St. Anthony of Padua

Reflection for the Feast of St. Anthony 

Anthony Ascends:

His long travelling days over,

there is now only one direction left;

up, or is it, perhaps, 

more truly, in?

The hilltop hermitage

was not high enough

to discourage those

who would still

seek his words,

disturb his deep prayer,

his long sought peace.

So now the boughs 

beckon him higher

to a cell, a nest woven

between the branches

by the brothers.

This is his place now;

held halfway between

Heaven and Earth

What matter?

His heart has lived this way

all his life;

now the rest of him does so too.

Here, finally, the weariness

of the world may be dropped,

as he, worn out from roads

and crowds, and even from miracles

climbs just a little nearer 

to the clouds.

His body, almost too frail now 

to hold Heaven’s fire. 

Still, there are glints

of golden flame along the edges,

in his flashing eyes, 

in his measured movements,

or on his tongue 

as it tells the hours

in psalming whispers.

He is now,

a prophet become a burning bush,

a priest become a burnt offering,

a brother following the seraph song

all the way to Heaven’s vestibule.

He leans his back 

against the trunk, 

sits still and slowly fades.

A brown robed, grey-friar,

a hooded crow, upon the branch 

as weather beaten as the wood 

on which he rests.

His chapel vault, 

an arching branch.

The greening sunshine 

through the leaves,

his stained glass window.

His choir, the birds.

And he who has learned 

at last, their song of innocence,

hears, understands, and smiles

at their skyborn summons.

From here he will ascend,

this sylvan stylite,

and will be ever after known,

and busied even in eternity as,

Finder of the lost things,

Friend of the poor ones,

Pilgrim preacher of peace,

Brother to the sisters 

in their needs.

But for now, at least, 

there is a moment’s rest,

here upon the hillside

under the passing sun 

and moon,

beneath the branches, 

and breeze played leaves,

above the earth,

alone, at last,

where all the words

are dropped

like leaves

upon the wind,

Anthony 

simply

is.

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

Feast of our brother St. Anthony of Padua today! Known as the "Good Doctor" for his immense wisdom and learning he was an indefatigable preacher and teacher of the Gospel and the first teacher of theology to the Friars from amongst their own number. 

Known for the immense number of miracles worked during his life he was granted the title of Thaumaturge or Wonderworker. He also worked tirelessly on behalf of the poor and opposed corruption wherever he found it. His last years were spent living as a hermit (in a treehouse!) and teaching the brothers. He is the patron of the poor, of children and pregnant women and of preachers and teachers, and is invoked to find that which is lost and, above all, of miracles! 

He is one of our truly extraordinary brothers and one of my own special spiritual teachers and friends. We entrust ourselves to his prayers this day and always +

(Photos include wonderful moment I got to venerate the cross St. Anthony burned into the wall of the Cathedral in Lisbon with his finger when only 12 years old in order to repel a temptation of the devil to leave his studies to become a priest.)

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SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018

.

Glorious St. Anthony, I salute thee as a good servant of Christ, and a special friend of God. You once were favored to hold the Christ Child in your arms as you cherished His Word in your heart.

Today I place all my cares, temptations, and anxieties in your hands. I resolve ever to honor you by imitating your example.

Powerful patron, model of Purity, please win for me, and for all devoted to thee, perfect purity of body, mind, and heart I promise by my example and counsel to help others to the knowledge, love, and service of God. Amen.

The creator of the heavens obeys a carpenter; the God of eternal glory listens to a poor virgin. Has anyone ever witnessed anything comparable to this?" .

"The birds are the saints, who fly to heaven on the wings of contemplation, who are so removed from the world that they have no business on earth. They do not labour, but by contemplation alone they already live in heaven." ~ St Anthony of Padua

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

All Ascends

 All Ascends

Even the wounds went with Him,

windwards, ever up.

Points of pain, now portals,

doorways divine, our worst wedded

to grace in glory,

Like makers marks upon glittered gold,

He bears them now as blessing,

before the astonishment of angels

the amazement of apostles;

our brokenness that beat

iron into ire before God’s grace,

pricked and pierced,

hammered heavily into soft humanity

so to brand the bearer

as slave, as sinner, as sin,

a punishment for preaching peace.

