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.

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)

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!

June; the month of the Sacred Heart

A poem of old remembrances as we enter June, the month of the Sacred Heart:

Sacred Heart

I remember still, 

with the sharp light 

of a child's knowing of newness, 

my Gran's bedroom. 

Spartan, yet equipped with things 

of a quality we do not have 

in many places now.

Long used. 

Loved. 

Meant to last.

Her carved bed seemed enormous to us 

as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread, 

sliding across it to thump, 

giggling, 

on the hard floor.

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

upon the dresser as carefully 

as a surgeon's tools, 

heavy and cold to the touch,

but glowing with the warm barley sugar 

inner light of polished tortoise shell.

An old clock that worked, sometimes, 

its numerals glowing in the dark 

a faded ghost green. 

And there, upon the dresser too 

he stood, in stone stillness. 

Flaking slightly, but still royal 

in his red robe, revealing the love 

that is at the heart of all things. 

He seemed huge to my small hands.

I would climb onto the bed beside her 

as she whispered her prayers 

in his direction;

she would hand him to me then 

and he would sit comfortably 

upon my knees,

as I, entranced, traced the thorns 

entwining his poor heart, 

and tried to pull them out;

feeling his heart a flame, 

a fire for me, for her, for all!

I would whisper to him then,

my childish news and secrets

and I remember (can you believe it?)

sometimes, he whispered back

words of such love

they exist now only as 

scattered shards of light 

within my own heart's memories.

There and then I promised, I would 

one day, pull out those thorns.

Gran smiled when I told her this

"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,

the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers

in the morning's ritual,

"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two 

in there too; 

don't worry, we all do from time to time, 

but never forget He loves you still!" she said, 

smiling sadly at my stricken face.

Then I kissed him hard, as children do,

and made the foolish promise

of a child to ease his heart a little.

A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,

though no shortage of thorns 

have I added to his crown.

Devotions done she restored him to his place 

upon the dresser,

and I, sliding off the bed,

now thought only of the day before us: 

of buses into town, bookshops, 

and Bewley's cafe!

Then we went downstairs 

to breakfast on tea and toast,

always, me going first,

she coming behind,

her breath, 

her voice as one, 

whistling upon each step,

the background music

of her life;

"Sacred Heart of Jesus,

I place all my trust 

in Thee."

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. 

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.

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.

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.

Suggestions

 Suggestions:

Look at the sky; to do so draws you up and out of your thoughts.

Look at the ocean; in its flowing tides, its calms and its storms it will give you a sense of perspective.

Look at the trees; they will reach you both rootedness and the ability to let go.

Look up from the ground and meet the world with compassion.

Look at each person you meet as a teacher sent with an important lesson for you.

Live seasonally; enter fully the joy and the beauty of each one as it arises and then do not cling to them as they bid you farewell.

There is nothing you can do about the passing of time except to learn from the past and then live in the present.

Experiences without reflection are just events.

Experiences with reflection become wisdom.

Know the difference between the tears that purify and the tears that do not. 

Never hold back the former. 

Touch, taste, smell, listen deeply to all that is, remember, if it exists it has meaning even if it does not reveal it to you.

Living plants are better than cut flowers but always try and have a little of nature near you.

Listen for the birds, greet the dogs and cats and all creatures you meet along the way as fellow citizens of the one earth as brothers and sisters in being.

Live so as to cause as little harm to other beings as is possible.

Advocate for the weak and the downtrodden,

make space for those who have been silenced by life to speak and then listen.

Plant seeds. 

Grow a garden, and, if possible eat from it, it will teach you your dependence on the earth for bodily sustenance.

Sing, hum, whistle; let music be part of you especially the music that arises unbidden and seems to come from deep within.

Spend time with the very young and the very old, both will help you be yourself again.

Share.

Speak less. Listen more.

Pause before you post anything online. Ask will it bring more compassion to the world?

Learn the names of things: 

not just Tree; but Beech, Oak, Ash. 

Not just Bird; but Robin, Jackdaw, Wren.

Be polite and thankful towards those who have the job of serving you; waiting staff, shop assistants, cleaners etc and remember that everyone you meet has a story at least as complicated as yours.

