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; Our Lady of the Harvest

Assumption: Our Lady of the Harvest 

Autumn edges 

in,

gilding leaves 

lovelier,

swelling fruit,

and berry,

and shining nut,

filling seed 

with life,

to lie long quiet

until the quickening 

thaw

invites the labour 

of the land 

with longed

for Spring birth.

For now though,

we keep your 

festival

my Lady,

beneath 

a still summered 

sky,

though cooler,

as ever dancing

dawn and dusk,

hearing the autumnal 

music

change their step,

and,

creep closer,

preparing

for their near 

embrace.

O you who are 

our harvest, 

our first fruits 

offered 

and received,

we hail you as

Love's 

healing promise 

made

and kept 

of

always 

a new greening, 

a new quickening,

a new birthing,

made manifest 

in you 

long since, 

and there 

faith futured

for us too,

whose barrenness

yields to

birth blessing,

only

in the fruition of your

virgin womb.

So now you 

shine,

our harvest moon,

gold and glorious,

reflecting Son's

light,

upon our rejoicing

hope

that we too may be,

one day,

with you,

assumed;

and held within 

your holy hands

and there

become your 

golden gift 

to Him

as

gathered grain

of Heaven's 

harvest

home.

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.