But with breath and beating heart 

He arose again, 

transfigured and transforming all,

a resurrection, yes rightly, but in Him 

all rises, all shines, shimmers, shakes

free of first failure, and at last 

faithwards flys!

Upwards ever upwards 

He brings all home,

carrying the crossmarks as 

five fiery flames,

as proof of pain, 

but more so love, 

now lamps to light our way 

for world’s wilding,

heaven’s homing, 

and all humanity

at last restored in 

resurrection’s resting.

For He by dulled dark nail and 

silver sharpened spear 

our remaking redeemed, 

who now ascends to stand again 

in bright blessedness before 

the One who walked with us 

in Eden’s even light 

and all called us in 

as Adam and as Eve, 

now newly seen, 

as from our long limbo 

we are loosed by love 

and set at last anew upon 

the throne of grace,

for through Him death has died, 

in Him right has risen,

and with Him 

all ascends.

.

A meditation poem for the vigil of the Ascension, celebrated in Ireland on the 6th Sunday of Easter.

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

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 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.

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.

Snow Blessing

 Snow Blessing.

Early morning air 

is cold, clear, pure,

sharpening as

the sky bows down 

in its grey cloaked 

and wintery embrace.

I stop.

Aware, as, all around me

is Mother Earth's sudden

hushed anticipation,

palpable as the excitement

of a little girl on her first communion day,

or a bride before her wedding,

both awaiting their new clothing

signifying Love's coming gift.

Now, birds sudden cease 

their song and seek 

shelter in the ever green

as first flakes fall.

Bestowing blessing of beauty,

they come, smoothing and 

sharpening both 

land and sky with their crystalline grace.

I gaze upward, blinking as

snowflake resolves from sky

and manifests as manna does.

Settling on sandled toes,

and uplifted face,

while they announce their 

presence with tingle touch

before disappearing;

letting go of form

as freely as Angels do,

once divine dream is delivered.

Leaving behind only 

thrilled stillness and 

soul senses sharpened 

by Heaven's sudden gift.

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

Ordinary Miracles

Ordinary Miracles.


Today I am so tired
I have no space in me for big.
I must return
to the small ordinary miracles;
to the way the cup and the bowl
laid upon this table,
once earth themselves,
now,
after fire's touch,
are something else
entirely,
and give themselves
freely
with the simple symmetry
of their curved line
to the holding of emptiness
or fullness.
Or I will drink tea,
and follow it's warmth and healing touch
within and without,
and mingle my breath
with its vapour and touch
the journey of its essence
from far away lands
to here, to now, to me.
Or spend time simply remembering
that between the covers
of the books upon my shelves
are held
minds, lives, worlds, stories, wisdom
that will all last longer
than this little body of mine.
Or marvel at the striped stones
upon the shore that tell deep time,
layer by layer and recall
wild days of disaster and dancing
in their still sea vigil,
slowly loosing their grains
and building beaches for
children's hands to make sand castles
with until the next tide sets them
swimming again.
Or just knowing that already
I have seen a seed
become a tree
become a log
become a fire
become dust
and
become soil for seed's planting.
Or watch the sky
and know that the blue is
still behind the clouds
and the stars still shine
even in the day.
Or simply sit
with the slow rhythm of breath
knowing its biology as blessing,
its divine anchoring
as presence and prayer.
Today, I am so tired
I have no space in me for big
questions, queries, feelings,
problems, pains, plans,
whether mine or others,
so I will just sit
with the small ordinary miracles of being;
breathing, watching, touching, tasting
the now,
and in the now knowing
the love from which all that is, is.
I will dwell there, today,
in the wonder of it all,
in the wildness of
the small ordinary miracles
of being.

An old one but after a weekend teaching I'm feeling this one today...
May it bless +

BR

Sacred Heart:

I remember still, with the sharp light 

of a child's knowing of newness, 

my Gran's bedroom. 

Spartan, yet equipped with things 

of a quality we do not have 

in many places now.

