Assumption Eve Medicine: a meditation poem

Assumption Eve Medicine:

For two months turning 

the old women, 

they who have the knowing, 

have watched their charges carefully.

Picked at the height of their power

on the short night, after the long day;

the feast of fire, 

that vigils the Baptist’s coming,

when lads and ladies leap 

like hares over flames 

and look with longing for love, 

as children sing the old songs

filled with mystic meaning;

that night they were gathered 

as grace and gift 

beneath the light of sister Moon, 

the Lady’s lamp and plucked

from garden and from forest glade,

by woman’s hands alone.

Now, they, the herbs for healing, 

hang in blessed bunches 

over the hearth of home,

or kept in kitchens 

above the range, 

or bound in byres

where the warming breath 

of the queen kine keeps them

charmed and waiting 

to release their medicine,

the healing pulse 

of sister Mother Earth 

and Brother Sun’s distilled light

mixed, and married, and greened,

in root, and shoot, 

and leaf, and flower.

So they, the healing herbs, 

have rested until tonight

when as dusk comes on 

and begins to breathe her

autumnal quickening, 

these wise ones take them down

and bring them now 

to the old places of prayer

to the abbeys and chapels, 

to the candled shrines 

of the sainted ones,

who themselves bore 

the fruit of blessing 

and were heaven’s healing, 

the salve of souls,

upon the earth.

There they find 

the Lady’s chapel,

and lay their leafy burdens 

beneath the linen cloths

upon the Altar, there to await

Assumption’s dawn,

and as the Mass bells ring

to have the holy words

said over them that render

them thrice blessed again,

and ready to release their

gentle healing gifts,

blessed once in very being 

from first beginning’s breathing,

blessed twice in the burning 

touch of Love’s own resurrection light

when all was made anew,

blessed thrice by the Lady’s prayers,

she who is the stock from which

all healing blooms, 

and in her gathering home raised all

that grows green upon this good earth

to become heaven’s healing help again;

Eden’s elixir restored in her 

and birthed anew as grace,

just as these sainted herbs

ground upon the mortar’s stone 

will give their essence up,

and become the holy way 

by which their medicine 

blesses bodies and anoints 

our souls to ready us 

in our own time,

for Heaven’s

homing.

Vigil of the Assumption 14th August 2019

In many places it was the ancient custom for women to gather herbs around the feast of St. John the Baptist (Midsummer) and then bring them to the Churches for blessing on the feast of the Assumption before they were made into medicine for the Winter ahead. The herbs were placed beneath the Altar Cloths and around the Sanctuary before the dawn Mass there to be offered to the Lord, through Mary’s hands, she who is the “first fruits” of His saving love, so as to receive her special prayers of healing and be blessed in their medicinal use in the year ahead.

The Ritual of the Church still provides for such blessings should they be requested.

 

(Pics in this post found as random uncredited images on the web)

The Art of Stopping

 A little breathing space for a

Sunny morning…

The Art of Stopping

Do not be afraid 

of stopping.

To pause 

and draw breath 

is 

an ancient art 

of wholeness 

and holiness.

Too often 

we travel

piecemeal.

Our minds, 

hearts, 

bodies, 

souls,

taking 

different routes, 

different ways,

moving at 

different paces...

Just because 

I seem 

to be here,

does not mean 

I am here

at all.

I could be 

in a million places, 

feeling 

a million feelings, 

passing through 

the present,

fleetingly,

on my way 

into pasts 

long gone 

and futures 

that 

may never be

at all.

So practice 

stopping.

Pause a while 

along the way

and 

catch up 

on 

yourself.

Let your 

breath 

draw in 

the 

sundered parts 

of you,

welcoming them 

home again,

without judgement 

or reprimand.

With each 

breath,

let them 

shuffle into place,

like a child 

in a school

crocodile,

shoving,

just a little,

until

every one 

has enough

space.

Then, 

whole again,

for a while,

smile,

and

take

one

more

step

towards

the only

destination

there is,

the One

who

IS

love.

(This lovely sleepy fox pic is thanks to Sharon Murphy)

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!

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.

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

.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Soul’s Garden

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

The Soul’s Garden

 

The Garden

of my Soul

is an old one.

Filled with the deep

chocolate smell of

rich worm-tilled earth

and fallen leaves.

 

A place of wild peace

and gentle fires,

with, here and there,

a secret corner;

warm old pavement,

damp fenny reeds,

cracked urns 

fountaining flowers;

descendents of 

ancient planting

by long forgotten hands.

