Chatting about Meditation and Calming the Storms

 Going to try and update this a little more often... 

Poor blogs, they tend to be forgotten about by all and sundry... even their authors! For now though, here's a link to a nice little chat I had about all things mindful and meditative some weeks ago. It's only about 25 minutes long so shouldn't be too taxing on the muscles of attention.

Blessings to all those who still check this from time to time! Link is below

https://www.rte.ie/radio/radio1/clips/22435264/

A poem for Lughnasadh and Lammas Night

A poem for the ancient feasts of Lughnasadh, (Lunasa) and Lammas that mark the liminal time of Summer yielding to Autumn’s first fiery touch…. 

Lughnasadh night

The hay has all been saved.

The wheat and grain are gathered in,

stacked in stooks across 

the night silvered fields,

still ringing with the sound of song,

the drum of dance,

and graced and grateful voices 

raised in harvest thanks. 

The holy wells are dressed in flower form,

while vesper bells are rung 

and old pilgrim feet take to the hills 

to bless the land anew 

awaiting dawn in stillness.

While down amongst the berry bushes,

the songs of youth are sung 

and purple sweetness tasted on the lips 

in valleys where now

the air has the feel of thunder, 

the keen edge and promise of rain 

that has not come yet, but wants to.

So the Moon, the Lady’s lamp, appears between the curtains of the clouds,

and the ancestors and keepers of the land draw close, feeling the first 

autumnal thinning of the veils.

Now the Lammas loaves lie 

cooling on the sill,

awaiting benediction’s gentle fall

as blessed and broken they will become 

the covenant promise of a faithèd fullness, 

to ward against the bite and blight 

of winter’s empty song,

as He, who is the true Sun 

by which we see all light,

is Himself our first fruits promise,

of that last and longed for harvest 

when we shall at evening’s coming 

put down our tools,

and enter into barns ourselves 

to share the bread of Angels,

blessed in our very brokenness,

our emptiness at last made full,

our ever dancing steps 

now leaving only 

prints of light.

Moon Bathing

 Moon Bathing

Moon Bathing 

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice,

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched.

Woken from sleep 

in the deep night,

I came to the window weary

and wondering why

I had been summoned

from the sacred steps 

leading to the gates of horn?

But now I gazed 

breathless, and

beheld the beauty of 

a land illumined, changed,

silvered by the waxing 

Moon looking lovingly

upon the hills, the trees, 

the waters. 

She, lending them her light,

itself a loan, though made her own,

mirrored and magical by mystic 

alchemy, now embraced the land 

and silvered and softened her in filigree

appearing like fishscale glinting 

up from some dark water’s wave.

I watched a while then, 

as across the silent land of night 

her white light walked, blessing 

all it touched with beauty unknown

to all the sleepers resting in their beds.

Until at last she found the old pool 

and seemed to rest there a while.

Playing in its fountained waters 

as falling drops became white diamonds,

she filled the pool with liquid light

charging the waters once again with love,

as by the light of grace 

a soul arises from 

the dark of spirit’s night

and finds again the 

gift of life appearing 

at the very darkest moment,

when all seems lost,

for mercy comes always, gentle 

as moonlight upon the waters, 

disturbing nothing, yet 

rendering all anew in beauty 

ready for Sun’s appearing.

Last night,

on the eve of the summer solstice

my sister, the Lady Moon,

came dancing down the sky

to bathe her pale white 

reflection in the round pool

upon the hill, in the dark woods,

before the old monastery,

while none but I watched

and I am ever grateful for 

the wonder of being woken,

for the blessing of it all.

Somewhere a Light

 Somewhere a Light

There is 

always light,

somewhere.

Darkness 

is always 

encompassed 

by light.

After all,

you wouldn’t 

even know 

what darkness 

was,

if light 

did not 

circumscribe 

its ragged 

edge.

Somewhere 

now,

even in 

the darkest 

night,

fire burns,

light is 

kindled,

candles 

are lit,

and minds 

and hearts

are illumined

by grace,

making lives 

glitter,

like gilded letters 

animating 

the text 

of everyday 

life

in our 

always

flickered passing

towards 

the ever after

page 

of peace.

September In-Between

 

September In-between

This is the season of in-between,

a sacred door into the dragonfly days 

of sun blushed berries,

and fruits full upon the branch,

when autumnal fire crackles

slowly over leaves, 

unleashing light along their veins

tempting them towards 

the tension of windborn wonder.

These are the days of swallows and starlings 

gathering as slow storm clouds 

before their flocked flight warmwards, 

screaming their farewells,

fountaining forwards,

free upon the foaming clouds.

These are the days of first noticing 

the chill and the dark, 

though not as winter yet, 

only as remarked change upon our skin

walking from patches of conversation 

into silent introspection, 

feeling the old summons of schoolday beginnings, 

the burgeoning pull-tide of term 

we never truly escape from,

no matter the outer age, 

that calls our shuffling feet towards 

the first drifting leaves and 

makes us count conkers upon the trees, 

even if our pockets hold other treasures now.