Long used. Loved. Meant to last.

Her carved bed seemed enormous to us 

as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread, 

sliding across it to thump, 

giggling, on the hard floor.

A mirror, a brush, a comb, all laid out 

upon the dresser as carefully 

as a surgeon's tools, 

heavy and cold to the touch,

but glowing with the warm barley sugar 

inner light of polished tortoise shell.

An old clock that worked, sometimes, 

its numerals glowing in the dark 

a faded ghost green. 

And there, upon the dresser too 

he stood, in stone stillness. 

Flaking slightly, but still royal 

in his red robe revealing the love 

that is at the heart of all things. 

and seeming huge to my small hands.

I would climb into the bed beside her 

as she whispered her prayers 

in his direction;

she would hand him to me then 

and he would sit comfortably 

upon my knees,

as I, entranced, traced the thorns 

entwining his poor heart, 

and tried to pull them out;

feeling his heart a flame, 

a fire for me, for her, for all!

I would whisper to him then,

my childish news and secrets

and I remember (can you believe it?)

sometimes, he whispered back

words of such love

they exist now only as 

scattered shards of light 

within my own heart's memories,

there and then I promised, I would 

one day, pull out those thorns.

Gran smiled when I told her this

"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,

the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers

in the morning's ritual,

"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two 

in there too; don't worry, we all do from time to time, but never forget He loves you still!" she said, smiling sadly at my stricken face.

Then I kissed him hard as children do

and made the foolish promise

of a child to ease his heart a little.

A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,

though no shortage of thorns 

have I added to his crown.

Devotions done she restored him to his place upon the dresser,

and I,  sliding off the bed,

now thought only of the day before us: 

of buses into town, bookshops, 

and Bewley's cafe!

Then we went downstairs 

to breakfast on tea and toast,

always, me going first,

she coming behind,

her breath, 

her voice as one, 

whistling upon each step,

the background music

of her life;

"Sacred Heart of Jesus,

I place all my trust 

in Thee."

At the centre, the Heart.

What do we find at the centre of our faith?
The Cross, uniting earth and Heaven in a communion of Love stronger than death, despair or evil.
What do we find at the centre of that Cross?
A human heart that holds the fullness of Divinity.
What do we find at the centre of this heart?
A burning wound of fire and light wherein our woundedness is healed, our darkness illumined, our sin forgiven, and our existence united with Divine Nature forever.
What do we find at the centre of that wound?
The point where time and eternity meet in that mystery of Divine Love we call Incarnation, we call Jesus.
What do we find at the centre of the Incarnation?
The answer to all the questions of our being:
We have come from Love.
We are now because of Love.
We are called into Love for eternity.
And we are loved so much that God would break His own heart for eternity to prove to us just how much we are loved.
Most Sacred Heart of Jesus
I place all my trust in thee.

The Four Inner Directions of the Contemplative Stance:

The contemplative stands still and breathes in the present moment at the junction of four inner directions: meaning, purpose, intention and attention:

When purpose is joined with meaning it becomes service.
When meaning is joined with purpose it becomes transformation.

When attention is joined to intention every moment becomes filled with meaning.
When intention is joined to attention
all of life becomes filled with purpose.

When attention is joined to the breath then
the breath invites mindful awareness.
When intention is joined to the breath then the breath becomes prayer.

For the fullness of prayer let attention and intention be joined in the awareness of the breath as the place where we encounter Divine in-breathing.

For the fullness of life let meaning and purpose be joined in the awareness of the present moment as the place of Divine Encounter.

When meaning and purpose are lived in each moment with attention and intention then we become aware that Divine Love is present in this moment and we are changed, transformed in the fire of His Love into His likeness.

For us then, in each moment, anchored in the stillness and stability of our breathing...
Our intention is to become like Christ in each moment.
Our attention is on Christ in each moment.
Our purpose is to work with Christ in each moment
Our meaning is in Christ in each moment and in eternity; for Christ is God, and God IS Love...

A meditation and blessing for New Year's Eve

What of last year?

Be not afraid

to

let it go.

