of a Blackbird’s

wing.

 

From quiet meditation,

here, one can be startled

by an unexpected verse

of Robin-song;

or a Stormcock’s exultant

heralding of evening rain.

 

In deep tree-shadowed pools

The sudden ‘plash of a frog

causes circles

of eternity to spread

ruffling calm surfaces,

until reflection’s repose

is renewed.

 

Here the Bee drones and

the solid munching

of the Caterpillar is heard;

deep quiet belies

deep activity,

and even the stones

sing

if one has silence

enough to hear.

 

At the edge, a crumbling wall,

more ancient ivy than stone,

makes border where

the Woods begin,

dropping gifts of 

wildness within

from overhanging

forested fingers.

 

And here,

where Mice live,

in morterless walls,

in the Dawn Light

the web is seen.

 

Reflection of all Life,

spangled in dew-drop gold

it’s beauty, revealed

while Spider rests from

night’s toil

 

I stand

barefooted

In the Garden

of my Soul,

feet and toe deep,

in ancient soils

of a long time prepared

to yield such a

flower.

And from the Light

beyond all night

I hear the Gardener say

“Be and fulfil,

and you will

be fulfilled.”

The Blessing of Blossom

 The Blessing of Blossom

Often,

Grace comes 

unlooked for

but 

needed;

falling on our souls

gently

Like cherry blossom 

petals

shook free 

by 

sudden 

Spring storm,

and confetti cast 

upon 

the stone grey

of 

sky and path.

Reminding

rehearting

you

in a single 

gift gust

that 

joy

is

always present

where heaven

is 

wed to

earth

by Love's

light.

Walking through Cherry blossom blizzards these days. 

The unseen, seen in the floating path of a petal. In beauty we behold the Beautiful and Divine Joy arises.

I firmly believe that a cherry tree, heavy laden with bee filled blossom, is a celebration created by Divine Generosity of the covenant between Earth and Heaven; that no matter how hard and long the Winter, Spring will always come...

The Scent of Dawn

 The Scent of Dawn

As when upon a sudden breeze,

unexpected and unsought, 

the faintest fragrance 

stirs the stony soul,

breaks free the bonded heart,

and wakes the old wild

longing for the shores of home;

so did the first flowered breathing

of that Easter garden’s

long promised dawn arise in you,

O Lady of the morning light,

and thrill awake the wounded 

world-soul by your very being,

bringing at last

the hope of Eden’s healing,

you, the fore-echo of an alleluia Spring, 

borne from the blossom 

of your blessed birth,

the scent of new dawn divine

that stirs afresh 

the branched tree of being,

whispering long forgotten songs 

of home and healing,

to charm our winter’s end at last

and bring the coming of the green, 

the rising of the golden sap, 

the flowering of the honeyed bloom 

that Son drenched, scent sings us, 

saves us, and draws us home again.

O King of the Friday; an ancient Irish Rune Prayer

O King of the Friday; 

   an ancient Irish Rune Prayer 

for Friday evening:

O King of the Friday

whose limbs were stretched on the cross,

O Lord who did suffer the bruises,

the wounds, the loss,

we stretch ourselves

beneath the shield of thy might,

some fruit from the tree of thy passion

fall on us this night!

Divine Mercy Sunday

Meditation for Divine Mercy Sunday: the Octave of Easter

I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple... and all they to whom the water came were saved! (Cf: Ez:47)

A mystic moment captured some time ago courtesy of beautiful stained glass and Brother Sun being in the right place at the right time... a wonderful reminder of the grace and mercy that flows infinitely and unconditionally from the pierced heart of Christ... and that the whole cosmos is teaching us constantly if we are just aware enough, pause long enough, become still enough to notice.

Then we will see that to drink of this water, to be washed in it, to dwell within it as a fish dwells in the flow of the river this is the deepest longing of our hearts and souls as the ancient Easter Chant recalls: 

Vidi aquam egrediéntem de templo, a látere dextro, allelúia: et omnes ad quos pervénit aqua ista salvi facti sunt et dicent: allelúia, allelúia.

