Holding on to the beads

Saturday Thoughts: hold on to the beads.

These are Rosaries that were made by Catholic prisoners in Nazi concentration camps.

They made them from bread and thread from their clothes.

They made them from bread.

They were starving and they gave up their tiny rations of bread to make the beads.

They were freezing and they took threads from their clothes.

They made Rosaries knowing that to be found with them meant a beating, torture or even death.

But they held on to the beads.

They held on because they knew that to hold on to the beads is to hold on to the hand of the Mother.

They held on knowing that not even the power of hell can cut the cords of love between the Blessed Mother and her people.

They held on to the beads knowing she was with them in her pain and in her sorrow and that she would be with them always.

They held on to the beads when Mass was impossible and the Church looked like it would never live again.

They held on to the beads as a witness to the power of faith, of hope and of love to light the darkest of times.

They held on to the beads and their testimony speaks to us down the ages.

Whatever you are going through… hold on to the beads… 

Your Mother is holding on to you.

Feast of the Immaculate Heart

Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary:

We may say the Incarnation first took place in Mary's heart, before it took place in her womb, for her heart, the centre of her being, was that place that had, from the first moment of her existence, been the tabernacle of the Most High and the place in which dwelt the Holy Spirit so fully that the Angel could name her full of Grace. It was from her heart that Mary assented to the request of the Angel and it was with the heart of a mother that she conceived and bore her Son, and it was her heart, united to her Son's sacred heart, that participated in His sacrifice on behalf of humankind. 

It is Mary who in her loving acceptance of the Angel's message gave Jesus the gift of our humanity... The Sacred Heart was formed in the Womb of His Mother out of the Loving "Yes" of her Immaculate Heart.

Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us!

As Mother Teresa used to pray, 

"O Mary, give me your Heart: so beautiful, so pure, so immaculate; your Heart so full of love and humility that I may be able to receive Jesus in the Bread of Life and love Him as you love Him and serve Him in the distressing guise of the poor."

The Inner Mysteries of the Visitation

 

The Inner Mysteries of the Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth...

A Contemplative Breathing...

There are so many mysteries to be meditated upon in this most beautiful of feasts where the Divine Mysteries are revealed in the most earthly and earthy of moments and places. Two women, blood cousins, elder and younger meet across the generations in the wilderness of the hill country and in the common holding of the mysterious gift of new life, and so much is gifted to us in their meeting…

For the Visitation is the feast of Mary as the Apostle of love as Charity; 

Charity: the love that goes out, that actively seeks the other who is in need and feels the need of the other as its own need. In its ministering to the other in love becomes love even more so in itself… Mary, full of grace, full of the life of God, has only just heard her own call and yet responds immediately to the impulse to care for another… She leaves immediately and with great haste we are told, for love as charity brooks no delay. She will give the first three months of her own flowering to tending the garden of her cousin Elizabeth and helping her prepare for the birth of John… She thinks not of herself or even of the enormity of the miracle that has just been accomplished in her. In the need of her cousin for support she hears the call of God just as surely as she heard it in the words of the Archangel.

May Mary call us from our own self absorption to the Charity that generates life.

For the Visitation is the feast of the call to Spiritual Midwifery:

Mary as midwife to her Cousin… What a beautiful picture… The Archangel tells her that her cousin is six months into her journey towards birth and the scripture tells us that Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months. Could we possibly believe that Mary left Elizabeth alone for the birth of John? Of course not…for in her midwifery of Eilzabeth she is midwifing the mystery of the birth of the Old Testament Covenant into its new life its fulfilment in the one, John, who holds in himself both the lineages of the prophets and the priesthood, and who on Jordan’s banks will lay them down in homage before the Lamb from whom they first came on Sinai’s height to Moses. 

May Mary midwife the birth in us of our own calling to birth Christ in our own life and in each moment.

For the Visitation is the feast of the mysteries of Woman…

In Mary coming to Elizabeth to care for her and serve her, God in Mary is coming to one who represents all of the mysteries of womanhood… Elizabeth had traversed all of the stages of life, she had been a girl, a young woman, a single young woman who held royal and priestly lineages in her descent and yet lived the life of a poor woman in a land oppressed by foreign occupation where it was dangerous to be a woman alone, where it was simply dangerous to be a woman at all… She had been shamed and excluded by her own people and even by other women for not fitting in, for not becoming what she was supposed to be. She had been labelled as barren, seen as cursed and as even carrying the possibility of cursing others. In Zechariah she knew the pain of loving someone but not being able to give them what they truly want… All of this pain she knew. Yet she never doubted the love of God for her or that His love would eventually bloom in her in a surprising way… Zechariah, the man and the priest doubts the Angel’s word and is struck dumb… Elizabeth, the woman, believes and bears the word of prophecy recognising in Mary the One who is blessed among women and then asks astonished “Who am I that the Mother of my Lord would come to visit me?” Who are you Elizabeth? You are Woman and God will always want to be with you and your heart that believes past man’s un-believing and He comes to you in His Mother, clothing Himself in Woman as His vestment, to reveal to you His love for you so that you may remember for ever His nearness to you in your very womanhood in every generation.

