Transfiguration

A meditation poem for the feast of the Transfiguration

Transfigured

Slowly, 

now, 

upon 

the branch 

and 

bramble 

the bloom 

becomes 

the berry,

fruit filled 

with the 

sweetness 

of

condensed 

light,

a burst of 

warmth

upon the tasting

tongue,

the harvest joy 

of 

summer sun’s

revealing.

On the 

land 

we gather in 

the gold, 

sky sown,

and silent

grown,

the 

riches 

of soil 

and bough, 

swollen 

and heavy

with pregnant 

possibilities 

as the 

womb of earth 

ripens 

beneath 

the 

blessing 

of 

gold and silver 

lights.

Though 

the year 

in her 

ever-whirling 

dance 

tilts now 

towards 

darkness, 

we keep the 

festivals 

of light,

kindling the 

fire of story

around our 

hearth,

singing 

the soul 

songs

that will keep 

the lamps of

faith lit,

dancing 

at dawn

and dusk

along the 

edges of light

after the

long day’s 

gathering in.

So we are 

transfigured

once again,

lights 

kindled

and 

illumined

by 

the divine

fire 

that dwells

always

in the heart 

of things;

the

uncreated light

by whose

benediction 

all arise 

from

darkness,

the One

who gives 

fruit,

berry,

seed,

ear,

the fiery 

spark 

of their 

transforming 

power;

for what 

are we

all,

but 

light

consuming 

light,

becoming 

ever 

brighter,

until the

divine

day

dawns

and on

the summit

we see 

anew 

the 

joy of

our heart’s

gathering

burn gold

and 

harvest light

as

over

our first 

fruits

of offering

the Son

rises.

Transfiguration Day 2018

Forest Faith

 Forest Faith

When the edges of my mind fray,

and the golden sacred thread 

seems pulled, gathered, caught 

upon the briar of my broken being,

and my hearthome holds too much

behind its ancient doors 

so there is no breathing space at all,

I take myself to the woods.

For there I become not young,

but small again and feel the rising 

ocean tides of sap lull me at last

into the deep greening rest of soul 

only the old tall ones know 

the sky touchers, earth drinkers 

we call in our dull infant speech, so simply, Trees.

So I place my foot upon the winding path

and dew the way with tears 

and sometimes even blood,

until their windleaf song sounds soul deep, and slows and halts me long enough 

to feel their verdant canopy of calm,

and I greet them then,

as the keepers of the way they are;

the blessed Beech and noble Holly,

the Oak and Ash and Thorn, 

grey brown brothers and sisters 

of the branching dance of being. 

Their familiar oldness a reminder 

of my passing place 

in all this; they leaflean down 

to teach me once again 

the way of prayer as being 

and being as prayer,

allowing the holy breath to play along my spine as within their trunked tallness

while standing through the shifting seasons

they grow slowly, imperceptibly, always,

until flower and fruiting follow in their turn,

then the seeming fall, 

asleep asunder for awhile,

as my life now flutters, cast upon the winds

lost in wildness, a wintered leaf, 

dry and brittle, 

but here in their stately shadows

daring to read the scripture of their state, 

and hear their prophecy proclaimed in stillness; that old roots dig deep 

and deeper still, 

that branches bend so not to break and 

that there is a joy in storms when yielded to.

So for a while I breathe the sylvan air 

and greet the great and green,

these guardians of natural grace,

and then when I have walked long enough to become reminded, rewilded and 

rehomed in heart, I bow in thanks 

and leave the woods to plant their sainted seeds throughout my world and life;

to feel a forest grow within

and make the faith feathered one

a home.

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!

Meditation for Midsummer’s Eve

I post this for Midsummer’s Eve each year and each year it seems more true for all of us… the blessing is in the paradox!

The Paradox of Presence; 

a Meditation for Midsummer's Eve

Here I am Lord;

I am a passing shadow

I am a breath on the edge of being

I am a body of dust and ashes

I am a child of earth

I am from nothing

I am only ever almost

I am a ripple in the pool of life

I am a whisper in the silence

I am lost in time

I am unfulfilled yearning

I am a distorted reflection

I am delusion

I am desire

I am for now

And yet,

Here I am Lord;

I am made in your image

I am growing into your likeness

I am an idea in the Divine mind

I am called forth from nothingness

I am an exhalation of love

I am a child of God

I am an eternal soul

I am a word spoken by the Word

I am the temple of the Divine

I am from Being itself

I am called by name

I am held in being by Love

I am interpenetrated by light

I am sustained by pure attention

I am healed by Divine Compassion

I am redeemed by Mercy

I am for eternity

And so, I answer once again

caught in the pain of paradox,

on this point between the

shortest night

and the longest day:

Here I am Lord;

To be light in the shadows

To be your breath of love

To be the place where Being heals being

To be the moment where time touches Eternity

To be the voice who speaks the word into the silence

To be the torch aflame in the darkness

To be the temple of Divine encounter

To be the emptiness without absence

To be the call to compassion

To be the wound that heals

To be the child of heaven and the child of earth

To be in time and dwell in eternity

To live my I am in the I AM

To lose all so as to find all in you.