Confitémini Dómino, quóniam bonus: quóniam in sæculum misericórdia ejus.

P.  Glória Patri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto.

S.  Sicut erat in princípio, et nunc, et semper, et in sæcula sæculórum. Amen.

Vidi aquam egrediéntem de templo, a látere dextro, allelúia: et omnes ad quos pervénit aqua ista salvi facti sunt et dicent: allelúia, allelúia.

Here it is in English:

I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, alleluia; and all they to whom that water came were saved, and they shall say, alleluia, alleluia.

Praise the Lord, for He is good; for His mercy endureth forever. [Psalm 117].

P.  Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.

S.  As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, alleluia; and all they to whom that water came were saved, and they shall say, alleluia, alleluia.

Meditation poem for Easter Saturday

                  Meditation poem for Easter Saturday:

Climb

We stand 

as they did,

in these days,

illumined by 

fiery alleluias 

at His appearing,

yet often 

hesitant 

to bow;

our pilgrim walk 

staggered,

slipping back 

among the 

sin scree

of self 

when we 

take our

inner eye 

from 

His graced 

gaze

and lose 

our way

forgetting that 

our attaining of

the summit of 

the Holy Mountain

is, in Him,

already done,

and we ascend

in He who 

meets us 

at our lowest,

as Shepherd King,

as one who seeks,

and finds,

and carries 

home,

all that is 

lost 

in us

Beach Breakfast; a meditation poem for Easter Friday

 Meditation poem for Easter Friday:

Beach Breakfast.

This morning,

at the 

turning 

of the 

tide of night

into the 

blue 

of the

new 

day,

we sat with 

God.

Not doing 

anything.

Not saying 

anything.

Just sitting

on the beach

of being,

while all around 

us

darkness dissolved

into dawn,

and the 

waking birds 

sang

their psalms

of daily

astonishment

at the gift

of 

beginning,

again.

Then,

we ate and drank

God

for 

breakfast.

For what 

else 

would you 

call

the first meal 

of 

the day?

Breakfast

or

Eucharist;

whatever you 

call it,

it happened,

happens,

will happen,

every 

morning.

We gather.

We sit.

We offer.

We receive,

and we are 

received.

We consume

and,

slowly,

over a lifetime 

of 

mornings,

we are

consumed,

until only

God

is seen,

and we see

only

God.

For

we become

what

we eat.

Don't we?

Then,

after breakfast,

we tumble

into the day

touching

both 

its order

and 

its chaos

and

knowing both 

as gift,

as blessing,

as beloved,

as grace.

Beholding 

above the 

head of each

and all

we meet,

a flame,

a spark,

of burning bush

beauty,

perhaps forgotten,

or even

unnoticed,

by inner eyes

long used to

downcast

distraction.

So we,

food fueled

and breakfast

blessed,

will

touch

a passing 

shoulder,

or elbow

and 

in the moment 

of their startled

stillness,

smile at their

old young

heart

waking to its

reflected

beauty

as we offer 

His 

ancient

invitation

to the beach

of being:

"Come 

and have 

breakfast."

(Written 2019)

The Art of Resurrection: A meditation poem for Easter Thursday

 The Art of Resurrection 

How is 

it

possible

not to

believe in 

Resurrection;

when daily

it is

accomplished 

around

you?

When from

sleep's 

dark

and purple

night

the Divine 

rhythm

so long laid 

down

pulses playing

and

form is freed

while

colour

washes

the sky

clean

and

the 

birds 

sing their

holy astonishment

at seeing

the

light

again

for 

one more

day.

Where 

were 

you

then,

this dawning

when

the daily 

Easter

exultet took

place?

To what noise 

were your ears 

tuned?

To what sights 

your eyes?

Did you 

begin

with faith in 

the

beauty 

that awaited 

you 

beyond 

the door

of your 

snoozing senses;

or did 

you 

soldier slumber 

at the 

tomb of 

your yesterdays

unwilling 

to have

your gaze 

lifted

to sky's summoning

to a

new

start?