These are the days of longing, 

yearning for those sunsets and mornings 

just now out of reach, 

that teach us the deeper soul longing 

for Love's eternal Summer, 

yet we rejoice too 

in the brittle sharp newness 

of lowering sun and rising moon.

These are the days of hunting, 

of homing, of harvesting; 

of gratitude given before the gathering, 

of berried blessing being 

between us and all that is,

and though our gaze now looks 

long towards winter 

we join here, now,

in the days of autumnal grace, 

the dance of in-between.

The Garden is Burning

 The Garden is Burning

For a long time now

a fire has been burning in my mind

a flood has rolled across my heart

an earthquake rumbles in my soul.

I am afraid it is breaking, 

this world of ours,

how could it not?

It bears so much weight

the weight of sadness,

the weight of fear,

the weight of pain.

Last week in Greece

a two thousand year old 

Olive Tree,

an elder, ancient and wise in ways we cannot even begin to know,

burned, 

as people fled the lands 

that fed them and us for ages untold.

The trees don’t get to leave.

Here in Ireland we smile 

and take pictures of a Walrus, 

a prince of the cold kingdom, 

now an exile, lost, wandering, alone,

iceless, friendless, bewildered by boats.

In Siberia, the tundra burns and mammoth bones have their slumbering rest disturbed

long thought safe and sleeping by the peoples who live and love upon the frosted lands.

In Afghanistan, a wordless groan erupts,

the pain of a tortured soul, 

the ache of a land so long in agony 

its voice is near a death rattle 

despair of a people fearing a veil being drawn over their faces, a stifling of song, an ending of hope, a blanket of hate, and loss, and loss, and loss, and betrayal.

In Haiti, earthquakes again.

In Lebanon, explosions again.

In America, fires again.

In Turkey, floods again.

My litany is nowhere near complete…

Lord have mercy.

The world is breaking.

How could it not?

What was meant as garden 

needs its gardeners,

needs us to be Adams, gardeners, again;

needs us to be Eves, mothers of life, again;

that was the original blessing after all;

to grow, to steward, to bring forth life, 

to bless, to give thanks, to guard and keep

all that lives, all that breathes, all that is.

So what must I do?

What can you do?

Be a gardener.

Now, 

right where you are.

Dig.

Dig deep within,

Dig over the hard soil of the heart 

that cannot bear to hear anymore 

and let it breathe again original blessing.

Plant seeds of kindness.

Plant seeds of compassion.

Plant seeds of love.

Water it with your tears for all beings who suffer.

Grow a harvest of tenderness for those who suffer

Grow flowers of welcome for the lost and the lonely

Grow the fruit of peace in yourself and offer it to all beings to eat.

Act with reverence for all that is, 

for all that is, is holy.

Allow that little plot of life 

and earth around you to heal.

It will spread. 

Remember we are all sons of Adam

Remember we are all daughters of Eve

Hear again the song of sister Mother Earth

Sing again the hymn of creation

Be again, blessing

Be again, the gardener,

Be at last the steward.

Be.

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)

Saint Clare Aflame; a poem for her feast

 This came to me three years ago for the Feast of St. Clare... 

Saint Clare Aflame

There came at last

the night when,

with Bishop’s blessing,

she drew back the great bolt

and, with sudden strength 

unknown before,

cast open wide 

the ancient oaken doors 

and left the heavy house

of her fathers behind.

Breathing deep the cool free 

Assisi air,

her sparkling eyes, now

a mirror of the canopy 

of shining sisters overhead.

Veiling herself in night, 

and without a backward glance,

she fled to the forested friars

who met this already bright one 

with their lamps lit at woodland edge.

So they beckoned her 

to the little house of the Mother,

where she once again 

affirmed the divinely kindled desire 

of her heart’s longing,

and threw herself into the flames of faith,

a furnace so incandescent 

that hair, and clothing, and even name, 

are burned away.

And so the robe of blessing was bestowed,

and the promises that bind the hearts 

of those who know

true freedom made.

He was there, of course, 

to receive her sacred vows,

as his first sister, 

and a daughter of his prophesying too,

Francis of the dancing fire, 

whose sparking words first

heard through her high window 

open to the world below

found a home in the dry 

kindling of her heart

and became a raging firestorm 

so strong that,

castle walls and binding ties 

could not hold her captive any longer,

but allowed her leap 

into the arms of love itself 

upon that quiet woodland night.

Finding within that 

merry band of brothers 

a garden where

her seed soul spark could 

grow and bloom unhindered 

and unquenched.

What psalms were sung 

and candles kindled through that night 

within that little portion that the Lady 

had allotted them 

who served her Son and Lord anew!

What rejoicing did the Angels make 

drawing even the animals 

to witness this new beginning 

as, unseen but felt, 

the fiery Dove descended 

and warmed with hidden wingbeat 

the heat of grace within this gracious one

now sharing in the lot of those whose

only riches are the gifts of holy love.

So Francis looked 

upon this little plant

newly sown in sacred fire 

and smiling saw within 

the power of her poverty, 

the fire that would,

in time, spread undimmed 

to countless sisters

who would come 

hearing of her wild wonders,

she to whom

Kings and Lords 

would bow

humbled by the humility 

of one who dared to trust, 

as he had trust himself, 

in Heaven’s promise 

to uphold all those 

who dance across 

the rose red coals 

of passion 

so light,

so empty, 

they go unburned 

but incandesce

themselves 

and become

ah!