So,

Here I am Lord;

journeying from nothing to something

journeying from darkness to light

journeying from emptiness to fullness

by

journeying from something to no-thingness 

journeying from light to light so bright it blinds and darkens my still too earthly sight

journeying from fullness to emptiness of being...

Here I am Lord;

a pilgrim on this paradox path

lost and found 

and lost again

but with faith in the finding always...

and on this night of edges and shadows and barely there darkness 

I surrender to the 

silence of the Word

and simply say with open hands and 

broken heart,

Here 

I

am

Lord.

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.)

.

SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018

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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.

A Franciscan Litany for Corpus Christi

 An old one (from 2014) for the day that's in it: 

A Franciscan litany for Corpus Christi : 

The feast of the Body & Blood of the Lord.

Sacrament of the Poverty of God: 

Make us poor from the giving of ourselves

Sacrament of the Emptiness of God: 

Empty us of ourselves that we may be filled

Sacrament of the Littleness of God: 

Make us know our smallness in joy

Sacrament of the Silence of God: 

Invite us to dwell in your silence always

Sacrament of the goodness of God in creation: 

Make us reverent before You in all your creatures.

Sacrament of the mercy of God: 

Make us merciful to all and to ourselves

Sacrament of the invisible God: 

Teach us to seek your presence always

Sacrament of the marriage feast: 

Invite us into the embrace of infinite love

Sacrament of Remembrance: 

Teach us to remember You always

Sacrament of the Humility of God: 

Teach us the way of humility.

Sacrament of the Real Presence: 

Teach us to be really present to our brothers and sisters in their need.

Mary our mother, 

vestment of God, 

and first tabernacle of the Most High,

teach us the way of silent love, 

the deepest contemplation, 

and the opening of the heart 

as a dwelling place for God.

The Surfacing of Summer

In gratitude for peaceful Summer evenings...

The Surfacing of Summer:

At last,

the tide of Summer

turns.

And the land,

like a great grey whale, 

sudden surfacing

from the deep of

winter's waters

into sunshine's seas

feels the waves 

of warmth,

white tipped with

tree blossom 

foam,

call her

into blessed breaching

and joyous 

jumping.

Singing her wild

whale song

of summer in every 

form of

flower

she charms us 

who chase 

light,

and spouts 

the fragrance 

of the 

Summer Kingdom into 

hearts

that remember a 

home

once lost 

and longed for, 

and now, 

lilting

lovingly draws

lo,

in each 

lauds

praising

of love's 

eternal

conquest.

Basking in 

blessedness,

she becomes the 

Summer Isle,

on which we shivering 

sailors

pitch up and 

recover 

rest,

while white birds 

soar

above her in blue

and lift our souls

skywards

once

more

to the stillness

of stars

in a summer's

night sky,

offering their 

divinely

ordered dance

above the 

phosphorescent 

flash

of mountaintop flukes,

tipped 

with the golden 

sheen

of last 

light's touch 

of love.

Sunday of the Most Holy Trinity

 The feast of mystery... Sunday of the Most Holy Trinity... Symbols and Signs of which abound everywhere...

'Wherever you are, in every place, at every hour,

at every time of the day, every day and continually,

let all of us truly and humbly believe, hold in our heart an

love, honour, adore, serve, praise and bless,

glorify and exalt, magnify and give thanks to the

Most High and Supreme Eternal God

Trinity and Unity.

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Creator of all! Saviour of all!

Who believe and hope in Him, and love Him, Who, without

beginning and end, is unchangeable, invisible, indescribable, ineffable,

incomprehensible, unfathomable, blessed, praiseworthy,

glorious, exalted, sublime, most High, gentle, lovable, delightful, and,

totally desirable above all else, for ever and ever. Amen' 

St Francis of Assisi

Saturday thoughts for May

 Thoughts for a Saturday of May...

Rosary

Unite 

bead with 

breath 

and being

so

awareness 

appears.

Inspiration 

ignites

Love's 

luminescence 

as

mysteries 

manifest 

in

meditation

with

the

Mother

and

then,

in heat of

Heart's 

hearth,

warmed by 

wonder,

the seed of 

silence

long planted 

in

prayerful 

possibility 

grows 

greatly

until,

in

sacred 

stillness,

the

red rose

buds,

and,

blooms

blessing.

(Pic uncredited on web)

Moon Memories

 For Sister Moon who rose so beautiful and full last night...