Bend, stretch, move, dance; do not become confined in or separated from your body,

honour it with respect and kindness. 

Tell it you love it until you do. 

Rest.

Draw, paint, doodle, play with colour and shapes and as you do so watch what emerges. 

Do not characterise it as good or bad.

Compare yourself with no one. 

There is no universal map for a human life, but there is a universal destiny; to become love.

Remember the greatest potential for good or ill exists just as much within you as it does in others

Watch the dawn and the dusk often, both are great teachers in their own way.

Seek truth always. 

Be open to the fact that you could always be wrong.

Apologise.

Be polite.

Smile when you feel you are able to,

but be honest about how you feel.

Teach yourself the value of unstimulated solitude. 

The fear of being alone can lead to poor choices at any age. 

Treasure solitude and treasure connection. The balance you will need between them is unique to you.

Let your eyes rest on books more than screens. 

Read the older stories. 

If they are still with us it is because they have much to teach us. 

Laugh, as much as possible, as often as possible. 

Do not make the mistake of surrounding yourself with sad media when you feel sad. 

If you can’t take being happy at that moment at least choose that which brings equilibrium.

The most difficult mystical teaching of all is this: forgive everyone for everything and remember that Love is an act of will, not an emotional reaction.

Learn to sit still, to breathe consciously and to watch your thoughts and feelings as they come and go. They are not you.

Pray, meditate and do so as much in silence as with words.

Honour your ancestors. 

No matter their story they have something to teach you about how to be, or how not to be.  

Realise the vast majority are doing the best that they can with the knowledge that they have in that moment.

Be.

Finally; 

before all else and above all else; 

act justly,

love tenderly

and walk humbly with your God.

Meeting Otherness; a poem for these days

 A reminder for these troubled days...

Meeting otherness.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

stop.

Just stop.

Stop 

long enough

to become

present

to their

being

as a door

to

Divine Presence.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

bow.

Just bow.

Bow 

low enough

to reverence

their being

as a gift

held in existence

by

Divine Love.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

listen.

Just listen.

Listen 

long enough

to hear

their truth

revealed

as a page

of the story

written by

the

Divine Word.

When you meet the other,

whoever they are,

stop.

Just stop.

Bow.

Just bow.

Listen.

Just listen.

And then,

only then,

in the 

hallowed

space

between you

and the other,

whoever they are,

speak.

Earth Day 2021

 A meditation for Earth Day:

To live in Contemplative Communion is to live with the eye of the heart open; to see behind and beneath the veils of sense into the mystery of sacramentality, the mystery of divine presence made manifest in and through creation. 

It is to see the earth in its beauty and maternal seasons of fruit and plenty as a call to trust in providence and live according to its rhythms and patterns; and then, in time of scarcity to feel the call of compassion and mutual sharing. 

It is a call to know its very stones as a lesson in stability and stillness, to know its trees as torches lighting the way to heaven, their leaves as sparks upon the wind. 

It is the call to recognise in every creature the living breath of the Holy Spirit who sustains life, and to bow in reverence before such temples and tabernacles of the Most High. 

It is the call to recognise the wholeness at the heart of our brokenness, the mercy that is new each day and in each moment. 

It is the call to know time itself as a revelation of the eternity from which it arises and to find infinite depths of love and service available in each moment. 

It is to know that even sin and evil may be turned to our good when seen in the light of Light and surrendered to the grace of Love's love.

It is simply to dwell in grace, and then in and through grace to become grace for others.

(Pic found on Google with no attribution)

The 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.”

Meditation poem for Easter Saturday

                  Meditation poem for Easter Saturday:

Climb

We stand 

as they did,

in these days,

illumined by 

fiery alleluias 

at His appearing,

yet often 

hesitant 

to bow;

our pilgrim walk 

staggered,

slipping back 

among the 

sin scree

of self 

when we 

take our

inner eye 

from 

His graced 

gaze

and lose 

our way

forgetting that 

our attaining of

the summit of 

the Holy Mountain

is, in Him,

already done,

and we ascend

in He who 

meets us 

at our lowest,

as Shepherd King,

as one who seeks,

and finds,

and carries 

home,

all that is 

lost 

in us