May Mary draw near to all Women and open their eyes to their intimate place in the Divine Mysteries.

For the Visitation is the feast of the mysteries of Motherhood:

In the holy encounter of Mary and Elizabeth we are reminded that all of the life that flows through the veins of humanity begins in the womb of women as they co-operate with God in the creation of life… so important is this lesson that the Divine Word Himself decrees He will incarnate only through a Mother’s yes. There is no apostle, no prophet, no saint, and we can even say in awe, no Christ, who did not come from Woman. Mary journeys through the wilderness of the high country, the hill country, the place of fear and wildness and in her Divine Motherhood she tames it. And mother Earth, long sundered from Man, finds that God walks in her garden again in Mary as mother. In her silent journeying there and back again she allows the silence of motherhood, the silent and intimate communion of Mother and child to prepare the way of the Word. She is with the Wild and the Wild receives its new Eve who carries the new Adam in awe and reverence and enfolds her contemplation in the silence of sunrises, sunsets, moonlight and star light as she travels. For everything that we will receive from Christ as a Man He received from Mary and everything that we receive from Christ as God we receive through Mary… For her mother’s yes will be just as present in the temple, in Cana, on the roads of Palestine, and on Golgotha’s height as it is in this silent journey…  

May Mary call us to reverence and respect for the mysteries of the Mother…

For the Visitation is the first feast of the Holy Eucharist:

Does this astonish you that this feast would hold in itself the echo of the greatest of God’s gifts to humanity? Mary is the first tabernacle of the Lord and she bears Christ within her in the most holy of communions as she travels. Elizabeth then becomes the first Eucharistic adorer as her wise faith beholds the inner mystery beyond the veils of sense and in her adoration receives the gift of not just her own hallowing but the hallowing of the new life that joyously jumps within her. So too when we dwell in communion with the Bread of Life is the new life of His grace quickened in us and the word of prophecy born, as contemplation begets the call to action and from silence psalm erupts in magnifying praise. And from praise we fall back into silence in the  heart-knowing know that every moment of Holy Communion begins from Mary's yes to the Divine Mystery of Love.

May Mary call us to the mystery that lies behind the veils of sense and into ever deeper communion with the One who is our Eucharistic Lord. 

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.

Our Lady of Pentecost; the Feast of Fire

 A meditation poem for today’s feast; Mary Mother of the Church, Our Lady of Pentecost

The Feast of Fire

They came creeping, nine days hence,

Cowed and craven, so lately elated

then lost once again,

The Shepherd passing beyond the seeing of the flock.

So they shelter now, each one arriving, drawn back to the familiar

To the place before it all went wrong, 

To sanctuary, to cenacle, to supper room

Seeking a communion with Him who seems 

Withdrawn beyond the clouds of grief

Checking the locks as each arrives, 

Twelve enter and fast reseal the doors

Avoiding all eyes lest they remember and accuse

For even though absolved, the remembrance of their weakness 

Burns them still and makes them afraid.

So each takes their shadowed place and falls 

Exhausted into prayer as longing and lament,

For days seeming now lost, for nearness now only yearned for

As their fear and frantic flight comes at last to rest drawn divinely

To this place and more, gently pulled into the orbit 

Of she who is the still centre of the room, of the world, 

Of all that is made, and whose very presence is prayer, 

Is participation in oneness, in mystery, in motherhood.

A green leaf on a long wintered tree, a veiled and hidden spark, 

A dark lantern bright with flame hidden 

From all as yet but on them luminous enough 

To draw them mothlike home again and calm their cowardice 

And grief with remembrance of a promise made, 

Of an advocate, a counsellor, a witness, a teacher, a friend who follows.

