Meditation for St. John’s Eve

Meditation for St. John's Eve:

Now, as Vespers sings itself

to dusk’s silent sitting,

the beacons begin to burn.

Men watching for the moment

of Moon’s waning,

in twilight midsummer sky

lit by a Sun too lazy to truly set,

so to kindle flame for the Forerunner;

John.

He whose element is fire.

Both lamps now hanging

in cloth of such deep blue

that the world seems enfolded

in the mantle of one

who midwifed his birth,

even as she joined her magnificat

to old Elizabeth’s pangs,

and doubting Zechariah’s silence,

beneath the shining stars of desert sky.

Now, as Matins touches midnight

of Monks long vigilling,

the herbs are gathered.

Women seeking

the helpers and the healers

in wood, and dell, and garden bed,

where, blessed by dew and moonlight

and the long warmth of Sun’s summer,

the Yarrow and the Bracken,

the Fennel and the Rue,

the Rosemary and the Foxglove,

always the Elder and

the great yellow flower of the Forerunner

willingly give up

their essence on the night

that marks the first whisper

of the Word’s healing breath,

breathed through the one

who is His herald Voice;

John.

Dried, and hung,

and laid upon the Lady Altar

to become more than they are

they will bestow divine healing.

Twice gifted and graced

by Summer’s picking

and Autumn’s

Assumption blessing,

they reveal the medicine

present always, beneath.

Now, as Lauds’ psalms sun skywards

the pots and pans

and ancient drums are beaten.

The children sing the old songs

and the rhymes long lost to meaning,

as young men and women, harelike,

leap heedless across the

dying flames together.

Recalling he who leapt with joy,

filled with fire, even in womb’s waters,

so near was the One who first kindled flame,

rendered the rivers holy and made the wells

vessels of new birth.

Now, as Mass bell tolls dawn’s daily resurrection

monks and men,

and women, and children all

hear the summons of the Sanctifier

and His herald

loud upon morning’s breeze

as embers die down, and herbs are hung up.

Beneath the vaulted stone they gather

to join their voices to praise

that vastness veiled

in simple bread and wine,

and hear again the word first spoken by

the herald,

the lamp,

the flame,

the leaper,

the prophet,

the angel,

the voice,

the Baptist,

whose birth they have

blessed anew,

cry across the ages

“Behold the Lamb of God!”

I wrote this in 2016 to illuminate so many of the customs we have lost that wove the wisdom of the wild and the faith together so beautifully. On St. John's Eve, (The Vigil of the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist), the last official day of the solstice, bonfires were set burning to commemorate the fire of the Baptist's faith and the facing into the waning of natural light after the longest day.

Couples leaping across the fire was an old betrothal custom. This was also the traditional night for gathering the herbs that would be used as medicine for the year to come. Gathered tonight and dried until Assumption Day they would then be blessed in the Monasteries at the first Mass at Our Lady's Altar... The songs and noise making around the boundaries of the hills and the fields was to frighten away evil and stagnancy so as to refresh the fields and prepare for the Harvest... Our faith was and is both holy and holistic and we must return to such deep knowing again... May the Baptist pray for us on this the feast of fire!

The May Magnificat

 The Month of May is dedicated to Our Lady and brings with it a plenitude of heavenly riches indeed! 

Our Mother is the one who in her own person brings in the One who is the Light of the World and, with Joseph as his earthly guardian, guides Him to readiness for His Mission. 

In and through Mary we receive every gift: for while the Church, and the Sacraments come to us from Christ, Christ comes to us through Mary. 

Christ, the Eternal Word is spoken into our world by Mary's word: it is through her "fiat!", her "Yes!" that we have communion with Christ. 

Salve Regina Angelorum!

Today traditionally people greeted the May sunrise and gave thanks for the first fruits and flowers of Summer by dressing the Holy Wells and the wayside shrines to Mary. In the home the May Altar was erected and fresh flowers placed there throughout the month. Consecration of homes, families and individuals to Mary’s protection took place and May processions and crownings of Our Lady’s Icons and statues were celebrated...

So however you celebrate these days may our holy Mother be with you and yours!

The poem May Magnificat by the mystic and poet Gerald Manly Hopkins puts it so beautifully;

The May Magnificat

 

MAY is Mary’s month, and I 

Muse at that and wonder why: 

    Her feasts follow reason, 

    Dated due to season— 

 

Candlemas, Lady Day;         

But the Lady Month, May, 

    Why fasten that upon her, 

    With a feasting in her honour? 