No matter,

this 

miracle awaits 

you,

every day,

with 

divine patience.

Come then

and join the 

dawn chorus

of delight

and allow 

sun, 

and sky, 

and sea;

bird, 

and bush, 

and beast

to teach you

the ancient 

wild resurrection 

art

of 

blessed

beginning.

Emmaus Firewalk: a meditation poem for Easter Wednesday

 Meditation Poem Easter Wednesday: The walk to Emmaus:

Emmaus Firewalk 

We forget the onceness of it all,

His isness the ever present 

Presence joining them 

And us along the way of grief.

The dry tinder of their walking hearts

Long drained of ease of tears

Seeking the relief of action and escape

Become a conflagration now of single word spark made

The hidden One who walked with them 

Who broke their bread to mend their hearts

Was even then appearing to women, apostles, poor lost Peter

Resurrection broke not just the tomb but time itself

Unleashed eternity upon an unsuspecting world

His wounds the unwinding backwards 

Of the tight twine of history’s binding 

While resurrection power handfasts 

Us all the more to blessedness

All while assuring futures of us yet unborn and unthought-of

Seeing us and seeing them and all who were and would be

In one simple moment of love in one always open eye

Lamb and Ram and Scapegoat all at once He is

We tell our tales of this and this and this

Our Gospels bound by time and place our stories

Reach from once upon to ever after with quest between

Yet all that happened on that morn was then 

at once, and ever after both

Flamed and fired and formed anew our history 

In the cracked kiln of His heart

And that is really now, and here, 

So come now upon this dusty road 

Where deep looking you will see 

Flaming footprints at your side

A burning in your heart

as the bread of moments breaks

in Holed and holy hands

As you Emmaus walk with me 

Easter Wednesday 

Weds 15th 2020

Meditation for Easter Tuesday: Mary Magdalene and the stages of Contemplative Prayer

 A meditation for Easter Tuesday:

(I first wrote this some time ago but thought it might be worth a repost for  today’s Gospel reading of the Risen Christ meeting with St. Mary Magdalene)

St. Mary Magdalene as a model of the stages of Contemplative Prayer:

She is the Apostle to the Apostles and the first public witness to the Resurrection of the Lord. In the tenacity of her faith she is the perfect example of the Christian Contemplative who in standing by the Cross first loses themsleves in the apparent defeat of the inner death of spiritual emptiness but nontheless keeps faith with Christ throughout the experience, until the moment of dawn arrives and with it her moment of renewed calling by name by the Risen One. 

Mary passes through the three stages of the Meditative life in those hours... in sitting by the tomb weeping she has passed through the purgative gate. (The gate of inner conversion) 

In looking into the tomb and beholding the presence of the Angels she has passed through the illuminative gate. (The gate of awareness of the Divine Light) 

Finally by persevering in vigilence until she hears her name called again she enters the gate of unitive love with the Risen Lord and so receives her mission to announce His Resurrection.... 

Let us pray to her that she may intercede for us that we too will persevere in prayer even before the empty tombs of our lives until we hear the Lord call us by name and we are able to answer Rabbouni... 

Master...

Light: A meditation poem for Easter Monday

 A meditation poem for Easter Monday:

Light

Today

I choose

to stand 

in the light 

of the 

Resurrection;

to recognise 

the luminosity

of Divine Presence

at the heart 

of every being;

to see,

to hear,

to touch,

to taste,

the 

eternal alleluia

that exists 

in the centre 

of it all,

perfuming 

all creation

with the 

dew dawn

scent 

of the 

garden

that 

first felt

His quickening,

His blessed breath,

His first footsteps

of return

and trembled 

at His 

healing touch,

consecrating 

Mother earth

again anew

as holy.