So, resting in her graced gaze they sit

Until at last, empty of expectation, they touch the holy quiet 

Where grief becomes grace and the doors of the soul 

At last burst the bolts of pride to creak open and wait, 

Watching as farmers and fisherfolk both gaze upon the sky 

Knowing, feeling in their bones the first stirring of a change

Which comes this day at dawn’s first touch, 

Beginning gentle as Elijah’s breeze,

Hardly noticed but for it’s waking in tired hearts 

And souls the remembrance of gilded childhood memories, 

Of first kisses, favourite foods and strains of soul songs heard 

On the very edge of sleep,

So subtle that they feel only the change of air 

Upon their skin; or is it simply 

The first stirring of hope in hearts who ache for absence?

Now a rustling is heard, around, about, within 

As, despite their shuttered darkness

The gloom appears to lift, and in a predawn glow

They see each others faces for the first time again

Then a wind begins to catch and lift the settled sad dust of days 

Bring with it the sudden bright blessing of recall of Him 

Who called them once, and calls again and will ever call, 

Until they answer as apostles and know in Him their life and love anew.

And looking up they see now sparks, begin to fall as light as feathers from the breast Of some gentle bird who hovers over the chaotic waters 

Of their tears and restores to order their broken hearts 

Now split and open, raw and ready to receive the revelation.

Roaring then the Spirit comes, the crimson dove become a phoenix 

In pyre pinioned flighting gale, 

Now a whirlwind, a hurricane, a breath of power, 

Fiery and flaming descending from on high, 

Surrounding and filling each and all, consuming conflagration,

remaking and renewing they become a burning bush of revelation, 

A flaming brand, a gospelled sword, their once frightened hearts 

And tongues of twelve now forged anew in fire

And in their midst the One who is the holy mountain 

Shines Sinai like and is revealed herself 

As Queen and Spouse of Glory, crowned with living fire, 

The Ark of God made manifest unveiled.

Full of flame they erupt out onto the waking street their fiery eyes and hearts

Sparking understanding in all who hear, for fire knows no boundaries, 

Needs no dialects but speaks the spirit word from burning heart to heart reversing babel’s curse and shines now brightly

Upon this birthday, burnday, blessed new beginning day, 

When humankind beheld the fiery glory of their God at last 

Not upon a distant mountain but now and evermore within the heart, the breath, the flame tipped tongue where the burning Dove now dwells and for those who will surrender all remakes them too to become, 

Always, fire.

Our Lady of Fatima

Today is the 104th anniversary of the first apparition of Our Lady at Fatima to the three shepherd children Lucia, Jacinta and Franceso which culminated in the miracle of the sun in October 1917 witnessed by thousands. All over the world today is a day of celebration and thanksgiving as we remember that our heavenly mother never abandons us but returns again and again to show that she is beside each of us guiding us home and protecting us from evil. The Holy Father Pope Francis when in Fatima celebrated the presence of Our Lady who calls her children to true peace in her Son. 

She is the Woman wrapped in the Sun who points the way to the Son! 

She is the Woman of Peace calling all to the Gospel way of conversion and joy! 

She is our Queen and Mother always! 

Our Lady of Fatima, Queen of the Rosary, pray for us always that we be made worthy of the promises of Christ +

O my Jesus forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls to Heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy! Amen. 

(Pic1 is of the Shrine of Our Lady of Fatima in Church St. Friary Dublin with thanks to @bridestreetchurch for pics 2,3. Pic 4 is of a very special crucifix that was sent as a profession gift many years ago, blessed by Sr. Lucia, one of the Fatima Visionaries.)

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.

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 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.

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.

The Unknown Joy of Mary

 The Unknown Joy of Mary

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

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

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

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

Mary's Reunion.

The stone rolled off,

And no one saw it.

Her heart was jubilant

And full of ecstasy.

She knew that a sea of joy

Would flow out of the sea of sorrow;

Although it would 

Recede to sorrow again

 

She could remember

Being born in the midst of

God the Father,

And being created

Before creation.

Did She truly watch

Light come out of darkness?

Did she see shores

Come into being?

It seemed you could play

See-saw on a wave!!

 

She never moved.

Quietly and closed in a room,

She sat behind a door

That no one dared to open,

And looked upon the streets

Of her beloved Jerusalem,

Watching the crowds

Hurrying hither and yon;

Watching, and not seeing at all;

For the sea of sorrow

Was receding

Into the desert

Where seas go;

And she was playing

See-saw on a wave

Made by God.

 

He touched death

For an instant – 

Abolished it forever,

And it became

An angel of surpassing beauty;

For whom men of faith

Would wait with bated breath;

Death hasn’t icy fingers at all

They are warm – 

The fingers of the angel of love.