 

Fireworks of blooms

of a sudden season’s turning

illumine thick wild hedges,

silent,

but for the rustle

of a Blackbird’s

wing.

 

From quiet meditation,

here, one can be startled

by an unexpected verse

of Robin-song;

or a Stormcock’s exultant

heralding of evening rain.

 

In deep tree-shadowed pools

The sudden ‘plash of a frog

causes circles

of eternity to spread

ruffling calm surfaces,

until reflection’s repose

is renewed.

 

Here the Bee drones and

the solid munching

of the Caterpillar is heard;

deep quiet belies

deep activity,

and even the stones

sing

if one has silence

enough to hear.

 

At the edge, a crumbling wall,

more ancient ivy than stone,

makes border where

the Woods begin,

dropping gifts of 

wildness within

from overhanging

forested fingers.

 

And here,

where Mice live,

in morterless walls,

in the Dawn Light

the web is seen.

 

Reflection of all Life,

spangled in dew-drop gold

it’s beauty, revealed

while Spider rests from

night’s toil

 

I stand

barefooted

In the Garden

of my Soul,

feet and toe deep,

in ancient soils

of a long time prepared

to yield such a

flower.

And from the Light

beyond all night

I hear the Gardener say

“Be and fulfil,

and you will

be fulfilled.”

Divine Mercy Sunday

Meditation for Divine Mercy Sunday: the Octave of Easter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here it is in English:

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

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

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

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

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

The Art of Resurrection: A meditation poem for Easter Thursday

 The Art of Resurrection 

How is 

it

possible

not to

believe in 

Resurrection;

when daily

it is

accomplished 

around

you?

When from

sleep's 

dark

and purple

night

the Divine 

rhythm

so long laid 

down

pulses playing

and

form is freed

while

colour

washes

the sky

clean

and

the 

birds 

sing their

holy astonishment

at seeing

the

light

again

for 

one more

day.

Where 

were 

you

then,

this dawning

when

the daily 

Easter

exultet took

place?

To what noise 

were your ears 

tuned?

To what sights 

your eyes?

Did you 

begin

with faith in 

the

beauty 

that awaited 

you 

beyond 

the door

of your 

snoozing senses;

or did 

you 

soldier slumber 

at the 

tomb of 

your yesterdays

unwilling 

to have

your gaze 

lifted

to sky's summoning

to a

new

start?

No matter,

this 

miracle awaits 

you,

every day,

with 

divine patience.

Come then

and join the 

dawn chorus

of delight

and allow 

sun, 

and sky, 

and sea;

bird, 

and bush, 

and beast

to teach you

the ancient 

wild resurrection 

art

of 

blessed

beginning.

Light: A meditation poem for Easter Monday

 A meditation poem for Easter Monday:

Light

Today

I choose

to stand 

in the light 

of the 

Resurrection;

to recognise 

the luminosity

of Divine Presence

at the heart 

of every being;

to see,

to hear,

to touch,

to taste,

the 

eternal alleluia

that exists 

in the centre 

of it all,

perfuming 

all creation

with the 

dew dawn

scent 

of the 

garden

that 

first felt

His quickening,

His blessed breath,

His first footsteps

of return

and trembled 

at His 

healing touch,

consecrating 

Mother earth

again anew

as holy.

Today 

I choose

to recognise

the light of 

that morning's

divine dawn 

in

every sunbeam,

moon beam,

in the glint 

upon 

the water's 

edge,

glitter fire's 

spark

ensouled 

within 

your eye,

in the iridescent 

sheen

of a crow's 

dark clothes 

and the flicker of 

a rainbow 

revealed in 

fish scales 

and finch flight.

Today

I choose 

to live

in the

bright

green field

of His Love,

to walk

in the scarlet tread

of our Fisherking's

steps

finding in you

and in all

I meet

upon the road

the burning

heart,

the broken bread

of presence,

peace,

and ever beginning

Love.

Today,

I choose

to live 

the exultation

of Easter;

to stand 

against 

all that betrays 

the blessing

sung once, 

over and in 

all that is 

in the first 

moment 

of creation,

sung twice 

in the 

moment 

of His

return,

a refrain of 

resurrection

sounding the 

depths,

vibrating in the 

air, 

in birdsong, 

and breeze, 

and breath,

and being,

revealed in His

making, 

and unmaking,

and remaking

of all

as,

Ah,

an Alleluia!

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

Spy Wednesday: a meditation poem

          A meditation poem for Holy (Spy) Wednesday

Spy Wednesday

We feel it once again

approach,

as a shiver on the

spine,

the annual reminder,

the telling of the

true tale;

of the betrayal

of love,

of light,

of God;

existing

not just then

but

always;

an option in each

moment.