Today 

I choose

to recognise

the light of 

that morning's

divine dawn 

in

every sunbeam,

moon beam,

in the glint 

upon 

the water's 

edge,

glitter fire's 

spark

ensouled 

within 

your eye,

in the iridescent 

sheen

of a crow's 

dark clothes 

and the flicker of 

a rainbow 

revealed in 

fish scales 

and finch flight.

Today

I choose 

to live

in the

bright

green field

of His Love,

to walk

in the scarlet tread

of our Fisherking's

steps

finding in you

and in all

I meet

upon the road

the burning

heart,

the broken bread

of presence,

peace,

and ever beginning

Love.

Today,

I choose

to live 

the exultation

of Easter;

to stand 

against 

all that betrays 

the blessing

sung once, 

over and in 

all that is 

in the first 

moment 

of creation,

sung twice 

in the 

moment 

of His

return,

a refrain of 

resurrection

sounding the 

depths,

vibrating in the 

air, 

in birdsong, 

and breeze, 

and breath,

and being,

revealed in His

making, 

and unmaking,

and remaking

of all

as,

Ah,

an Alleluia!

Pic is of one of the great windows of Glastonbury Abbey.

Breathing Easter;

Breathing Easter 

There 

is a 

moment

of perfect

stillness

between 

the 

in-breath

and the 

out-breath;

small,

silent,

vulnerable,

and so often

missed;

but, 

when we 

attend,

always 

infinite 

in 

depth.

It dwells

where

the now,

radiant and

eternal,

is touched

as transformation,

as grace;

for there

the

Risen One

is revealed

in the 

burning

bush 

of our breath,

of our being.

Just

as a garden,

emerging

frost tipped

from night's

entombment,

knows 

the delight

of dawn's 

first touch

and yields 

to the 

daily

moment

of resurrection

with the

inhalation

of light,

with the 

exhalation

of

birdsong.

Pic of Easter Sunday Dawn at Ards Friary 2019

The Unknown Joy of Mary

 The Unknown Joy of Mary

It is often asked where the risen Christ was when first Mary of Magdala and then the other women and later the Apostles got to the garden... Mystics and Mothers (who are often the same thing) have always known the answer...

After all where would any Son who had put his mother through so much go to first but to her...

The following lines by Catherine Doherty express this hidden and unknown joy of Mary, a very ancient tradition of the Church, perfectly... May it be your meditation this Easter morning...

May the light of the Risen One and His Holy Mother full your hearts and lives and homes today and always +

Mary's Reunion.

The stone rolled off,

And no one saw it.

Her heart was jubilant

And full of ecstasy.

She knew that a sea of joy

Would flow out of the sea of sorrow;

Although it would 

Recede to sorrow again

 

She could remember

Being born in the midst of

God the Father,

And being created

Before creation.

Did She truly watch

Light come out of darkness?

Did she see shores

Come into being?

It seemed you could play

See-saw on a wave!!

 

She never moved.

Quietly and closed in a room,

She sat behind a door

That no one dared to open,

And looked upon the streets

Of her beloved Jerusalem,

Watching the crowds

Hurrying hither and yon;

Watching, and not seeing at all;

For the sea of sorrow

Was receding

Into the desert

Where seas go;

And she was playing

See-saw on a wave

Made by God.

 

He touched death

For an instant – 

Abolished it forever,

And it became

An angel of surpassing beauty;

For whom men of faith

Would wait with bated breath;

Death hasn’t icy fingers at all

They are warm – 

The fingers of the angel of love.

The ice, the cold, the decay

That is for men of earth to see;

For their eyes are not conditioned

To the resplendent state of the

Soul.

 

She knew

He was not dead forever;

Not one bone would decay.

He slept, quietly, obediently,

In the tomb;

For He was obedient

Even after death.

 

But when they rolled

The stone before the tomb

He was free to roam;

To come, to go

To be

Where all those years

He could not be

Or could show Himself.

 

Out of the tomb

To hell,

To bring joyous news;

Then, like a man

Would visit

In a pilgrimage of love,

The places that made His heart

Beat faster

As a man.

When She had held His cold-warm

Body

She trembled

With the joy of it – 

Knowing He would come

To visit Her first

The Magdalene would be the next

To see Him. 