The ice, the cold, the decay

That is for men of earth to see;

For their eyes are not conditioned

To the resplendent state of the

Soul.

 

She knew

He was not dead forever;

Not one bone would decay.

He slept, quietly, obediently,

In the tomb;

For He was obedient

Even after death.

 

But when they rolled

The stone before the tomb

He was free to roam;

To come, to go

To be

Where all those years

He could not be

Or could show Himself.

 

Out of the tomb

To hell,

To bring joyous news;

Then, like a man

Would visit

In a pilgrimage of love,

The places that made His heart

Beat faster

As a man.

When She had held His cold-warm

Body

She trembled

With the joy of it – 

Knowing He would come

To visit Her first

The Magdalene would be the next

To see Him. 

 

So She sat alone

With the door closed – 

They thought to grieve

But no! To wait.

Who was there to see

Or hear what passed?

Who was there to know

The glory

Of music born in that room?

The Music of His voice and Hers

Mingling as voices

Never did before.

 

"Share in one of my unknown joys.”

 

“He came to Me

In my chamber,

My Son!

My Lover!

And overflowing rapture

Condensed in utter ecstasy

Filled Me again.

“It was as if

I had conceived anew,

For all my being

Felt His coming.

The room pulsated

With the beat 

Of angels’ wings

But even the seraph’s eyes

Were sealed.

Not even they

Could look then

Upon the Mother and the Son

And so they chanted

Alleluias.

 

“Did you know that I,

The first stigmatic,

Had the wounds?

It happened simply,

Perhaps He was two or three,

Perhaps, I am not sure.

It is hard 

for one who encompasses

eternity

to think in time.

One day He was playing

At My feet,

And suddenly

Like a little swallow

He kissed each foot.

The wounds began to throb.

 

“At seven or eight

He kissed each palm,

Lingeringly.

And I knew

The feel of nails.

 

“He came once

In early spring,

On a shiny sunny day.

His hands were full of flowers.

He sat on a small stool

And wove a crown for Me.

I knew the weight 

Of thorns

Upon my head.

 

“In May, in your land,

Children repeat His gesture.

It brings back the memory

Of thorns, sweet, deep, sharp.

 

“He was a suckling at My breast.

One night,

Somehow, His face fell

From My nipples;

And His warm mouth touched my side.

Was it a kiss?

Was it a lance?

From that blest night

The pain was there

Never to go.

 

“So you must know 

My unknown joy,

The rendezvous We held – 

My Son and I – 

The night they thought

They had sealed His tomb

So tight.

Where do you think

He went?

He went to the place

He loves most in Palestine – 

The room of His Mother.

 

“Wonders will never cease!!

The room was aflame;

For where My Son is,

There is My spouse,

The Crimson Dove

Who holds Me tight.

The angels’ wings

Made melody of strings

As they chanted their 

Alleluias

In a circle of bliss,

And He sat at My feet

And I looked into His eyes – 

Above to below.

 

“The Crimson Dove

Brought the flame of love;

And the Father was there

Unseen, jubilant, joyous,

Taking delight in His Son.

And as He did,

The Crimson Dove grew,

And a flame covered the earth.

Alleluia

Alleluia

Alleluia.

 

“The stone was still tight

On the tomb of My child 

Who was with Me.

 

“I give you the Paschal gift.

Put out your hands

And take it to your heart

This is the night of joy!

Alleluia!

I am an 

Alleluia

In the flesh

Tonight.”

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

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

 An older one for the last Saturday before Holy Week:

The Meeting on the Way.

I do not think it happened as the pictures show;

the woman swooning into the arms of John,

or held back and cowed by soldiers' spears.

No. 

That is not the way a mother 

is present to a dying child. 

I have stood at the deathbed 

of too many not to know.

No one could hold back a mother

who saw death in the eyes of her son.

Believe me when I tell you

whether in the dusty streets 

or the sterile hospital room

this is how it happens, by and large.

The men?  

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

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

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

The swooning and the wailing happen only after 

the final stillness comes.

So it must have been then too.

In that moment of their meeting 

I see a sphere of silence envelope them there,

the sanctuary of their communion 

so present, so profound

that all the chaotic pain of mobbing noise 

seems just for a moment to cease around them both, 

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

She had seen Him safely into the world 

and now she will see him safely out of it,

even though nature rebels in the hearts of all parents

who see death in the face of their child.