All of it;

the joys and the sorrows,

the burdens and the blessings.

Put them down gently 

and,

with reverence,

place them 

into the wounded hands

of Divine Mercy 

and then receive back

from

the source of all Love

the only real gift

that you may bring 

into 

the New Year;

wisdom

What of the New Year?

Be not afraid...

but, 

enter it with joy.

Welcome all of the gifts 

it waits to bestow, 

knowing that, 

when you rest secure in the infinite love that dwells in the wounded heart of Divine Mercy, 

then all 

becomes grace;

the joys and the sorrows, 

the burdens and the blessings,

and you will receive back 

from the source of all Love

the only real gift

that any year can bring;

wisdom.

Tonight, 

however you choose to spend it, alone or with others, 

in quiet introspection 

or in loud celebration, 

in the moment 

between 

last year 

and new year, 

breathe deep, 

pause,

and know that in places 

all over the world 

you are being held in prayer 

Blessings of wisdom on your New Year!

Present Moment, Sacred Moment:

Present Moment, Sacred Moment:

The Choir Chapel of the Friars in Kilkenny where we first learned to practice Meditation.

We were "Novices", a word that means new. And we were new, new to all of it, new to community life, new to living as brothers, new to the prayers and to the liturgy. 
Our fingers couldn’t find the right page yet in the breviary. We were still learning the geography of the friary and the gardens; still learning which of the brothers did what, and how to speak to them about it. 

We were new to the robe and new to the sandals, all clumsy thumbs and cold toes; and every day we joined the professed community for meditation; twice, two periods of half an hour before Lauds (morning prayer) and Vespers (evening prayer). These are the two periods of stillness that, as we were to learn, are the ancient hinges on which, to this day, swings the door of monastic meditative prayer, the door that slowly opens you to the presence of the One who IS…

But we were novices, new, and so as yet those periods were spent trying to resist distraction, trying not to look at the clock, trying not to fall asleep, or, if one did fall asleep, trying to do so in such a way that the Novice Master wouldn’t notice! Sometimes they were even spent keeping one eye open and scanning the faces of the professed brothers who seemed, effortlessly, to sink into a profound silence and stillness that had a quality of presence and peace to it that we as yet could barely fathom. We soon recognised that amongst the brethren there was one brother whose silence spoke to us novices louder than any of the books on meditation we had been given. He would enter the choir, (the wood panelled private chapel of the friary), with the rest of the brothers, make his genuflection toward the Blessed Sacrament and then he would simply... sit. His body folding into prayer with the ease of a well oiled mechanism seemed so used to these movements from countless repetitions. He sat a little forward, his spine straight, his eyes closed, his hands deftly folded in his lap, his breathing so deep it was barely perceptible. He was alert and relaxed, peaceful and dynamic, still and yet vibrating with energy. His name was Brother Berard; and he was, we novices agreed amongst ourselves, the best at all this... and probably a saint to boot.

The late Brother Berard who taught Meditation and Contemplative practice to us as Novices

So you can imagine our excitement when a few weeks later our Novice Master told us that we would be taking lessons in meditation with Br. Berard. We talked about what we would ask him, mentally got our questions ready, and spent quite a few meditation periods surrepticiously studying him closely. Finally the morning came. We gathered around the table in the novitiate classroom. He came in quietly, said a short prayer invoking the Holy Spirit, Our Lady and St. Francis as was always the custom before a talk and then he sat with us. We were silent. He glanced at us with bright eyes that belied his age, steepled his hands, looked at the ground, and in his slow deep voice asked us what we understood by the word “meditation”. It was as though a dam had burst! Questions, comments, theories tumbled out of us born of our few weeks of frustrated, distracted “practice”. When at last we were done, Brother Berard, who had not moved throughout, regarded us for a moment in silence and gently said, “Sons, meditation is simply closing your eyes and getting out of God’s way.”  We were stunned, we had expected techniques, secrets, teachings…it was to be a few months before we were to realise that in that one single sentence we had received all of that and more besides.

