Discovering the Divine in the Ordinary Lanscape of Life
Living long, a long Wye,
roots exposed by tide,
limbs held out wide.
A reservoir of memories,
rings to mark the grieving,
the budding, the leaving.
And the years lean over,
gather weight and force,
longing to return to source.
Down in the Spring waters,
Raised up after Fall,
Split open for all.
Ah, smell the Red Oak!
Now fully open in the sun,
see ingrained a life well run.
My friends the fronds
they sweep my heart away
as I listen to what they say.
Soft tails, gold and copper,
wave like souls set free.
My frondy friends wrap their arms around me,
whisper in my ear, if only I could hear.
I love theses wild grasses,
how they thrive in fierce fields,
with arms outstretched, hailing me with hope.
light streams
through stained glass
longings lit
colors flash
upon wood
onto stone
the interface
spirit and matter
shadow and light
sorrow and joy
on the Altar of sacrifice
we give thanks!
Written for my Irish friends
Like streams on the Mourne slopes, we merge round rock and turf, and descend together into still waters.
Like migratory birds we return to this table of friendship, to tell our stories, to remind ourselves of who we are. We are hard-wired to feast in this field together.
Time stills itself at the table of friendship as we bless our abundance and lift the cup our life. We chew and swallow the presence that inhabits the space between laughter, joy and sorrow.
The lime dressing soaks into our green leaves and beetroots, as spirit is drawn into matter. We are tossed together, refreshed by a foretaste of the merging feast that is our destiny.
We have come to a table where sacrifice lifts a glass to gratitude and sorrow reaches out to grasp the plate of joy.
We come to a table where our ego-shells resolve into porous membranes that we might pass beyond mere language into real presence.
And for all this feasting, still, only a glimpse of that broad heart-land that we are learning to make our homeland.
In a coffin of pecan wood, before the altar, he lays still.
His mother approaches and kisses his face and runs her fingers through his hair.
The older brother comes to weep over him, and younger to say what had been left un said.
The lid closes, and a communion of saints gather around us, and we are held by love.
His body goes to ground under Wye Oaks, to soon beside Grandparents.
But his spirit soars, unbound from shame, untouched by fear, and welcomed home.
I look upon the broken shards, healed together and fused into beauty.
Waves of purple sadness and violet hope refracting through us.
Love’s colors being cracked open, distilled down, and poured all around.
And the saints gather to hold us up in this light that passes through.
We are suspended now in a tender embrace, still not knowing, and yet somehow assured that all will be well.
“The light shines in (this) darkness, and the darkness cannot over come it”
I rise and take up my mat of grief, pulling it over me like a heavy wool wrap.
My son draws near, standing in the shadowy membrane between memory and presence, to remind me that Love never fails.
I turn and pull up the shades to face the mourning light, with all its pain, to be assured the night has not overcome me.
I limp toward the kitchen with these torn ligaments of love, searching for a way back to wholeness, but everything looks different now.
I pour coffee, break chocolate into chunks and sit with sadness in the mourning light.
A warm consolation seeps into my bones as I realize it is not just my mourning, its ours, and its His.
All His wounded children are here, all His severed limbs, we sit together, one in hope, in the same light, waiting to be healed into the one body of Christ.
Standing together on a mountain of silence.
With dark eyes peering out from white parchment faces.
Limbs woven into slender cages,
holding the sky
Stripped bare, pure as snow and light as air.
Standing in white drifts and holding a weight glory.
I am transparent that you may see into me, and hold up both my sorrow and joy.
What resides here is sacred, not for the having but for the sharing and transforming.
I am a glad vessel, an experiencer, a witness, and a story teller full of pain and promise.
What I hold is not really mine, it is ours, and its purpose is well beyond my grasp.
But my gladness is as clear as the glass, and as sure as the light passing through.
I love rain that falls straight down, with no wind to push it around. Long heavy drops in gentle free fall. The pains grey sky easing its suffering by just letting go, un-coerced.
As the barometer drops so to do my defenses. Something deep in me feels permission to open its pores and everything becomes enchanted and connected.
I can feel the earth soaking up the cool grace of sky letting go. And yet there remains on the broad leaf and hard surface, some beads of tension, still bound, waiting for the sun to return and release them, to raise them up again.
And what about the water-cycle of the soul of man, governed by the will and this membrane of separate self ? Perhaps a simple, porous yes, and we dissolve into one.