Even though the ever present sword 

buries itself deeper, 

always deeper into her heart

with every breath. 

She knows its pain well. 

It had begun the moment the angel left.

Even in Nazareth days it was present, 

a shadow overhanging, 

present in every childish cut and bruise and tear 

soothed upon her knee,

and held at bay by love.

Did she remember in that moment the day 

he told her the time had come?

Her life was always yes to all that liberates life, 

as every woman’s is,

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

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

Now all she can do is be,

here,

now.

Present to Him who is 

in this moment more than ever 

simply a son in need of His mother

She will bear him now again into new life.

The pangs of this birth will 

touch death itself and conquer it,

as all birth does, and though 

this time the gate will be the heart,

the hidden womb, that sealed tabernacle, 

will weep also in pain. 

For now they simply gaze, a moment, an eternity 

before which even angels hide their faces in shame. 

It is enough. 

He knows now she is with him.

He will see her at the end.

So He stumbles on

as on the breeze he is surrounded

by the scent of Nazareth:

wood dust, frankincense, fresh bread, 

and even in the street of pain He is

for a moment,

home.

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

Annunciation Thoughts

 Annunciation thoughts...

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

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

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

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

As the old verse put it so beautifully:

Maid that wed Divinity.

Clay that shaped Infinity.

Lady of the Trinity

Keep me in your heart.

Lady of Spring: Meditation Poem for the first day of March

 Meditation poem for the first day of March:

Lady of Spring 

O Lady 

of the 

Spring green,

of the first flower,

and the new leaf,

and the fruiting bud,

you whom the 

dogwood halos

and the 

hidden wren 

hymns,

remind us

of

the new life

of grace

that rests 

within us

seed like,

awaiting 

the gentle 

rain

of

mercy.

Saturday: Our Lady’s day

Saturday is always Our Lady’s day so for a little peaceful pause this beautiful reading from Saint Sophronius as given in the Office of Readings today is a wonderful meditation...

Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. What joy could surpass this, O Virgin Mother? What grace can excel that which God has granted to you alone? What could be imagined more dazzling or more delightful? Before the miracle we witness in you, all else pales; all else is inferior when compared with the grace you have been given. All else, even what is most desirable, must take second place and enjoy a lesser importance.

The Lord is with you. Who would dare challenge you? You are God’s mother; who would not immediately defer to you and be glad to accord you a greater primacy and honour? For this reason, when I look upon the privilege you have above all creatures, I extol you with the highest praise: Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. On your account joy has not only graced humanity, but is also granted to the powers of heaven.

Truly, you are blessed among women. For you have changed Eve’s curse into a blessing; and Adam, who hitherto lay under a curse, has been blessed because of you.

Truly, you are blessed among women. Through you the Father’s blessing has shone forth on humankind, setting them free of their ancient curse.

Truly, you are blessed among women, because through you your forebears have found salvation. For you were to give birth to the Saviour who was to win them salvation.

Truly, you are blessed among women, for without seed you have borne, as your fruit, him who bestows blessings on the whole world and redeems it from that curse that made it sprout thorns. 

Truly, you are blessed among women, because, though a woman by nature, you will become, in reality, God’s mother. If he whom you are to bear is truly God made flesh, then rightly do we call you God’s mother. For you have truly given birth to God.

Enclosed within your womb is God himself. He makes his abode in you and comes forth from you like a bridegroom, winning joy for all and bestowing God’s light on all.

You, O Virgin, are like a clear and shining sky, in which God has set his tent. From you he comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber. Like a giant running his course, he will run the course of his life which will bring salvation for all who will ever live, and extending from the highest heavens to the end of them, it will fill all things with divine warmth and with life-giving brightness.

Lourdes Light

A meditation poem for the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes

Lourdes Light

Here heaven 

is,

as cave yields 

darkness

to admit her light.

She,

who 

in her “Yes”

first

restored elemental 

balance;

earth, air, fire, water

re-unify 

here as

healing grace in 

her

presence.

Where she 

rests,

in cave's crook

roses now 

bloom,

candles kindle, 

and the world is 

gentled 

at her touch.

Where she 

stands,

springs fountain

faith forth

and cure

creation,

drawing venom's

poison

from the oldest of

wounds.

Where she 

is,

time stops

and enters 

Eternity's

grotto of

wombing

wonder

where,

bowing 

now,

we 

behold the

Divine blessing

of new

beginning,

Wisdom manifest

now as

Mother 

and Maiden

both.

