St. Brigid’s Eve

 St. Brigid’s Eve today in Ireland so an older one in preparation for her feast...

St. Brigid’s Eve 

This night, 

they would hang the cloths 

for birthing and healing

over the thorn branches 

for her blessing,

that as she walked the land 

the divine dew, twice sanctified 

by the dawn and the day both, 

might soak them sacred again 

and enrich them with this vigil’s virtue

for the passing of all pain.

This night,

they would sweep the hearth and house 

and bless the barn and the beasts,

settling the kine as Queens

in the golden hay of gratitude 

for their animal alchemy.

This night, 

they would leave out 

the old gifts of grace, 

the milk and the salt and the bread,

and light the lamp in the window 

with love for her,

their princess, passing in peace.

This night, 

the stranger that knocked 

would be welcomed and warmed,

invited to stretch their feet 

before the fire 

and offer a story to the circle.

This night, 

as the Moon rose over the mountains 

the old songs were sung,

and the women watched and waited

plaiting the rushes and the reeds

into ancient patterns of power.

This night,

as all surrender to sleep

she walks the land lightly,

breathing blessing, 

over barn and beast and babe,

she who fears no dark,

goddess named and God re-born,

by water and fire and blood,

in the Three who are One.

This night,

our ancient Abbess 

and lady of the Light,

of Kildare’s 

Oaken cell,

she whose cloak enfolds

the land she loves

comes by.

For this night,

is Brigid’s

night.

Image by Richard King

Morning Grace

 A practice for every morning...

Morning Grace.

If at all possible,

do not rush 

into the day.

From the moment 

you awake

its busyness 

will want to draw you 

into its complicated chaos.

Instead; pause, 

and then 

step gently into 

the grace of 

the morning.

Whether you wake alone, 

or with others 

who need your 

attention,

it is always possible 

to begin

in gratitude

from the silent sanctuary 

of your breath;

to pray the day 

into being,

just as the sun 

rises slowly,

so can you.

Do what you need 

to do

with awareness, 

with kindness.

Pray.

Yawn.

Stretch.

Wash.

Dress.

Eat.

Drink.

But, 

be aware 

of the

praying,

yawning,

stretching,

washing,

dressing,

eating,

drinking.

Look at the sky.

Notice the weather,

not as good 

or bad,

but as simply, 

weather.

The sun always 

shines 

above the clouds 

anyway.

The Kingdom of God 

is always within

anyway.

Be present to the 

Kingdom within.

Be the presence 

of the Kingdom without.

Smile.

Sing.

Dance.

(Or don't.)

The only thing

you have to do 

is breathe,

and you are 

already 

succeeding 

at that.

Greet your 

breath

as your prayer,

then you will pray

always.

If yesterday is present 

in your mind; 

notice,

ask what it wants 

to teach you 

and then 

return to your 

breath.

If tomorrow 

pulls you onwards; 

notice,

tell it you will 

meet it

when it arrives,

and then 

return

to your 

breath.

Today 

is the place 

you stand,

and the only 

place 

it is truly 

possible 

to be, 

anyway.

So be here, 

now,

choosing 

to be here, 

now.

Touch the earth 

with joy,

Look at every being 

with love.

Smell the coffee.

Smell the roses.

Smell the sweat 

of work,

all will remind you

you are 

alive,

you are 

here

for another day.

If at all possible,

do not rush 

into the day.

Instead, 

let the 

grace 

of the 

morning 

in.

Old Crow

Old Crow

Old Crow in the snow

sits upon the bough.

Old Crow in the snow

Only thinks of now

Winter comes

And Winter goes

And soon will come again

For passing fast 

Are the lives 

Of fragile little men

So in the snow 

The old Crow

Watches from the height

Not for him their to and fro

But only seeking light

With his caw

Will come the thaw

Then spring will fill the lands

And green and bright 

Will be the trees

And warm will be my hands

Then bough will break 

And he will take 

To flight and soar away 

Until the cold 

Returns to hold

Again its frozen sway

But for now 

Upon the bough

Sits the ancient Crow

All robed in black 

He feels no lack

But only falling snow

So I must be 

Just like he

And put my thoughts away

That long for when 

And yearn for then

But never settled lay

So be instead 

By old Crow led

Who sits upon the bough

And feel the snow 

Upon my head

And only think of now

Snowdrops

 Remembering the Snowdrops of Ards today:

Snowdrops

On a 

dank

dark 

January 

day

when the 

rain 

ceased 

only

to give way 

to freezing 

fog,

I was 

sudden stopped

by the

glint beneath

the bare branches

of their

greening.