 

Is it only its being brighter 

Than the most are must delight her?         

    Is it opportunest 

    And flowers finds soonest? 

 

Ask of her, the mighty mother: 

Her reply puts this other 

    Question: What is Spring?—         

    Growth in every thing— 

 

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, 

Grass and greenworld all together; 

    Star-eyed strawberry-breasted 

    Throstle above her nested         

 

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin 

Forms and warms the life within; 

    And bird and blossom swell 

    In sod or sheath or shell. 

 

All things rising, all things sizing         

Mary sees, sympathising 

    With that world of good, 

    Nature’s motherhood. 

 

Their magnifying of each its kind 

With delight calls to mind         

    How she did in her stored 

    Magnify the Lord. 

 

Well but there was more than this: 

Spring’s universal bliss 

    Much, had much to say         

    To offering Mary May. 

 

When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple 

Bloom lights the orchard-apple 

    And thicket and thorp are merry 

    With silver-surfèd cherry         

 

And azuring-over greybell makes 

Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes 

    And magic cuckoocall 

    Caps, clears, and clinches all— 

 

This ecstasy all through mothering earth        

Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth 

    To remember and exultation 

    In God who was her salvation.

Gerald Manley Hopkins sj

Queen of the May

 For the First of May, Our Lady’s Month and 

Lá fheile Bealtaine

Queen of the May

O Lady of the White May Crown,

who brings the greening glory,

the sun sparkle upon the waters,

and the great sap surge of ancient trees,

enfold us in your blue mantle sewn of sky,

of Swift and Swallow jewelled,

embroidered with the Blackbird song 

of bright beckoning, 

that we might sing the song of Summer with you.

O Lady of the purple dawn and evening,

whose brow is crowned with starlight

and rainbows of sudden storms arising,

shine upon us now your thrice reflected light,

lowly, and lunar, and loved by the lost,

who find in you their path, their peace, their way home again.

O Lady of the Summer Lands,

whose passing step

now warms and wakes the seed,

the bloom, the berry upon the bough,

and brings to beast and bird

the burgeoning days of nest and den,

and sweet deep secret places

of nascent newness playing,

where eternity touches time

in the ancient song of making,

for of you life itself chose its bearing place.

Bless us too with birth, with life, with long sunlit days of joy, 

that in their serried passing draw us forward 'neath 

the Sun you bore within and then, 

onward into His wondrous light,

that past and childed summers shine with still within our memories, soul sprung from innocence that only you have kept,

then keep for us as greeting kiss bestowed 

upon our final homing into holiday.

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!

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+

St. Patrick, Pandemic, and the Divine Presence of God: Brooke Taylor wit...

An interview with Brooke Taylor for the Feast of St. Patrick covering all things Pandemic too.

May it bring you and yours blessings for the feast and let us all pray that St. Patrick may intercede for a quick cessation to the current viral pandemic.

You can access the interview at this link:

interview on St. Patrick, the pandemic and the Divine Presence

"Brother Thanks-be-to-God": St. Felix of Cantalice, the first saint of the Capuchins

Today, the eighteenth of May, is the feast of the first canonised saint of the Capuchin friars!

So I would like to share a little of his story with you...

(the following is a collation from various sources)

Felix was born to a family of farmers and so knew hard work from a very early age. He was known for his great physical strength, always an advantage on a farm in those days, and he was even a very good wrestler! From childhood he was known for his piety listening avidly to the stories his parents would tell him of the Desert Fathers, the first Christian Monks, and their deep ascetic mysticism. Wanting to dedicate himself to God he wasnt sure where to go until an Angel appeared to him in a dream and told him to go to the local Capuchin Friary and become a friar! Twice he journeyed to the friary and twice he couldn't find the Guardian and so came home again! The Angels must have been patient as he was told a third time to go and on this occasion he did meet one of the Superiors. He brought him before the Crucifix in the Church and told him to pray while he would go and fetch the Guardian to speak to him. The friar left and promplty forgot all about him until returning to the Church that evening he found Felix lost in prayer in the same position that he had left him in hours before. That was enough for the friars and they accepted him immediately.