Where she 

is,

He is,

who makes 

of her

person 

and point

in time 

and place

where

all that is 

broken

becomes

whole

and births

blessing

as

Bernadette

beckons

us

heavenward

home.

Portiuncula: For the Feast of St. Mary of the Angels

Portiuncula

All quiet he came, barefoot,
and brown as the leaves that
fell at his feet like blessings.
A wanderer in the woods;
this day, he had woken weary
and in his sitting stillness
felt the call to journey
further into wonder.
He had followed the bird songs
and slanted sun beams as signs,
listening with love to the lay
that seemed always to sing out
from every stone and leaf,
from every bird and beast,
calling him along the way,
until at last, and suddenly,
he stepped into that clearing
and saw so bright
in sudden Sun's appearing
the grey green mossy walls,
the tumbled stone,
the ruined chapel,
long forgotten by all
but Angels and Animals,
who often find in our withdrawal
a safer sanctuary
to keep their innocent vigil,
and psalm together in a harmony
our sin discordant voices can
no longer sing.
He stood there a moment,
as still as one who sees beyond
and knows himself a servant
of the flame that burns the bush
but consumes it not;
slowly understanding his draw to this place
within the deeper call, echoing resounding
once more in soul's song:
to rebuild the ruins,
firm the foundations,
and raise the roof of grace.
Kneeling now, he gently bows
and touches his forehead to the ground,
the holy cross is graven once again
upon his heart, and then he reaches
for a stone, long fallen from its place,
and kissing it with reverence for the gift
of the Mother it makes of itself,
he places it upon another,
and begins again to build the church of God.
That night, as lady Moon
crowned the new set stones with silver,
he lit the long dark lamps
before the face of one his heart
called Queen and Mother both,
and realised with joy
to whom this holy place belonged.
Standing he sings alone his nightly songs:
psalms, and hymns, and lovers lauds
to the Lady of his soul and then he sleeps,
this troubadour in his tumbledown temple.
Until in deepest dark he wakes with wonder
to find a new light all about him,
fairer than moonlight, gentler than stars,
emerging from these old sacred stones,
as all around the gathered sit
in serried rank, birds and beasts alike,
all watching for their
Lady's smile upon her lately sleeping servant.
Now roused he hears the heralds of heaven
sing their own music, alike to his
but deeper, greater, older, sweeter,
lifting his troubadour tunes
into the great song of heaven's hearing.
Lost in love and light he listens,
caught up in creation's hymn,
whose crowning Queen he knows
here now in her sanctuary by sight,
and sits where he,
her knight errant of the road,
had lately slept his labours off.
The music, never silenced, fades, a little,
and beckoning him to her side
she whispers words of such blessing
he cannot believe;
to his care this place is given,
his little portion it will be,
and to his brothers yet to come
also a reminder, an anchor
a place of refuge and renewal,
of beginning blessing,
and the promise of an ending
in the embrace of she who gathers
these poor scared sparrows
neath her mother's mantle
to gift them to her Son.
Then reaching forth,
the Lady touched his tired eyes,
and seeing now with heaven's gaze,
the ages fall about him
telling the tale of all the Friars who follow;
the Sisters too, will have here their birth beginning,
until an even greater forest grows
about this blessed place, planted in peace
and bearing joy as fruit,
born from the seed of Gospeled faith,
sheltering with blessed branch all beings
who seek the shade of pardon and long for peace.
He weeps then, this rebuilder of blessing,
long and loud is his lament,
his mourning for the early days misspent,
 declaring his deeds, he seeks
her departure from one so stained,
yet she, the Lady, smiles all the more,
lifts him up, calls him son,
as much her building
as the stony walls about them both.
Then with a swell of Angel song she leaves,
or at least is seen no more,
and the little brother
does the only thing he can,
as, with makeshift trowel in hand,
and weeping still,
he picks up another stone
from off the floor.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of the Angels of the Portiuncula, a foundational feast for all Franciscans throughout the world. It was at the little forest chapel, rebuilt with his own hands, that Francis founded the Order, dedicating it to Our Lady of the Angels, there he received the vows of the brothers and of St. Clare, spent much time in meditation and finally breathed out his soul to God... The little chapel remains the heart place of the Franciscan soul and is a place of blessing to this day.

The "pardon of Assisi" the plenary indulgence granted to St. Francis to honour this feast and title of Our Lady may be obtained by visiting any public church until midnight tonight, praying the Creed and the Our Father for the intentions of the Pope and receiving Sacramental Confession and Holy Communion within 7 days before or after the feast.