Moon Memories:

Once,

the Moon followed 

me home,

I know, 

because I watched her 

out the back window of the car.

Occasionally slipping 

behind trees or buildings

like a secret agent,

she kept up with us

effortlessly, 

as I strained against

the straps of my seat

to meet her gaze.

I felt her interest

and her smile,

happy to have made

a new friend.

Once, 

not afraid of the night,

but of the day 

that would follow,

I was invited 

by my Mother

to gaze on the Moon

outside our house,

and greet her as

Our Lady’s lamp

protecting all,

guiding all home,

wisdom

passed down

from her Father,

whom I had never met,

but always felt 

I knew.

He loved the Moon too,

she said.

There is hereditary

of the heart,

as well as of the blood,

it seems.

To this day

I miss her calls

that would begin always 

with

Have you seen the Moon

tonight?

For I cannot look up

at the Moon

without looking

within

too.

Once,

I spent the night

in a wood made pure

silver 

by her presence,

and felt the life in every thing

stir and sing

and dance

in a wild celebration

that is hidden from

the day.

I sat stone still

and watched 

Foxes play

about me

and a Badger

pass by like an ancient sage

busy on his own quest,

and I believed 

in magic again 

by her light.

Once,

I remember her

daytime ghost

appearing during the 

long drawn out days

of dry schooling,

and seeing her

still serenity

so far above

the awfulness

of that age

made me breathe out

a breath 

I did not even know

I had been holding

on to for years.

She felt like a friend

checking in.

We greeted each other 

then,

as we do to this day,

each noticing the other

in the blessed acceptance

of being.

Once,

Sick and fevered I rose

gasping in the middle 

of a winter’s night

and pulled back the curtain

to find her shining

over snow so newly fallen

that not a flake 

had been disturbed,

but glowed in her gaze 

cascading in curves

over a street I knew 

but saw again

for the first time,

now softened 

by snowlight’s reflection

of her blessed touch. 

I looked and looked

at this gracious gift

of enchantment’s echo

until I felt I was being 

looked at in turn

and blessed too.

In the morning,

I woke,

well.

Once,

I walked the pier

between my parents

on the night before

I left to follow

the path.

We watched her rise 

together,

in silence 

and listened to a mandolin

playing in the distance.

We did not have to speak,

the Moon sang for us,

soul songs only we could hear.

Always remember this night,

they said later.

As if I could 

do anything 

else?

Once,

Feeling bereft and lost

I caught sight of her

rising over a strange city

(Though I remember her, 

and the feelings, 

but not the city it was.)

and I did not feel lost 

anymore

How could you be lost

when you are always

under her graced gaze?.

How could you be alone

when everyone you know

and love is beneath her blessing

too?

I asked myself.

Once, 

I saw her,

loom so large

as to almost 

be alarming,

bedecked in harvest

gold and heavy seeming,

she lit the land beneath

so beautifully 

that the cattle on the hills

cried out to her, 

and the birds began their chorus

for a dawn 

that was yet hours away.

I danced in her light 

that night,

beneath the trees,

a slow sandaled

shuffle of monkish sort,

and bowed deeply 

as she passed.

How could you not?

When all around 

and within

was 

psalming

celebration

of her compline

completeness.

Once,

I watched her rise 

sickle sharp

over Assisi.

As though making manifest

the unseen divine smile

hanging in the air

over this holy place

where joy was married

to peace in the song

of brother-sisterhood.

I smiled back and felt

the saint smile too

behind it all

and wondered what

his long silent nights

of prayer

must have been like,

measured only by her dance 

across the sky

slowly revealing her face

to him,

as grace comes gently 

to fill us

only as we empty,

and so seem

to disappear 

into divine darkness

just like 

her.

For the May Full Flower Moon tonight

 The May Full Flower Blood Super Moon tonight so this one calls me....

The Path of Lady Moon.

Will you take 

the old path 

of 

the Moon?

The path 

of poetry 

and prayer;

of myth, 

and magic,

of beauty, 

and blessing,

known only to 

monks, 

and mages,

and mystics,

and mothers,

and those who 

keep the vigil

of the long small hours?

Will you sit 

beneath 

her 

golden benediction

and receive her gift of 

stillness,

as you watch her dissolve 

into emptiness 

monthly? 

Will you let her 

teach you,

and all upon

this heart harried Earth, 

to trust

in Resurrection?

Will you bask 

in her 

pure light,

that invites 

you across 

the ocean of dream

to read 

the sacred circles 

of her 

graced Gospel

inscribed by angelic art

upon her

pale pure visage,

long before 

she smiled upon 

those sleeping spouses,

newly named,

and vigilled Eden's first 

dew drenched dawn?

