Haven’t been on here for an age but just popping in to let you all know that:
Beginning; Always Beginning.
O God of beginnings
help me to begin.
To shrug off the burdens of before.
To leave aside the anxieties of after.
To release the chains of regret.
To simply begin.
Here.
Now.
In this moment.
With you.
O God of beginnings
help me to begin.
To gift you my brokenness.
To yield to you even my failures
of a moment ago.
To know that our life is built with you
moment by moment,
step by often faltering step,
as you draw us daily deeper into
the fires of love and there transform us.
O God of beginnings
help me to begin.
To begin to love.
To begin to live.
To hear your unbinding call.
To walk out into the light
of the true life you offer
beyond the tomb of time.
O God of beginnings
help me to begin.
To shrug off the burdens of before.
To leave aside the anxieties of after.
To release the chains of regret.
To simply begin.
Here.
Now.
In this moment,
and in every moment after.
Until all our little moments fall away
and we are called into the ending
that is really the eternal
beginning.
Holy Wonder
If you would
be holy;
begin
with wonder.
Go to
the edge
places,
where sky
and sea
meet,
kiss,
and yield
to
each other
their
horizon's touch
in shades
of blue
and green
and grey;
gifting you
with grace
to be lost in
awe;
loose at last
from
all your
wandering
thoughts.
If you would
be holy;
begin
with wonder.
Go to
the wild
places;
the untamed
lands,
where eden's
song
echoes still
between the rocks,
behind the trees,
beneath the waves,
in the sighing
of
the breeze;
there, hear again
the song of
longing
in your own
heart,
your part
in
creation's chorus,
as loud as
thunder,
as soft as snow
falling
on snow.
If you would
be holy;
begin
with wonder.
Go to
the slow
places
where
darkness
becomes
light
as day
emerges
from
dawn,
and dusk
from
day.
Sit with
the
gentle
shifting
of the
light,
see the
stability
of its
circadian
dance.
Watch
moonrises
and
sunsets,
set your
soul
aflame again
with
star fire,
entering deeply
into the
rainbowed
covenant
of dawn.
If you would
be holy;
begin
with wonder.
Go to
the ancient
places,
and there,
rest
in the
inner knowing
of your
youth;
however
old
you call
yourself,
tree
and stone
and sky
long lived
before you
and
will live long
after
you leave.
If you would
be holy;
begin
with wonder.
Go to
the inner
places
of your own
being;
bow down
before the
flame of
presence
dwelling
divinely
in your
soul.
Come
to the
knowing
of
your true name
within
the Name;
with each
breath
be breathed
into the
fullness
of
being
in awe,
in delight,
in the
graced
gratitude
of love.
If you would
be holy,
always
begin
with
wonder.
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.
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 for Divine Mercy Sunday: the Octave of Easter
I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple... and all they to whom the water came were saved! (Cf: Ez:47)
A mystic moment captured some time ago courtesy of beautiful stained glass and Brother Sun being in the right place at the right time... a wonderful reminder of the grace and mercy that flows infinitely and unconditionally from the pierced heart of Christ... and that the whole cosmos is teaching us constantly if we are just aware enough, pause long enough, become still enough to notice.
Then we will see that to drink of this water, to be washed in it, to dwell within it as a fish dwells in the flow of the river this is the deepest longing of our hearts and souls as the ancient Easter Chant recalls:
Vidi aquam egrediéntem de templo, a látere dextro, allelúia: et omnes ad quos pervénit aqua ista salvi facti sunt et dicent: allelúia, allelúia.
Confitémini Dómino, quóniam bonus: quóniam in sæculum misericórdia ejus.
P. Glória Patri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto.
S. Sicut erat in princípio, et nunc, et semper, et in sæcula sæculórum. Amen.
Vidi aquam egrediéntem de templo, a látere dextro, allelúia: et omnes ad quos pervénit aqua ista salvi facti sunt et dicent: allelúia, allelúia.