Felix had hoped that in the Capuchins he would be sent to one of the mountain hermitages to pursue a life of prayer and contemplation but this was not to be! Instead he was sent to Rome where he became the chief Questor (official beggar) for the friars. He would begin his day at the crack of Dawn in prayer, and meditation and by assisting at Mass and then make his alms route around the city begging for the needs of the poor and the friary. He often laughed at the sense of Hunour that God must have, when asked why he thought this was so he would tell people that on becoming a friar he had renounced even touching bread and wine ever again as a penance, but the first job he was given as a Questor was to beg for bread and wine!

As he travelled around the streets of Rome he became a familiar and much loved figure to two generations of Romans. He was soon nicknamed Fra Deo Gratias, "Brother Thanks be to God" because this was his customary greeting and response to all circumstances. When asked once by a Roman society lady what his philosophy of life was he responded, "Eyes on the Ground, Hand on the Rosary, Heart on God".

He aimed to make every moment a living prayer and to recognise in every person, regardless of their station in life a brother or sister in the Lord. He was friends with St. Philip Neri and St. Charles Borromeo, he advised princes and cardinals, dukes and duchesses and never refused any person who was in need. He would bless bread and fruit to be sent to the sick who would eat it and then recover. Felix always attributed these miracles to the intecession of the Blessed Virgin for whom he had a particular love. He would make up songs and rhymes about her which he then taught the children to sing. On one occasion the Pope, who had been a franciscan before his election, asked for a piece of bread from Brother Felix. He immediately sent him a piece of mouldy black bread as a reminder that he was still a friar and should live like one despite his papal election. At a time when the Capuchins were still a young reform of the Franciscan order it was the holiness and fame of Brother Felix that won for them papal approval.




Nights were times of prayer and meditation for Felix when he would spend hours before the Blessed Sacrament in prayer of adoration and petition. During this time he was gifted with many visions and on one occasion one of the other brothers saw the Blessed Virgin appear and place the Child Jesus in his arms, a sign of his incredible purity of heart and devotion. Eventually worn out after so many years of unrelenting service he became sick, collapsing in front of the brothers to whom he wryly announced, "This little donkey has fallen and won't be getting up again!" At his deathbed he suddenly sat up and a light was seen to shine from his face. One of the brothers asked him, "Felix, what do you see?" "I see the Blessed Virgin surrounded by throngs of Angels!", he replied. Holy Communion was quickly brought to him and as the Host was brought into the room he sang the hymn "O Sacrum Convivium" in a loud voice, then received the Body of the Lord and gave up his spirit. As he passed away the bells in some of the nearby churches rang by themselves and some of the children of Rome ran through the streets shouting, "The saint is dead, the saint is dead" All of Rome turned out for the funeral of the little brother who had laboured amongst them for so long. Canonised as St. Felix of Cantalice he became the first of the Capuchin branch of the Franciscan Order to be canonised and remains in his joyful simplicity and deeply contemplative spirit and model for every Capuchin since.

St. Felix pray for us!

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation:

Today, St. Stephen’s day is a very sacred one in our family… not just because of the first Martyr’s witness and passing to the Lord, but because it is also my Gran’s anniversary.

My Mother’s mother, she was, (and is), one of the greatest influences in my life growing up.

I have always regarded Gran as one of my first and best teachers, not only in the ways of faith but even on the contemplative path within it. 

Many, many hours were spent with her, listening to her stories and imbibing her teaching (though she would never have called it that… she simply taught by her very being, as all good elders do). Faith for her was as natural as breathing, and indeed, if you listened as closely as I often did to her whistled breathing as she went about her day, a short prayer to the Sacred Heart or to Our Lady was often just beneath the surface of her breath.

Like her own Mother and Grandmother before her she was a “sharp woman”, as they used to say in Dublin, meaning a wise person and one with a direct line to the Spiritual world. 
Her mother was sought out amongst the Dublin flats as she had “the way” of helping difficult births and deaths and was often asked for advice about a “match” between couples as she had a “good eye” for these things.

Gran was no different and there were many times I would go over to her house to find her sitting beside the phone waiting for the call that would tell her so and so had died. She, of course, already knew as she had “the dream” the previous night… the phone call always came to confirm it and I soon learned to be used to it. 
On other occasions I would arrive to hear her chatting aloud with someone only to discover her alone by the fire when I entered the room.

I never asked.

She never said.

We didn’t need to.

She taught me those ways too. 
“Look into the fire and tell me what you see” she would say, and then smile when, to my surprise, I saw. 