There 

they were,

the snowdrops,

quiet 

at their

humble 

devotions

in the 

woodland glade.

Veiled in 

purest white,

in bunches 

they stood,

their heads 

bowed 

low

as though 

whispering 

together,

or perhaps 

at 

prayer. 

I was 

the happier 

for seeing 

them

then,

knowing that 

only 

on the 

coldest 

darkest 

days 

had they 

begun 

their journey,

ever

upwards

pushing 

through the 

steel soil 

of 

wintered woods

the earth 

frost-forged 

and hard, 

so

to herald 

a Spring 

as yet 

only 

longed for.

Others 

may sing

of the 

sunshine 

daffodils

and the 

rich joy

of the 

bluebells

yet

to come,

but 

I will

choose

the 

snowdrops

and 

their 

sacred

faith,

that after

every 

Winter

there is

always

and

eventually,

a

Spring.

Nature as Teacher

Nature is a wonderful teacher of the mindful contemplative life. 

The bad weather allows us to rejoice even more in the good and without the storms we would never see the rainbow... 

This beautiful rainbow lasted for 5 minutes and then faded away... it will never come again in this exact way and this gives me two choices... To be sad that it's gone and to cling to the experience or to rejoice I saw it at all and to let it go... if I choose the latter then I simply honour it as gift, I become open to the lesson it teaches and to the next experience.

Whatever you are going through today remember you are going THROUGH it... No experience or emotional state is everlasting in this life...

Joys and Sorrows arise and then depart until they come again... 

You are not your feelings and you are not defined by them unless you cling to them.

Breath by breath... 

Moment by moment...

we learn that in fact we are travelling through this experience towards becoming our real self revealed in the light of Love as Being and not simply just as feeling...

For life is a journey into the mystery of Divine Love... 

Into the mystery of God who IS love...

Horseshoe

Horseshoe

A piece 

of 

iron,

cold upon 

the old

door,

bent 

but 

beckoning

blessing,

made 

of flame 

and earth 

and water 

and breath 

and blacksmith 

sweat.

At its 

heart 

there is 

fire 

still,

and 

remembrance;

struck,

twisted,

hammered,

nailed

in place,

to keep 

the hoof

whole,

a barrier 

between

stone and

stallion;

sparking,

struck

upon 

the 

cobbles.

Would that

we were

all shod

as

secure,

submitting

in stillness 

to the

whispered

word

of the

Soul-smith

so

to keep us 

safe

upon 

our way,

but

we,

errant and 

wild,

resist the

healing

of the 

thrice 

hammered

nails

and 

instead

hang 

horseshoes

upon the 

doorways

praying 

for 

safe 

passage

between

the 

worlds.

Poultice: A Meditation Poem for Healing

 

Poultice

In the times before these times,

when the old ones who still remembered 

saw the signs

that the sickness had turned inwards,

towards the blood, towards the bone,

when they saw the rising heat, the grey pallor, 

the yellowing eye, the listless limb,

they would go to the forest with faith,

and prayerfully pick the cool moss,

the healing herb, collect the soft river earth.

Then, these clever cunning men, 

these wise sharp women, 

would mix the poultice paste

by moon’s silvering, 

by dawn’s turning,

by saint’s praying,

and finding the point of pain

they would anoint the body 

and bandage tight with blessing,

igniting with intention

the banked medicinal fire,

it’s noble warmth now

leaching out the ague

bringing, at last, the wounded one 

to the healing crisis that, 

perhaps at first, looks like 

death’s drawing near,

before the sacred singing moment

where fever breaks and skin erupts 

and pus and poison flow, and drain, 

and light returns to eyes at last

as breath stills, calms, deepens 

and balance comes again,

as first dawn light touches the

roots of the trees 

and brings the golden edge

of Love’s arising

to new life.

Now, 

In this time of times

perhaps we have such need again, 

for a poultice placed 

gently and with kindness upon 

the rounded body of the earth

where too long our self-sickness has

burrowed deep within and brought 

the breaking and the burning

of fever dream, of pain and sorrow

become now a crown of pain,

a pulsing pandemic bound tight 

about our wounded world 

filled with the, 

the pus and poison that would

set our soul cells against each other 

tearing the woven thread of being apart.

So then, hear the ancient remedy, 

ever old and ever new,

and with faith go out to gather the gifts 

of kindness, gentleness, peace 

then bind them 

with the binding cloth of love 

and anoint the broken body 

of the world with blessing 

that after crisis cools this earth, 

the hearts, the souls of all that live

may wake from this fever dream

and see, as only those who

touch death see,

the grace of dawn

the gift of life

the oneness of 

our being.