Here it is in English:
I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, alleluia; and all they to whom that water came were saved, and they shall say, alleluia, alleluia.
Praise the Lord, for He is good; for His mercy endureth forever. [Psalm 117].
P. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.
S. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, alleluia; and all they to whom that water came were saved, and they shall say, alleluia, alleluia.
A meditation for Easter Tuesday:
(I first wrote this some time ago but thought it might be worth a repost for today’s Gospel reading of the Risen Christ meeting with St. Mary Magdalene)
St. Mary Magdalene as a model of the stages of Contemplative Prayer:
She is the Apostle to the Apostles and the first public witness to the Resurrection of the Lord. In the tenacity of her faith she is the perfect example of the Christian Contemplative who in standing by the Cross first loses themsleves in the apparent defeat of the inner death of spiritual emptiness but nontheless keeps faith with Christ throughout the experience, until the moment of dawn arrives and with it her moment of renewed calling by name by the Risen One.
Mary passes through the three stages of the Meditative life in those hours... in sitting by the tomb weeping she has passed through the purgative gate. (The gate of inner conversion)
In looking into the tomb and beholding the presence of the Angels she has passed through the illuminative gate. (The gate of awareness of the Divine Light)
Finally by persevering in vigilence until she hears her name called again she enters the gate of unitive love with the Risen Lord and so receives her mission to announce His Resurrection....
Let us pray to her that she may intercede for us that we too will persevere in prayer even before the empty tombs of our lives until we hear the Lord call us by name and we are able to answer Rabbouni...
Master...
A meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s Anointing
Perfume
They were a people aware of smell as we are not.
Thinking ourselves safe in our sanitised
and oh so hygienic ways we lose so much.
They lived breathing the breath of Mother Earth,
exhaled in a myriad of mists, miasmas and myrrhs;
the Fisherfolk and their slimy shining scales
the Shepherds and their greasy fleeces,
Merchants fogged by clouds of spices,
and Lepers with their cracked and bleeding skins;
above them all, perhaps, the incense fumed robes of Priests
hiding the metal edge of blood poured out upon the altar stone;
so they lived and died with their own fragrance
woven into the warp and woof of cloth and skin and lives,
to say nothing of the sun’s sweat upon the brow and back
of middle eastern days.
How it must have exploded then, this perfume,
as with the cracking of the sealed white urn
the ointment poured out, slow as sunrise,
felt not just upon His feet but in the air,
the precious nard,
that held within itself the living breath
of flowers and herbs
announcing their ancient edenic essence,
pouring its power into nose and throat and lungs,
silencing the room with this sacrament of scent,
at once so sacred and so animal,
singing its old song to both soul and sense alike.
Stored long and held precious
by the Woman for so many days,
a gift perhaps, taken down
only to be put back until the appointed time;
not yet, not yet, she might have said,
waiting for the heart’s movement as only women wait.
Until today, when He visits once again this blessed Bethany,
this place of peace and miracle of friendship,
watered with His laughter and His tears,
for sisters two and reborn brother all.
Perhaps she sees in Him the weary dusting of the road,
perhaps a presentiment of the future way appears,
no matter what spurs the gift,
it is given freely as grace is given,
becoming a deeper grace in that very giving,
now an omen, to point the way toward the path of pain,
a knight’s anointing for the combat coming
for Him who is already thrice anointed,
priest, prophet, king,
yet named anew for death by perfumed oil’s cool touch,
as with her tears and hair she wipes His feet in welcome
liturgy of love that breaks the bounds of law
and silences all but one,
whose sense and soul are long since dulled
to all but self, causing the Word Himself
to speak and make it known that Love
itself permits this scenting scene as prophecy
and extravagance, earth’s last gift for Him
who in its scent song tastes all the notes
and knows again the touch
of crib remembered cooling myrrh,
and its long foretelling tomb,
for which the time has now at last, arrived.
