A new online course on Storytelling

 

Becoming the Storyteller: a path to Wisdom with Brother Richard

Hosted by the Sanctuary Centre, this 3 week online course with Brother Richard will look at the place of story and the storyteller in mysticism and invite us to journey to 

a contemplative way of being in which our lives may be read as personal myth and become part of the great story of Creation. 

Day & Date: Tuesday April 29th, May 6th and May 13th

Time: 7pm-8.30pm (Online)

Duration: 3 sessions over 3 weeks

To book your place go to https://sanctuary.ie/2025/03/31/becoming-the-storyteller-a-path-to-wisdom-with-brother-richard/

A poem for the first frost of the year

 Frosted Dawn 

There 

is a 

moment

of perfect

stillness

between 

the 

in-breath

and the 

out-breath;

small,

silent,

vulnerable,

and so often

missed;

but, 

when we 

attend,

always 

infinite 

in 

depth.

It dwells

where

the now,

radiant and

eternal,

is touched

as transformation,

as grace;

for there

the

Risen One

is revealed

in the 

burning

bush 

of our breath,

of our being.

Just

as a garden,

emerging

frost tipped

from night's

entombment,

knows 

the delight

of dawn's 

first touch

and yields 

to the 

daily

moment

of resurrection

with the

inhalation

of light,

with the 

exhalation

of

birdsong.

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.

Calming the Storms: a new book

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.

A Storm of Starlings

 Starling Shower

Rain came with the flower moon, 

presaged by a deluge of starlings

into the cloister garden,

falling like chattery stars 

they festooned the old cherry trees

only lately leafed and now blossoming birds.

Where and how they came 

we do not know,

but welcomed their 

electric shock of arrival 

and the throaty whistle of their calls 

as a surge of wild energy exulting 

on the edge of Summer storms,

like schoolchildren at term’s end.

Raucous and rowdy, even the robins

retreated before their squabbling,

sparking from iridescent wings 

shook over shoulders that jerk

along in time with their staccato steps.

They have birthed wonder anew 

these sudden garrulous guests,

reminding us of the joy 

that comes from summer laughter, 

from cocking an ironic glinting eye 

at life from time to time,

and living with a gusto

that erupts in flight at grace’s 

sudden swift appearing, 

unknown and even unasked for from above.

Oh we thank these rough and tumble gangsters of the sky for however long

they make our garden home,

before the ancient call sounds along

their hollow bones and makes them

sun seekers once again 

and storm warnings,

leaving us their life lessons 

on a murmuring cloud,

in the glitter-glint of a starling’s eye.

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.

Stair Flights

 Stair Flights

Lately, I have been thinking

of the sheer ridiculous 

goodness of stairs.

Does that seem strange?

But, consider a moment 

the generous way in which 

they hold our weight

and allow a slow motion flight

up or down.

How, over centuries, 

we have come to know

the perfect height

and depth each step should be

for no fall or slip to take place,

but by our own distracted error.

How they connect places and planes

of different existence and different times.

How they allow passage.

How they are often our best image 

of birth, and death, and daily 

beckon restwards.

How they were places of play

and places of peace,

making themselves into seats 

and even slides,

when wanted.

I think of tiny spiral ones, tightly wound

in turrets and towers,

and the grand staircases of ancient houses,

to say nothing of the ones haunted

by memories, and perhaps by

more than memory,

and I am amazed again

at the casual way we climb,

so often not noticing 

the holding of our body

the leaning of each step towards us

the blessing of bannisters

the etiquette of ascension,

the sacramentality of stairs.

Don’t even get me started

on doors.

Red Apples

 Red apples

I want to write a poem today

That falls upon the mind

Like the autumn sunshine

Falling on this page and 

Giving a sudden sharpness 

To the ink,

To the fibre of the paper, 

Such that a smooth page 

Is now,

A landscape of detail.

Such that a single letter 

Is now mountainous 

In its meaning.

I want to write a poem today 

That silvers the shadowed 

Corners of the mind

Like the harvest moon shining 

In the window at night, 

Large and lovely in the sky,

Making your room 

An unfamiliar forest that 

Appears only in

Your midnight waking.

I want to write a poem today

As warm as the red 

Of apples in the old

White bowl upon 

The kitchen counter.

Fiery jewels, juice filled and 

Garnered from garden

Seeming to hold 

Summer’s essence 

In sphere form.

I want to write a poem today

Flaming like an autumn bonfire,

That licks lazily at 

the secret senses of the soul

And illumines the 

Hearth of the heart 

With flickers and sparks 

Of faithlight kindled.

But how can I write 

When the world itself 

Seems to be aflame?