She taught me to look at people’s eyes when they spoke and at the way they stood and moved. 
She had tremendous devotion to the Blessed Virgin who had “been through it all” and her prayers to her were not so much novenas or devotions as a constant conversation born of a life long trust. She had great respect for the friars and religious orders much preferring their churches in town where she could attend anonymously, not liking the front seat parish people as she called them. 
She reminded me often never to judge anyone and taught me to give to the poor, especially beggars in the street. 
“There’s always a story there,” she would say, 
“No one is on the street because they want to be.” 
Women were on the street or poor because, 
“Men put them there.” 
Men were on the street or poor because, 
“Most men are fools for the bottle or for a story.” 
No matter the reason they were to be listened to and helped.

She had been sharp in other ways too. A hard life and losing her husband early on had made her hard in her mid-life and it was only as a Gran that she softened again. In her later years she would often tell me that she was glad she got to be a Gran after everything she had been through.

She often worried about her death. She was not afraid to die. 
"No one dies alone", she would say. 
She had seen enough deaths to know that, 
“They come to collect you.” 

She was, however, afraid that she would die in the house and that I or another grandchild would find her. So for the last few years of her life she prayed everyday the “Thirty day’s prayer” to Our Lady for a happy death and listed the way she wanted to go:

She wanted to die in her sleep so she could “wake up in Heaven”.

She wanted to die alone but having said her goodbyes and surrounded by love.

She wanted to be ready to go.

She talked about it often, not in a morbid way, but in the way you recite your shopping list.

Going and coming were natural in their very essence and death she had long taught and lived was nothing to be afraid of for a Christian soul.

That Christmas she had been very unwell.

Pneumonia had followed a chest and kidney infection and a stay in hospital was called for. She did not want to go but acquiesced at my Mum’s request. Feeling a little better after a few days of antibiotics she was to be released for Christmas by the Docs even though Mum was not happy that she was ready. She came home to us. She was weak and a slim figure of her former self though I still wondered at the muscled arms of her small frame, a result of countless years of housework when that still meant a physical ordeal. She spent most of the next couple of day’s in bed sleeping. She smiled a lot and we got to visit with her and hold her hand and chat. 
Christmas Eve came and her children and grandchildren all visited with presents and smiles and the occasional worried whispered conversation with my Mum and Dad as to how she was doing. Christmas Day she was very quiet and slept a lot. As the house was beginning to settle down she called my Mum into the room and very deliberately and unusually for a woman of her time thanked her for all she had done and told her she loved her. My Mum was somewhat taken aback but at that moment Gran asked her who it was that was standing behind her. 
There was no one there that Mum could see. 
Gran’s eyes focused on the spot behind her and she relaxed.

“It’s alright,” Gran said, “I know them.”

Mum said her smile was a beautiful thing at that moment.

She told Mum, “You can go down to the family now, I’m fine”.

Mum did, though to the end of her own days she often wondered why she did. 

As she went downstairs she could hear Gran talking quietly in the room.

Later Mum checked in on her to find her sleeping deeply and gently.

That night a Blackbird sang outside the house all night.

I remember looking out to try and see it.

I could not.

I should have known.

Gran had often taught me to watch out for Blackbirds.

“They are special to our family,” she would say, 
“Your Grandfather loved them and they come to warn us of things.”

“Whenever you see one, say a prayer to your Grandad.”

I still do.

The following morning, very early, Mum woke suddenly and went straight to check on her.

Gran had passed away.

She was still warm and she was smiling gently.

Mum called for the Priest and the Doctor and then carefully woke us all. I still remember that there were no tears in the house that morning. It all felt very peaceful and quiet. The Priest administered the Last Rites as he felt that she had only just gone before Mum found her. 
A little later myself and Mum stood in the room with Gran looking out the window. 

On the lawn a hen Blackbird was hopping around.

We smiled at that.

“Well”, I said, “She certainly got the death she had wanted!”

Mum told me then about the things that had happened the previous night and about Gran seeing someone in her room.

Someone who had made her smile.

“Do you think it was Grandad?” I asked.

At that moment, right in front of us, a Cock Blackbird, all shiny and bright yellow beaked flew down beside the Hen on the lawn outside. They greeted each other and flew off  together.

After that there was nothing else to say.

Gran had gotten the death she had asked for and we had received the little signs of her going.