His feet anointed for the journey He must take
so all may at last attain their home,
He will become
the perfumed ointment for our healing,
the fragrant offering,
the incense burned and offered up.
(Picture by Daniel F Gerhertz)
Mother’s Day:
A year of Lockdown:
A year today since this little poem was sent out into the world and then went a lot further than I could ever have imagined. It kept moving and dancing during a year that was probably the strangest and most difficult that most of us have ever had to go through so far... we have lost so many, we have learned so much, we have endured and hopefully we have grown...
In the midst of it all the poem has been shared countless times across the web... Royals and celebrities and news services from the BBC to CNN all featured it in their streams and platforms, and it even became part of the Taoiseach’s (Irish Prime Minister) Easter message. But most beautifully to me at least it has been translated into at least 29 different languages and dialects and has given rise to wonderful collaborations with so many different artists that has resulted in short films and amazing animations and educational resources. It has been reborn so many times and used in folk, rock, trad and dance musical versions, to say nothing of a rather wonderful chorale. To all of those artists and collaborators I bow deeply in gratitude.
It has also led me into many, many deep and hopefully (mutually) beneficial conversations with people of every tradition and discipline imaginable and has led to many surprising connections and even friendships along the way... It has blessed me and I hope it has blessed you...
When I wrote it, or perhaps more correctly as with all poetry, when it came through me, it arose from a desire to seek seeds of hope and compassion in a time of fear and suffering across the world. It felt like a call to seek the good that is always behind the fear, to be mindful and grow in awareness of the sometimes seeming hidden ways in which Divine Love is always inviting us to grow in grace even in the midst of tragedy and pain, especially seen through the simple and most ordinary moments of kindness that unite us with one another and with all of creation... I believe that this is the most important call for any of us no matter who we are, no matter the circumstances we find ourselves in, lockdown, pandemic or no. I do not know what the next year will bring for any of us, none of us do, but I hope and pray it will be better for all of us, and I know that whatever happens we can all seek the good, be kind, grow in compassion and connection with one another, with creation, and with God,
knowing we are always encompassed by love, we can always sing...
Lockdown
Yes there is fear.
Yes there is isolation.
Yes there is panic buying.
Yes there is sickness.
Yes there is even death.
But,
They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise
You can hear the birds again.
They say that after just a few weeks of quiet
The sky is no longer thick with fumes
But blue and grey and clear.
They say that in the streets of Assisi
People are singing to each other
across the empty squares,
keeping their windows open
so that those who are alone
may hear the sounds of family around them.
They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland
Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.
Today a young woman I know
is busy spreading fliers with her number
through the neighbourhood
So that the elders may have someone to call on.
Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples
are preparing to welcome
and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary
All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting
All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way
All over the world people are waking up to a new reality
To how big we really are.
To how little control we really have.
To what really matters.
To Love.
So we pray and we remember that
Yes there is fear.
But there does not have to be hate.
Yes there is isolation.
But there does not have to be loneliness.
Yes there is panic buying.
But there does not have to be meanness.
Yes there is sickness.
But there does not have to be disease of the soul
Yes there is even death.
But there can always be a rebirth of love.
Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.
Today, breathe.
Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic
The birds are singing again
The sky is clearing,
Spring is coming,
And we are always encompassed by Love.
Open the windows of your soul
And though you may not be able
to touch across the empty square,
Sing.
March 13th 2020
The Softening of Spring a meditation poem:
The Softening
There will be cold nights still,
and frosty mornings, a few at least.
For another few weeks I
will still need to put the lamp on
to read in the early morning
after meditation,
but now when I open the window,
though it is still dark
the birds are singing
in that quiet reassuring relearning
the words once again kind of way.
The evenings too are taking a little longer before shuffling off stage out of winter night’s sparkle starry way.