Beguiled by shadows

of desire,

always appearing

bigger and better

than that whose

shape

they,

in their smoke selves

flickeringly take

falsely;

we tell ourselves

the story

as old as eden:

It is for our good,

or

for their good,

or

for goodness sake,

or

for eventual good.

But we

know,

always,

deep down we

know,

as inch by inch,

step by step,

we turn our back on

Him,

on Love,

and allow

the callous clinking of

coin

to fall upon the

floor

of a once clean

sanctuary,

our fairy gold that

disappears

in morning light,

yet we,

knowing that good is

hard,

too often

take the eden easy

way,

and

descend the

steps of

desire

until despair

beckons...

Hold!

He is looking at

you,

always!

In this moment,

meet His eyes,

who saw you

first in

eternal

gaze of Love

from everlasting,

and hear Him call

your true

name!

Give Him

your

judas shrunken self,

lost in egoic agony,

and let

His betrayed and bought

blood

purchase for you

instead

Peter's

true tears,

crystalising

into repentant

rock

beneath

Easter's

thrice told

benediction.

"The real sin of Judas was not the betrayal of Christ but his rejection of the forgiveness offered for that betrayal."

Meditation for Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion

Meditation for Palm Sunday

Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday of

the Lord’s Passion; a day to reflect on the extremes within us. 

The same crowd who greet Jesus as King and Lord and sing “Hosanna!” shout “Crucify Him!” barely a week later. It is a reminder to us all of the potential for both good and evil present within our hearts… just because we are crying out hosanna in this moment does not mean that we may not fall and find ourselves crucifying Him in the next… Palm Sunday in its two Gospel passages sobers us… and gives us a vision of human reality, our reality. Beginning in joy and ending in sorrow it reminds us what happens when we try and shrink God, try and manipulate Him into what we want Him to be, or even worse into what we want Him to want us to be. The crowds shouting Hosanna do exactly this. They are good people, God fearing people even, and that may be their problem; they fear but they do not love. Love expands our understanding, fear shrinks it. In their fear and anger their understanding is limited and so they want God to submit to them, to follow their plan. They want Jesus to be their conquering Messiah, a warlord who raises an army and frees the chosen people from their Roman overlords. They don’t want what God wants to give; not a warlord Messiah but a suffering servant who frees, not just a city or a people from physical domination and slavery, but the whole cosmos from the slavery of sin and evil; They do not want it, but they receive not a king upon a throne, but a lamb upon a cross. 

And so “Hosanna!” can turn to “Crucify!” so easily, so quickly. It can do that in my heart, in your heart too. Anytime we try and shrink or constrain God to our plans, our way of thinking, or our agendas, no matter how worthy or good they seem to be, this is what happens… 

So what is our way out of this mess? Jesus shows us… In all of the chaos of palms and processions He is simply Himself, silent, still, present. He submits to the Will of the Father and empties Himself so that we may be filled… In the house of the High Priest, before Pilate and even on the Cross He is simply following the will of the Father and so is serene, secure, still. He is the still-point of pure love around which the world, indeed the whole cosmos turns, and in His stillness He opens for us an ever expanding vision of God, an ever expanding vision of Love. 

Let our Holy Week begin and be blessed by uniting ourselves with the Stillness of the Saviour and allow Him to call us to the simple acceptance of the will of the Father for us whatever it may be, the divine vision for us that never shrinks us to shout “Crucify!” but always gives us an ever-expanding vision of Love that causes us to sing “Hosanna!” We may not even know what it is for us in our lives as yet, but we can be certain that as long as we allow Christ to be the still centre of our being we will pass into the flow of the Divine Will, into the flow of Love.

(Written last year but it my be helpful still today)

(Pic by James Tissot)

Forest Faith: a meditation poem

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, 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 Friday of the Third Week of Lent

Meditation for the Friday of the

 

Third Week of Lent:

Centre and Cross 

All 

things tend 

towards 

the 

Cross,

knowing 

or 

unknowing,

yielding 

or 

unyielding.

The sacred centre 

calls;

its eternal weight 

beckoning our 

soul sight 

thither

until we finally 

look 

upon the

One 

we have 

pierced

and are 

pierced 

ourselves,

in turn,

nailed to the 

tree truth 

of our 

broken being,

and 

in that very 

moment 

born anew

in blessedness 

where

we know 

ourselves 

both

whole and holy 

in 

His sight

once 

more.

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.