In Ireland there has always been the custom of the “Cuireadh na Nollaig” the so called “Christmas Invitation” the feeling that a death at this time of the year is especially blessed and that the signs around it are powerful. Today, almost thirty years later I write this so that this story of my Gran’s passing may be remembered and may bring peace and hope to all who read it…

And perhaps the next time you see a Blackbird you might say a prayer for all your loved ones gone before you…

(Photo unattributed found on google)

The Hunter's Moon

The Hunter’s Moon

Seeking the graced sight

of the Hunter’s Moon,

I left the bright lights

of the house behind me,

and, bundling myself

against the cold,

I took the wooded path

to the place

where I could watch her rise,

fierce and cold against

the purple dark sky.

There I blessed her

for blessing me in turn

with such light:

pure and cold and bright,

gilding the sea golden beneath her

as she rose;

my silver sister of the sky above:

the Lady’s lamp,

a guide for all who wander

and wonder in turn.

Finally, when the cold bit

into my already aching bones

too much,

leaving moon to her meditations,

I left for home.

Trudging darkly along

the wooded path

discerning its grey

pebble skinned presence

barely a step or two ahead

I was gifted

with the sudden

awareness of unaloneness

and paused

in the pitch dark

not sure of what old sense

had been alerted, nor why.

Then, carefully kindling

the little lamp I carried

I sudden saw twelve sets of eyes

gaze glowing from off the path

and realized in front of me,

our holy herd of deer.

Down from the rutting hills

they had come silent as the dusk

that surrounded us, perhaps,

to pay their own homage to the lady

high above us all.

Horse high and seeming huge they were,

I heard now their breathing,

their antlers broad between the branches,

utterly still they stood and stared

as we regarded each other,

“Well met by moonlight”, I thought,

as I, awestruck in stillness also

bowed deeply to these

old ones of the woods,

the first Lords and Ladies

of these sainted lands.

Then, stepping back into the dark

I left them to their silent vigil

and made for home,

my heart elated by that moonlit magic

recalling eden’s evenings

when all were one

before Him.  

Later, making tea,

I wondered how often

on our grey and often seeming

daily darkened path

we have, all about us beings

carrying such, and even

greater blessings,

but never notice, shut in

as we are, behind

our curtained glass,

sitting lost before

our flickering screens,

while they,

keep their ancient vigil too,

waiting for us to touch

stillness long enough,

deep enough, to discern their

moonlit presence

and, at last, know ourselves to be,

with them, one

before the One, from whom

the light and dark

and deer arise.

 

Sat Oct 26^th 2018

Donegal Dance

Donegal Dance

After what had seemed a very long day

of talking, and visiting, and listening

to the secret woes of, oh, so many,

we had arrived at the last,

to the old farm on an ancient hill,

above a half forgotten valley,

that seemed to dwell in its own time,

to travel its own long seasoned path.

A few thorn trees broke the wind

before the whitewashed walls.

A cow watched us deliberately

conferring with the few scraggly chickens

about these strange visitors; a welcome distraction,

perhaps.

They greeted us at the door then, the old couple.

Dressed in Sunday best, they stood as much to attention

as their work bent spines allowed.

Smiling with heavy, creased, but still bright eyes.

We knew then the far away neighbours had warned them

we were near; two friars travelling from house to house.

the annual days of the parish mission come again.

They beckoned us in to two soft chairs

drawn up beside the fire, there we settled into cushions

shaped by long quiet night’s sitting for them, not us,

as they sat on hard, straight, kitchen chairs

pulled from dark corners.

Then we talked, as you do, always

observing the ancient Irish liturgy of visiting:

The Weather?

“All right for now, but sure it will change.”

Health?

“Good days and bad days, neither of us as young as we were.”

The Children?

“Well, they are busy, they can’t make it here as often as they would like.”

The land?

“Enough for us, but we will be the last to farm it,

there’s no love for it in the young ones.

It’s a hard life, but a good one.”

We listened while scanning all the while this

place caught out of time, yet redolent of deeper, quieter life.

 “You’ll stay for the tea Fathers?”

The old farmer said suddenly

It was, on reflection,

more statement than question.

For his wife was already on her feet

and heading for the kitchen.

To this day I am glad we said yes

for the miracle that came of it then

and was ours alone to witness in the holiness of home.

Though at the time the glance between us brothers

told of a different mutual desire for return and rest.

“It was ever such”, the Brother reminded me, later when we left,

speaking only after we had passed a while of silent awe at what we had witnessed there,

“God’s revelations are never expected,

Moses was not looking for a burning bush that desert day.