 

So She sat alone

With the door closed – 

They thought to grieve

But no! To wait.

Who was there to see

Or hear what passed?

Who was there to know

The glory

Of music born in that room?

The Music of His voice and Hers

Mingling as voices

Never did before.

 

"Share in one of my unknown joys.”

 

“He came to Me

In my chamber,

My Son!

My Lover!

And overflowing rapture

Condensed in utter ecstasy

Filled Me again.

“It was as if

I had conceived anew,

For all my being

Felt His coming.

The room pulsated

With the beat 

Of angels’ wings

But even the seraph’s eyes

Were sealed.

Not even they

Could look then

Upon the Mother and the Son

And so they chanted

Alleluias.

 

“Did you know that I,

The first stigmatic,

Had the wounds?

It happened simply,

Perhaps He was two or three,

Perhaps, I am not sure.

It is hard 

for one who encompasses

eternity

to think in time.

One day He was playing

At My feet,

And suddenly

Like a little swallow

He kissed each foot.

The wounds began to throb.

 

“At seven or eight

He kissed each palm,

Lingeringly.

And I knew

The feel of nails.

 

“He came once

In early spring,

On a shiny sunny day.

His hands were full of flowers.

He sat on a small stool

And wove a crown for Me.

I knew the weight 

Of thorns

Upon my head.

 

“In May, in your land,

Children repeat His gesture.

It brings back the memory

Of thorns, sweet, deep, sharp.

 

“He was a suckling at My breast.

One night,

Somehow, His face fell

From My nipples;

And His warm mouth touched my side.

Was it a kiss?

Was it a lance?

From that blest night

The pain was there

Never to go.

 

“So you must know 

My unknown joy,

The rendezvous We held – 

My Son and I – 

The night they thought

They had sealed His tomb

So tight.

Where do you think

He went?

He went to the place

He loves most in Palestine – 

The room of His Mother.

 

“Wonders will never cease!!

The room was aflame;

For where My Son is,

There is My spouse,

The Crimson Dove

Who holds Me tight.

The angels’ wings

Made melody of strings

As they chanted their 

Alleluias

In a circle of bliss,

And He sat at My feet

And I looked into His eyes – 

Above to below.

 

“The Crimson Dove

Brought the flame of love;

And the Father was there

Unseen, jubilant, joyous,

Taking delight in His Son.

And as He did,

The Crimson Dove grew,

And a flame covered the earth.

Alleluia

Alleluia

Alleluia.

 

“The stone was still tight

On the tomb of My child 

Who was with Me.

 

“I give you the Paschal gift.

Put out your hands

And take it to your heart

This is the night of joy!

Alleluia!

I am an 

Alleluia

In the flesh

Tonight.”

Lines taken from The Unknown Mysteries of Mary by Catherine deHueck Doherty.

Meditation for Holy Saturday

                           Meditation for Holy Saturday: 

There is no rest for Christ. 

The Word works always... though His body lies in death still He descends into the world of the dead and breaks the power of Hell forever... He harrows hades... and lifts into the fullness of Heaven all those who lay in limbo until the gates were broken down...

There is no place or power of darkness that will not flee before His light...

A beautiful meditation poem (one of my favourites) on the moment Christ appears in the world of the dead follows... 

Limbo 

by Sister Mary Ada, OSJ

The ancient grayness shifted

Suddenly and thinned

Like mist upon the moors

Before a wind.

An old, old prophet lifted

A shining face and said:

“He will be coming soon.

The Son of God is dead;

He died this afternoon.”

A murmurous excitement stirred

All souls.

They wondered if they dreamed –

Save one old man who seemed

Not even to have heard.

And Moses, standing,

Hushed them all to ask

If any had a welcome song prepared.

If not, would David take the task?

And if they cared

Could not the three young children sing

The Benedicite, the canticle of praise

They made when God kept them from perishing

In the fiery blaze?

A breath of spring surprised them,

Stilling Moses’ words.