Fire.

May the great miracle worker and woman of prayer who incarnates the feminine side of the Franciscan charism intercede for us all today!

St Clare’s Day 2018

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)

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.

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.

Waking up. Beginning Again. Being in the Now

 Time to wake up... again… and again…

Now is always

the time

to wake up.

Do well and 

you 

will wake to 

discover 

that 

deep down,

past the chaos,

past the sin,

past the pain,

past the wounds,

past the brokenness,

at the deepest part there 

is,

at the very is-ness of it 

all,

all is beautiful,

all is ok,

all is well,

for

all is held in being

by Love...

and then,

waking up to 

this

marvellous and

terrible 

reality,

you will find 

to your

unfailing wonder 

and

astonishment

that,

all is 

transformed.

Chaos becomes peace,

sin is forgiven,

pain is relieved,

wounds are healed,

and the broken is

made whole again

in Divine Love's

embrace.

For there is 

nothing and 

no one

outside of that

holy

communion

of being

arising 

moment by moment

from Love’s

breathing.

If we live from that 

point,

from that 

whole and holy place,

then,

truly,

in stillness, 

we shall 

know,

that all is well

and 

all manner of things 

are

well.

So, 

wake up,

now.

Shadows: a reflection

                     Shadows?

You

say you

feel

your life

is

simply

a

shadow

cast upon 

the

wall of

time,

without meaning

or purpose,

a

random occurrence

without form,

just

function?

But ask yourself

are you seeing 

truly?

So,

look deeper brother,

look deeper sister,

what is a 

shadow 

but

a revelation

of where the 

light

is 

already 

resting?

Your body,

stardust,

forged in the heart

of a 

fire aeons

old.

Not one 

atom of 

your existence

lives 

now

that did 

not also

then

see

the vast 

distances 

of space,

did not

fall through

the long generations 

of

ancestors,

or pass 

through 

many shapes,

on its journey

to bestow 

the form

your senses

perceive as

solid,

a form 

called 

to dwell 

and 

dance 

with 

Divine breath 

in its 

making of 

your marvel 

and your

shadow

until its covenant,

dissolved by

death,

liberates 

love.

Look deeper brother.

Look deeper sister.

You see 

out of infinite 

possibility

you exist.

You.

Here.

Now.

For now 

would be

incomplete 

without

you;

your reason for 

being

passing beyond 

all causes

to the One 

who 

intended 

you

and made you

necessary,

whose love 

attends 

your being,

moment 

by 

moment,

in-breathing love

lest you fall 

away 

into

nothingness.

No 

shadow 

you,

but a 

place 

of 

graced luminosity

so bright

that dazzled by 

your own 

form

your inner eye 

sees, 

for now, 

only 

darkness

describing

a point

of light 

so bright

that Divine Love

dims vision

until 

you are 

ready

to turn

from 

shaped shadows

and face

fully

the brightness

of 

your own

blessed

being.

St. Anthony of Padua

Reflection for the Feast of St. Anthony 

Anthony Ascends:

His long travelling days over,

there is now only one direction left;

up, or is it, perhaps, 

more truly, in?

The hilltop hermitage

was not high enough

to discourage those

who would still

seek his words,

disturb his deep prayer,

his long sought peace.

So now the boughs 

beckon him higher

to a cell, a nest woven

between the branches

by the brothers.

This is his place now;

held halfway between

Heaven and Earth

What matter?

His heart has lived this way

all his life;

now the rest of him does so too.

Here, finally, the weariness

of the world may be dropped,

as he, worn out from roads

and crowds, and even from miracles

climbs just a little nearer 

to the clouds.

His body, almost too frail now 

to hold Heaven’s fire. 

Still, there are glints

of golden flame along the edges,

in his flashing eyes, 

in his measured movements,

or on his tongue 

as it tells the hours

in psalming whispers.

He is now,

a prophet become a burning bush,

a priest become a burnt offering,

a brother following the seraph song

all the way to Heaven’s vestibule.

He leans his back 

against the trunk, 

sits still and slowly fades.

A brown robed, grey-friar,

a hooded crow, upon the branch 

as weather beaten as the wood 

on which he rests.

His chapel vault, 

an arching branch.

The greening sunshine 

through the leaves,

his stained glass window.

His choir, the birds.

And he who has learned 

at last, their song of innocence,

hears, understands, and smiles

at their skyborn summons.

From here he will ascend,

this sylvan stylite,

and will be ever after known,

and busied even in eternity as,

Finder of the lost things,

Friend of the poor ones,

Pilgrim preacher of peace,

Brother to the sisters 

in their needs.

But for now, at least, 

there is a moment’s rest,

here upon the hillside

under the passing sun 

and moon,

beneath the branches, 

and breeze played leaves,

above the earth,

alone, at last,

where all the words

are dropped

like leaves

upon the wind,

Anthony 

simply

is.

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

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

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

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

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

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SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018

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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.