Will you allow 

her light

to illume your life 

with the

silent music

of the forest

when, 

vested in deepest

midnight

and filigreed

in silver, 

the leaves dance in

the liturgy

of life and offer 

their

praise in whispered

choir?

Will you let her shining

tears

wash you in their tides

and beckon you 

to walk upon

the waves from 

storm to still,

as once she shone 

upon His face

and lit His way upon 

the waters?

Will you take 

the old path of 

the Moon,

and touch there the holy 

footprints 

of the Mother 

and the Maiden

and the Queen,

whose orb she proudly is,

in royal resplendence

hung beneath her 

mantled might

and starry crown,

and find

remembrance 

there of 

all that is

and was 

and will be,

in the embrace 

of a mother

and her

son,

as the first 

gift of grace.

Look up and see

my brother,

Look up and see

my sister,

the soul sky is never 

so dark,

that

the old path of the Moon,

the path of blessing,

always ancient 

and ever new,

may not 

be taken

nightly.

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.

May Thoughts

              May Thoughts:

Even our sister Mother Earth speaks of the Heavenly Mother often and keeps her ever before us for those with eyes to see... a shadow of stone, a shape in the clouds, an angle in the crook of a tree, a turning of the head or the rising and falling of the light, these are the sermons of the earth and they always reveal her. In these gentle whisperings she is always near... always watching over us... always leading us to her Son... always calling us home... always calling us into the embrace of the sacred totality of her yes to God.

Holy Wonder

Holy Wonder

If you would 

be holy;

begin 

with wonder.

Go to 

the edge

places,

where sky 

and sea 

meet,

kiss,

and yield 

to 

each other 

their

horizon's touch

in shades 

of blue

and green

and grey;

gifting you 

with grace 

to be lost in

awe;

loose at last 

from

all your

wandering 

thoughts.

If you would 

be holy;

begin 

with wonder.

Go to 

the wild 

places;

the untamed 

lands, 

where eden's 

song

echoes still 

between the rocks, 

behind the trees, 

beneath the waves,

in the sighing 

of 

the breeze;

there, hear again 

the song of 

longing 

in your own 

heart,

your part 

in 

creation's chorus,

as loud as 

thunder,

as soft as snow 

falling 

on snow.

If you would 

be holy;

begin 

with wonder.

Go to 

the slow 

places 

where 

darkness 

becomes 

light 

as day 

emerges 

from

dawn, 

and dusk 

from 

day. 

Sit with 

the 

gentle 

shifting 

of the 

light, 

see the 

stability 

of its 

circadian 

dance. 

Watch 

moonrises 

and 

sunsets,

set your 

soul 

aflame again 

with 

star fire,

entering deeply 

into the

rainbowed 

covenant

of dawn.

If you would 

be holy;

begin 

with wonder.

Go to 

the ancient 

places,

and there, 

rest 

in the 

inner knowing

of your 

youth;

however 

old 

you call 

yourself,

tree 

and stone 

and sky

long lived 

before you

and

will live long 

after 

you leave.

If you would 

be holy;

begin 

with wonder.

Go to 

the inner 

places

of your own

being;

bow down

before the 

flame of 

presence

dwelling 

divinely

in your 

soul.

Come 

to the 

knowing

of 

your true name

within 

the Name;

with each 

breath

be breathed 

into the 

fullness 

of 

being

in awe, 

in delight,

in the 

graced 

gratitude

of love.

If you would 

be holy,

always 

begin 

with 

wonder.

Rosary

 Saturday thoughts for May:

Rosary

Each

day 

dawns;

a 

bead 

strung 

upon

the cord 

of 

life.

Heart holding 

safe 

within

it

a gift of

joy 

or 

sorrow,

glory 

or 

illumination,

but always,

love;

as my

little mystery

loses

self in her

greater

mystery

of 

love's 

libation

poured out

purely

in

prayer.

Her yes

inviting 

always 

a

deeper

circling 

of 

the

chaplet 

of our 

days

until life 

and 

Divine Life

become 

one 

again;

then

mothered 

into

meaning,

wombed

into

wonder,

birthed

into

being

finally,

in faith's

long

fruition,

from our

thorny

heart

a rose

blooms.

(Artist unknown)

The Path of Pebbles

The Path of  Pebbles

At dawn

each day 

begin

again

by

lifting 

the pebble 

of the 

moment.

Hold it 

with the

full awareness 

of your

senses.

Warm it 

with 

your breath,

as you smooth 

its surface

with 

compassion's

touch.

Then,

as dusk 

descends,

place it 

gently

on the 

cairn of 

experience.

Let it 

settle

there

until,

silently,

the 

deep 

rich 

moss

of Wisdom

grows,

and

Divine Love

enters,

building anew

the 

temple

of your 

being.

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

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