No one could speak, remembering

The first fresh flowers,

The little singing birds.

Still others thought of fields new ploughed

Or apple trees

All blossom-boughed.

Or some, the way a dried bed fills

With water

Laughing down green hills.

The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam

On bright blue seas.

The one old man who had not stirred

Remembered home.

And there He was

Splendid as the morning sun and fair

As only God is fair.

And they, confused with joy,

Knelt to adore

Seeing that He wore

Five crimson stars

He never had before.

No canticle at all was sung

None toned a psalm, or raised a greeting song,

A silent man alone

Of all that throng

Found tongue –

Not any other.

Close to His heart

When the embrace was done,

Old Joseph said,

“How is Your Mother,

How is Your Mother, Son?”

The Tipping Point: a poem for Good Friday night.

 A meditation poem for Good Friday night:

The Tipping Point.

The tipping point 

is now reached 

at last.

The ancient scales 

of justice, 

long fixed,

creak stiffly and tilt

mercywards,

weighed anew,

re-balanced

by wooden thorns

and three iron nails,

stirred

by that last shattering cry

of consummation,

more of a breath 

than a shout

by then,

delivered into winds 

suddenly woven

from calvary's calm;

as though inspired by 

His exhalation to wake 

all who weep,

or sleep,

or wander,

now drawn to new ways,

all while rocks crack 

beneath 

the sacred strain

of holding Him who 

holds them in themselves,

and a once sure crowd 

feels the fear of sudden clarity too late, 

too late.

What of His fled followers?

Did they feel it too?

The sad shuddering 

of the earth's molten heart 

boiling and breaking 

in grief, 

those who hid themselves 

like Adam from an 

all seeing eye

of love, 

like children who,

thinking to 

conceal their faces,

close their own eyes.

Yes, these, 

who would soon return,

almost all,

and be gathered 

again

around 

she who was 

His parting gift,

who had first gifted Him 

with all He human had.

She the solid earth healing

his broken fisherman foundation

until solidity returns

thrice assured.

Now He seems to return

to rest

upon her lap,

but Soul journeys still 

in realms long lost to us

He routs rage 

and restores

right.

His light harrows Hell 

where revealed now

as Word,

and Lord,

and King,

He claims His dowry,

the seeming dead 

of all the ages,

freeing and raising

before being risen

Himself,

while His body,

salved,

shrouded,

and entombed

waits for wedding kiss

of resurrection

dawn.

(stained glass of the Passion from Ards Friary)

The Seven Sayings: A meditation poem for Good Friday

 The Seven Sayings:

These are the seven sayings

that made the world aright,

breathed upon the wind

by the Lord of light,

as from his wooden throne

they conquer broken hearts,

and spoke by Him alone 

then healing sundered parts.

The first it was forgiveness

offered to us all,

who would pierce the God-man

with a bloody awl.

The second was a promise

offered to a thief,

who then gainéd heaven

by his new belief.

The third it was in parting

His mother to behold,

to all of us then given

as queen to love and hold.

The fourth it was a great cry

from His broken heart,

yearning for His Father

while torn by sin apart.

The fifth it was a thirsting

for the souls of all,

dying for their living

healing then their fall.

The sixth it was a whisper

that thundered in the sky

bringing to completion

His quest to live and die.

The seventh was a yielding

of His final breath,

rendering now His spirit,

Life now touching death.

These are the seven sayings

that made the world aright

breathed upon the wind

by the Lord of light

as from his wooden throne

they conquer broken hearts,

are spoke by Him alone

then healing sundered parts.

On this blessed Friday

may we make our way

to the skull topped hill

there to see and pray,

to gaze upon the God-man,

to hear these words of grace,

to adore the saviour

who then took our place,

and by these sacred sayings,

these blessed words of power,

unmade the serpent's wounding

in that fateful hour.

So glory let us give Him

and always let us praise

who by His seven sayings

did our sins erase,

and ever let us speak them

aloud for all to hear

for by their very sounding

His mercy draweth near.