As the weeks went on Brother Berard did teach us deeply; we encountered our minds and their multiple layers, we dwelt in our breath, learned to recognise both distractions and the touches of grace that came in their midst and often despite them, and we were taught not to get attached to either, letting each simply arise, be and depart. We learned the ancient techniques for centering our attention, becoming mindful, stilling the thoughts, and becoming present to the One who IS always present to us in love. We were slowly learning to get out of God’s way… something I am still learning to do to this day. What sounded simple on that winter’s morning in the Novititate seems now to be the work of a lifetime and the discipline that truly allows one to be a real disciple is one that must be embraced daily and even begun again in every moment. 

Now that I find myself teaching others the way of mindfulness, the way of meditative prayer in the Christian tradition, I hear myself quoting Brother Berard often! His words and, above all, the example of his practice still invite me to deepen my own stillness, mindfulness and presence so as to encounter Divine Presence, and it is to his memory, and the memory of countless brothers with whom I have been blessed to share so many moments of meditation and prayer, that I dedicate this blog. 

In the coming days and weeks I hope to share with you some of the basic insights, teachings and techniques of the Christian meditative mindful tradition and invite you to practice these ancient forms of prayer that allow us to get out of God’s way in our own lives… 

Until the next time,

Peace and Joy to you and yours always...

Brother Richard

Monday Thoughts:

Monday thoughts:
There is never a room that you will enter that Divine Love is not already in.
There is never a conversation you will have that Divine Silence is not already a part of.
There is never a place that you will go to that Divine Providence is not already holding in being.
There is never a person you will meet who is not already the temple of Divine Presence.
There is never a wound suffered that is not already an encounter with Divine Mercy.
There is never a breath that is not already Divine Breath breathing in your breath the breath of Love.
There is never a moment passed that is not already an experience of the Divine Now of Grace.
So be at peace...and simply...gently...yield to the awareness of Divine Presence and know that in the yielding is the opening

awareness of Love.

Stormlight: A meditation poem

Stormlight:
Storms
bring their own light;
sharp lined
and
lightening cut,
by which old truth
assumes
the beauty
of the new
and
Mother Earth
eden breathes
again,
if only for a
moment.

Their rain,
drilling down,
brooks no opposition,
gives no quarter,
and must be
simply received
and submitted to,
while abandoning
any pretense
at shelter
or even
flight,
and then,
if yielded to,
births
joy
of
spirit.

In their
thundering
they bring us
the gift
of
a child's
sacred silence;
awe, fear and
newborn wonder,
in one
ecstasy of
being,
leveling all
with the
remembering
of our true
littleness
now
Illumed again
by
storm light.

So do not
fear the storm,
whether
sky or soul
born,
but welcome it,
with open arms
and heart
as heaven sent
and grace gifted,
the winds
and clouds
that
thunder truth
and
join our skies
to earth
in jagged
strike of
light,
revealing,
of a sudden,
the sharp gold
of
wisdom
as we breathe again
the
rich truth smell
of earth
after
rain.

First Postings... A window on wisdom

In nomine Domini +

May the Lord give you His Peace!
(The greeting of St. Francis)

So here we go...

I have been thinking about doing this for a while.
Many people have been asking for it so hopefully that is a sign that it is needed, or at least wanted.

Mostly I am a "facebook friar", (also an occasional Twitter-er and Instagrammer), however most of those formats work best with short form posts that tend to be reactive, ie someone posts something, you in turn post something else in response...and so on and so forth...

What is often missing is space to be a little more reflective... (a little more mindful even)... that would allow longer form postings that may invite me into deeper reflectivity and that may invite you into the same... should you choose to join me here occasionally...

Hopefully the blog will prove to be a space for reflecting, for sharing insights and wisdom gathered along the way and maybe even a smile or two...My hope is that it will also be a window into the Christian Contemplative Tradition, particularly as practiced in the Capuchin Franciscan way... a way of openess, depth, beauty and joy... and a place where everyone, (regardless of their tradition and belief systems) will be respectfully welcomed and listened to...

Anyway, welcome aboard...

Oh, and please excuse the state of the place... still decorating...
(just moved in... you know how it is...)