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.