Art by Salvador Dali based on the vision of St. John of the Cross.

Gethsemane’s Agony: A meditation poem for Holy Thursday Night

 Gethsemane’s Agony

Once again, a garden; 

where silence settles slowly like dust,

falling over the ancient olive branches 

twisted in terror at 

what their knotted faces had to watch;

so becoming old witnesses, rooted in righteousness, 

while mere men slept against their sides unheeding. 

Grasses, mob trampled moments ago, begin to rise

stretching towards sky in supplication 

for celestial comforters;

or, broken stemmed, lie down in the 

wake of wildness now passed, 

prostrate in prayer.

The old rock is stunned into a stillness 

it may never recover from;

feeling bloody sweat running over its surface yet, 

it yearns for ancient days of volcanic years to 

mould itself into a vessel for love’s libation,

but hears instead the drip

of crimson dew upon the ground,

as Mother Earth receives her secret 

holy communion too,

shuddering as, at its taste, eden memory stirs 

in her long wildered garden soul.

The after glare of torches, shouts and swords 

fades into the city below while

Moon rises gently, 

bestowing her kiss of reparation 

on this place

with softest light.

Slowly, in silent reverence,

angels and animals appear 

and sit together 

beneath the

blessed branches,

a sundered union sealed,

as witnesses

of the Garden’s 

holy agony.

Holy (Mandy) Thursday: the day of the gifts of Presence

 Holy (Maundy) Thursday: The day of the gifts of Presence.

As sister Moon rises this evening the Easter Triduum begins... The three days that are "One Great Day"...one continuous action of Divine Love...

We begin with the day of the gifts: 

Three parting gifts are given by the Lord to His followers today and each of them are usually celebrated in our evening Mass of the Lord's Supper. Each of them is a way of meeting the Lord's real presence and each a sign of love and a transforming grace that when met changes the person and invites them into a deeper communion of Love with God in the other person. While this year our celebrations are constrained and even absent in many places due to the virus we are still, wherever we are, in the presence of Love; the presence of God and in our caring for each other by staying apart in these days, even though it breaks our hearts to do so, we can be sure we are fulfilling the great commandment of love...

What are these gifts we celebrate today?

They are the gift of the Holy Eucharist, the gift of the Sacramental Priesthood and the gift of the New Commandment of Love (Mandatum Novum), from which the day takes its name.

In the Commandment of Love the old law is fulfilled, completed and superseded and the operating philosophy, theology and methodology of the Church is given. Our God is the One who bows low and serves His people; loving them back into wholeness... The example He gives we are to follow. We have no part with Christ if we do not bow low too and find the Divine Presence in each other. In the taking off of the outer garment He removes all that would separate us from Himself, in the wearing of the apron He becomes the servant and the lamb, in the washing of the feet He prepares us for the journey into the depths of Love...

In the Sacramental Priesthood He establishes an eternal conduit of sacrificial grace in which the eternal salvific events about to unfold may be touched in time by each succeeding generation. In the emptying of self that the priest is called to, especially in the sacramental moment, He is present and His people touch His power and love and mercy. His priesthood is a servant, sacrificial priesthood and His priests are called to follow the lamb to the altar and to calvary...

In the Holy Eucharist He gives Love's greatest gift; Love itself remains incarnate and eternal with His people for all time. In this unspeakabale and awe inspiring gift of Divine generosity He demonstrates the sheer immensity of Divine Love and its longing to be with, to be in communion with us... He becomes our food, our medicine, our soul spouse and the furnace in which we are purified and become what we were always meant to be... And he does all this for us who are about to betray, run away and crucify Him... and He does it now today too... in this moment and in every succeeding moment... calling out to us from the priesthood, from the altar, from the Blessed Sacrament, "A new commandment I leave unto you; that you love one another as I have loved you!"

The picture is of the Chapel of the Upper Room in Jerusalem, the ancient site of the Lord’s Supper and the place wherein these gifts were first made manifest by Divine Love.