But, I felt the softening some weeks ago now, that deep moment of knowing,
just knowing in the blood, in the bones
that Spring has come.
It is not marked on any calendar,
receives no celebration, no parade,
and yet it always arrives.
Arrives in its own way, at its own speed, regardless of the weather
or the arguments over whether Spring begins on this date or that date.
It knows no dates, owns only divine call.
It is a breath of life, a subtle change upon the breeze exhaled by the earth as she wakes, stirs, stretches.
It comes perfumed in subtle notes of fox musk and the honeyed tones of hyacinths and daffodils.
It is the colour of new green tips reflected in the golden lights of sharp sun, the deep wisdom of the old frog’s eye squat settled in love’s spawning in the weedy ditches.
It sets the world to loving, to nesting, to feeding, to flying home.
But for me, for me it is a softening of the heart,
a dropping of the shoulders,
a breath exhaled, a promise fulfilled,
a remembrance of sacred resurrection trust, an ancient oath remade that tells
no dark, no night, no winter cold lasts forever and Spring comes always,
and when it will,
So, yes;
I shall wear my scarf a while more,
and smile now at the touch of frost
and pray my heart, old and wintered though at times it may be shall ever soften too
and breathe the grace of Spring.
Seeking the Grail
Would you offer
the heart chalice
upon the altar
of your being?
Beware then,
for the path
to the chapel
is perilous
and the way long.
First, the precious
metal of your mind,
thrice purified as gold,
will be forged anew
in the fire of faith,
must be then
hollowed to be hallowed,
beaten thin to be
blessed by blood’s filling.
O my soul, remember
remember, remember,
the quest for the grail
is all within you,
a space,
an emptiness,
a cup of being
to be filled
to overflowing,
once you
first find it
beneath the ruins
of your fallen life,
behind the trials of time.
Go then.
Hear again
the soul song
calling you to the
hidden chamber
at the centre,
Go with grace
to the heart,
to the fulcrum,
to the white stone,
from which
the fountain
flows.
There, let fall
the sword from
your clenched hand.
You have carried
it long enough.
How much of
your own blood
it has drawn.
Then, drop
the armour,
the false clothes
of shame,
bathe again
in blessedness,
and receive
the longed for
anointing
of your wounds
from the healers
who await
your waking,
your walking
into wonder.
Only then;
blessed,
bathed,
bandaged,
and bearing
your life wounds
as stars,
will you be able
at last,
to hear the
sacred summons
of the
Fisher King,
and pass
unburnt
the flaming sword,
entering the garden
to become
at last
the cup,
the grail,
the chalice,
you have sought
for all along.
There in
the emptiness
of death
discovering
the One
who is
the call,
the quest,
the master
of the mysteries,
and the end
of all
our longing.
A meditation poem on the mystery of becoming the “grail” the vessel of Divine Presence, a path to which all are called most especially in this Lenten season.
(Pic is Galahad’s vision of the Grail by William Morris)
Meditation for the second Friday of Lent;
the mystery of the Heart.
On the Fridays of Lent we meditate on the mystery of the Cross of Christ as the revelation of God's Infinite Love and Mercy.
At the center of the Cross we find the heart.
In Christian (and Jewish) spirituality the noetic centre, the centre and totality of all you are as an individual, as a person, the centre of your soul, is referred to as the "heart".
It is the heart that loves, forgives, wills and contemplates and this centre of life, personhood and love is often identified in the physical body with the heart organ and so the journey of the Spiritual Life was often spoken of as the journey of the mind into the heart there to find the presence of God dwelling at its centre.
At the centre of the Cross we find a heart, but not just any heart, we find the Sacred Heart of Jesus... a human heart yes, a heart that existed in time, that was formed in the womb of His mother and there began to beat, a heart that pumped life's blood and a heart that felt all of the strains of human life until the last breath, the breath upon the Cross, a breath of Love freely surrendered to the Father. A heart that after death was pierced through and poured out on the world the twin streams of blood and water, of mercy and grace. The two streams that to this day pour into the world constantly through the Church. A heart that lay wounded, cold and still in the grave for three days until Easter Dawn...