The Shepherds did not expect Angels overhead that night.”

“He is the God of surprises after all.”

Perhaps the Farmer did not want or need to continue chatting then,

the old man rose and joined his wife in the small scrubbed kitchen,

while we stretched our sandaled feet before the fire

and stared across the hearth to where

the door half open let us watch the dance begin,

as these two souls, long made one,

in daily sacrament of living, prepared the liturgy of tea.

Without a word and each always aware of their partner’s presence

revolved around each other as stars and planets do

in orbits long settled since the foundation of being,

so they spun and weaved, the one always in right relation to the other,

passing by at just the right moment to receive from outstretched hand

the bread, the butter, the jam, the cheese,

each always, and without asking, just where the other needed them to be,

as their silent waltz produced a table set and ready for us all

to gather, seen and unseen, together.

We sat breathless and blessed just watching,

knowing we were witnesses of a secret communion

made all the more sacred for its being born of ordinary duty.

Danced daily for long years in that place,

Danced in a Spring surrounded by chattering Children

Danced in a Winter filled with worries and woes,

Danced in love and long and lazy Summer nights

Danced now in the Autumn of long burnished gold,

Danced under the stars of Heaven

Danced with the powers of Heaven

Danced with the Divine Dancer

who is the space and music both,

between all souls who dance the daily dance of love.

Once, at the end of a long day,

through a half open door, in an old cottage,

on a half-remembered hilltop in Donegal.

I sat in silence and witnessed the cosmic dance

of love incarnate take place

in an old but well scrubbed kitchen

where brown bread was broken

and we ate beneath

the glowing lamp

of the Sacred Heart.

(Pic not mine, found on Pinterest)

Some practical advice from our elder brothers on Meditation

Over the years of being taught the ways of meditative prayer by our brothers many of them have shared a word of advice or teaching along the way… a few of them are recorded below, may they help you in your practice as they have helped me over the years.

1.)    Be regular in your practice; so far as is possible practice at the same time and in the same place each day. You are a creature of habit. Let abiding in a state of prayer become habitual.

2.)    At the start meditate for twenty minutes, twice a day. If this is too much begin with ten minutes. Better ten with attention than twenty with struggle.

3.)    Begin with a formal gesture of invocation and intention.

4.)    Call on the heavenly helpers to assist you in your prayer. Your Guardian Angel, patron saints, holy ancestors and above all the Blessed Virgin want to assist you in your prayer, but they await your invitation.

5.)    End with a moment of thanksgiving.

6.)    Still yourself by noticing your senses and your breath. They are the gateways to the present moment.

7.)    Use a short phrase or word to anchor yourself in the moment of prayer. The “prayer word” both unites us to God and gives the conceptual brain something to attend to until the thoughts quieten.

8.)    The prayer word or phrase should be in a language other than the one you speak daily as this will prevent associative ideas from arising and getting in the way.

9.)    Attend to physical needs first, or you will just spend your time thinking about your needs.

10.)                        Do not eat just before meditation. Your body is limited in its energy, eating before hand draws necessary energy for the meditation to digestion instead.

11.)                        Sit relaxed but straight, let your breath be open and gentle without altering the rhythm in any way. As you become still it will slow and deepen by itself.

12.)                        Surrender all thoughts, images, sensations, concepts as they arise. Simply notice them but do not grasp them. Remain instead in simple attention attuned towards meeting the Divine Presence in this moment, in this breath.

13.)                        Do not force anything.

14.)                        Do not expect anything.

15.)                        Try and meditate early in the morning as the sun rises and in the evening as it sets. In this way you will be united with the natural rhythm of the cosmos and its Divine order.

16.)                        You are just sitting, to sit. You are not owed anything. Anything you receive is a grace. Your job is just to show up, attend and be open.

17.)                        The distractions are part of the process. With each return from the distraction your faculty of attention will become stronger and your ability to maintain a centred awareness of the Divine Presence will grow.

18.)                        Remember God is already present within you and around you. You are simply tuning into His presence.

19.)                        There is nothing you can do to make God more present. There is much you can do to become more present to God.

20.)                        Rest. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved.

21.)                        In the end this is not your work. You are being worked upon and within. You must simply turn up, abide past the distractions and attend to Love’s gaze.

22.)                        Just close your eyes and get out of God’s way.

Moon Memories

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

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

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.

Candlemas Feb 2^nd 2018