When the chaos of war erupts 

Again, and again, and again.

When violence screams

So loud in language 

Of hatred and pain.

When the sufferers are 

Silenced and the listeners 

So deadened and deafened 

In their overwhelm 

They weep now only dust.

When the terror tells its lies

In every tongue and we 

Fall back again and again 

Into the dance of death 

That separates and sunders and sins by 

Seeing the child, the woman, the man

As other than brother or sister of

My own blessed being and cries out

Against the simple song of 

Now, of love, of peace, that

Our souls were always meant to sing.

So how to sit with 

Meaning in the midst of madness?

I do not know.

Except to name the beauty that

Still blesses and sing the bounty of the 

Moment that is always graced. 

And try to cultivate the peace

Of Soul that slowly kindles

Kindness in all the hearts around.

Ever beginning anew, ever offering

A new beginning to all

Who see ending only through

Their weeping eyes.

And all the while to cry out

For every voice now silenced. 

To give the dead their due 

And offer prayer for all, 

With all, that soon

A ceasefire of sacred stillness 

May arise around the world.

That after storm, and fire, 

And earthquake, there may be 

A moment for us all to breathe 

At last and most of all for those

Whose hearts hate has consumed 

And who consume the souls 

Of others in their hate,

That they may stop

And drop their guns and guard;

Hearing at last the sacred sound

Of divine breathing, our common

Song of inter-being, then,

Seeing in each other’s eye their 

Own reflection returned and know 

In sacred sight of soul

Their own brother, their own sister 

Revealed at last, again

In the shocking clarity

Of repentant tears.

So perhaps, so perhaps,

I will write a poem after all 

That sings of peace 

and of the sacred

Power of ordinary things

And the divine light 

In which they bathe,

And from which they come.

To remind us all

Of common being

Of blessing and of

A graced present now,

And now, and now,

Abiding and ever calling

Us to begin again

Beyond the path

Of pain we travel tired

And so cry out 

The kingdom to

A world weary of weeping;

That in every choice 

In every moment 

Another way is possible

Of joy and grace,

Of warm red apples 

In a white bowl

Waiting for our gaze to 

Liven them into love

Made visible once again,

Signposts of soul

Guiding our feet into the 

Way of peace.

Still Points, a guide to living the Mindful, Meditative Life

 

Haven’t been on here for an age but just popping in to let you all know that: 

“Still Points; a guide to living the mindful meditative way,” 

will be published by Hachette Press on the 22nd of September!

A book of meditations, poems, sacred pauses and reflections that brings you through the cycle of the seasons in a contemplative way, it is now available for pre-order at:

https://www.easons.com/Still-Points-A-Guide-to-Living-the-Mindful-Meditative-Way-en-us.aspx

Or from Amazon or (preferably) from any good independent bookshop!

May it bring a little peace+

Be Still and…

 Taking refuge in this one this evening…

Desert Stillness:

Be still 

and know

that I Am..

Would you enter the desert

at the heart of yourself?

Would you allow the sandals of your senses

to fall away?

Would you, finally, recognise

the holy ground your heart

truly is?

Would you behold the burning bush

afire with presence at the centre of

your soul?

Then you must 

enter the desert of stillness.

Be still

and know...

Would you know the call to exodus

from the slavery of self?

Would you pass through the waters

of overwhelming worry?

Would you ascend the holy mountain of prayer?

Would you behold the glory so bright that it is darkness?

Would you enter the cloud of the presence?

Would you keep the covenant of grace?

Would you reach the promised land of peace?

Then you must enter the desert of stillness.

Be still 

and know...

For

This is how the Ultimate is revealed:

as presence through stillness,

as Being beyond being,

as emptiness without absence,

as right relationship,

in which 

we come to know

the self truly

only in the light

of Pure Being as

independent

(where all else depends on love),

as non-contingent:

(where all else arises from previous causes),

as creative:

(where all else sub-creates),

as transcending all,

imminent in all,

beyond all,

but 

holding all

in being

by

Love.

Would you enter the desert at the heart of yourself and see it bloom?

If you would,

then only

be still

and you will know.

Mother Teresa: a mystic of holy darkness

Today we keep the feast of the great saint of the 20th century Mother Teresa of Kolkatta. 

Today we keep the feast of the great saint of the 20th century Mother Teresa of Kolkatta. 