Our God has a heart... a human heart that knows our weakness and our pain, even the pain of death.
Our God has a heart... a Sacred Heart filled with infinite Love and Mercy for each of us.
His risen Heart beats with love for you, is on fire with love for you....
At the centre of the Cross we find the Christ.
At the centre of the Christ we find the heart.
At the centre of our own heart we find His Sacred Heart,
dwelling within us and holding us in being through Love.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in thee...
Let this be your prayer these Lenten Fridays...
Feeling the call of the Woods today...
Wood Walking
When you walk
the woods,
do so at their pace.
Not yours.
Pause before
you enter
their embrace,
and breathe deep.
Slow down to their
ancient pace
of root,
and
branch,
and
story.
Then,
with a bow,
enter;
and allow their
cathedral coolness
to enfold you,
and their greened light
to anoint you
with
sylvan sacrament
of stained glass
dappling;
and
your healing
will begin.
As over the craggy
bare nerves
of
your busyness,
and
sharp
exhaustion,
and
the rough edges
of your
broken heart,
a gentling of moss
will begin to
grow
as slowly as
blessing.
Feel their tallness
stretch you.
Their deep dark
womb you.
Their leaf,
and flower,
and nut,
circle you,
with knowing,
of a kind unknown to
fleeting minds and
restless hearted
humanity;
greening you to
wholeness again.
Passing into
their sanctuary,
stop;
and become
one
with them.
Let them teach you their
communion mystery;
their secret
homing of
rustling life that
feathered sings
and
furred shelters,
both
beneath,
and,
above.
Listen long
enough
and they will
teach you
their tongue:
words of wood,
and weather,
and water,
united in one
song of praise
that began
with the first
Divinely led
step
into
the dance of
inter-breathing
that you have
forgotten
how to sing
until now.
Sit your
tiredness
down
in the crook
of their
rooted gathering,
with your
back
trunked;
and let them be
your
spine,
just
for a while.
Your sap will
rise
with theirs
in the four-fold
benediction
of the
treed seasons
which
foreshadowed
their
glorious gifting
of their own element
to be
the rood throne
of
the Word
by whom
all is spoken.
Touching
their great slowness,
be reborn
of their wisdom
that promises,
for every Winter
a Spring,
and roots
deep enough
to outlast any
Summer drought
until Autumn’s coolness
comes.
When eventually
you rise from
their embrace,
stretch to the heavens
and breathe deep
of
their largesse,
while ground gripping
with toe tap-root.
Their knowing,
now with you
once again,
dusts you golden
like pollen falling
in the breeze.
Then bow deeply
to your elders
and fellow servants
and walk back
to your life
now luminous once again.
When you walk
the woods,
do so at their pace.
Not yours.
For Sister Moon as she rises full tonight...
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.
A meditation poem for the feast of Our Lady of Lourdes
Lourdes Light
Here heaven
is,
as cave yields
darkness
to admit her light.
She,
who
in her “Yes”
first
restored elemental
balance;
earth, air, fire, water
re-unify
here as
healing grace in
her
presence.
Where she
rests,
in cave's crook
roses now
bloom,
candles kindle,
and the world is
gentled
at her touch.
Where she
stands,
springs fountain
faith forth
and cure
creation,
drawing venom's
poison
from the oldest of
wounds.
Where she
is,
time stops
and enters
Eternity's
grotto of
wombing
wonder
where,
bowing
now,
we
behold the
Divine blessing
of new
beginning,
Wisdom manifest
now as
Mother
and Maiden
both.
Where she
is,
He is,
who makes
of her
person
and point
in time
and place
where
all that is
broken
becomes
whole
and births
blessing
as
Bernadette
beckons
us
heavenward
home.