While she is known mostly for her extraordinary work for the poor and the destitute in India and throughout the world very few still know of her deep mysticism of "darkness". This darkness has nothing to do with the darkness of evil, rather it is the effect on the soul's inner eye of those who have behld the bright light of the Divine Presence... We are simply blinded by its brightness and only that light can in time restore our inner vision. It is a mystical path walked by only the greatest of those the Lord calls and one of the most difficult to even imagine... simply put after the direct call of the saint to a particular path and mission the Lord seems to withdraw His light so that prayer is an unremitting desert with only very occasional indications that God is present at all... It is a participation in the humanity of Christ crucified upon the Cross and crucified to this day in the suffering of creation while at the same time, to all around them, the saint is a source of Divine Light and grace but the saint is called to ongoing teaching, working, praying all without any form of spiritual consolation in a dark night of the soul that produces extraordinary fruit in those around them while depriving the one who is going through it of anything other than the grace to contintually welcome and fulfil the will of God in the midst of it all. This was seen beautifully in the famous miracle of the light described by Malcolm Muggeridge in his book about her. Coming to film the work of her sisters in the 70's the BBC crew he was with were horrified to discover just how dark the building in the slums where the sisters lived was. It was so dark as to be completely unsuitable for filming. Telling one of the sisters that they would have to abandon the project the news came to Mother who famously said "I will pray." She did so and despite the objections of the crew Malcolm insisted they would film. It was only when they got back to the UK that they discovered that the whole building appeared suffused in a beautiful calm light. The cameramen confessed themselves stumped... what we were seeing, said Muggeridge, was the light of Mother's prayer.

In some of her last words about this spiritual darkness Mother Teresa promised that she would be a "saint of darkness" and like Padre Pio and St. Therese the Little Flower, she promised that she would remain at the doors of Heaven to guide and help all those going through the trial of darkness in their own lives... She is a powerful advocate for those who are suffering and seeking... I pray to her often for light and suggest you might like to also.

Mother Teresa always said her work (and ours too) is simply to be faithful to God in the present moment and not to worry about success... success belongs to God and from the Divine perspective what looks like success to us can be failure to God and vice versa! Just think of the Crucifixion! To live the Christian life is to live one that ever more surely seems to be at odds with the way the world thinks and acts... in our topsy turvy witness we are those who remind the world of what and who are really important... perhaps that is the way that the darkness of our world and the way it treats the powerless, the poor and the hurting may be overcome by the light of the Gospel.

While she is known mostly for her extraordinary work for the poor and the destitute in India and throughout the world very few still know of her deep mysticism of "darkness". This darkness has nothing to do with the darkness of evil, rather it is the effect on the soul's inner eye of those who have behld the bright light of the Divine Presence... We are simply blinded by its brightness and only that light can in time restore our inner vision. It is a mystical path walked by only the greatest of those the Lord calls and one of the most difficult to even imagine... simply put after the direct call of the saint to a particular path and mission the Lord seems to withdraw His light so that prayer is an unremitting desert with only very occasional indications that God is present at all... It is a participation in the humanity of Christ crucified upon the Cross and crucified to this day in the suffering of creation while at the same time, to all around them, the saint is a source of Divine Light and grace but the saint is called to ongoing teaching, working, praying all without any form of spiritual consolation in a dark night of the soul that produces extraordinary fruit in those around them while depriving the one who is going through it of anything other than the grace to contintually welcome and fulfil the will of God in the midst of it all. This was seen beautifully in the famous miracle of the light described by Malcolm Muggeridge in his book about her. Coming to film the work of her sisters in the 70's the BBC crew he was with were horrified to discover just how dark the building in the slums where the sisters lived was. It was so dark as to be completely unsuitable for filming. Telling one of the sisters that they would have to abandon the project the news came to Mother who famously said "I will pray." She did so and despite the objections of the crew Malcolm insisted they would film. It was only when they got back to the UK that they discovered that the whole building appeared suffused in a beautiful calm light. The cameramen confessed themselves stumped... what we were seeing, said Muggeridge, was the light of Mother's prayer.

In some of her last words about this spiritual darkness Mother Teresa promised that she would be a "saint of darkness" and like Padre Pio and St. Therese the Little Flower, she promised that she would remain at the doors of Heaven to guide and help all those going through the trial of darkness in their own lives... She is a powerful advocate for those who are suffering and seeking... I pray to her often for light and suggest you might like to also.

Mother Teresa always said her work (and ours too) is simply to be faithful to God in the present moment and not to worry about success... success belongs to God and from the Divine perspective what looks like success to us can be failure to God and vice versa! Just think of the Crucifixion! To live the Christian life is to live one that ever more surely seems to be at odds with the way the world thinks and acts... in our topsy turvy witness we are those who remind the world of what and who are really important... perhaps that is the way that the darkness of our world and the way it treats the powerless, the poor and the hurting may be overcome by the light of the Gospel.

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; 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