Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 8

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 8

Date: August 29th, 2017/ Grasmere to Patterdale
THIS morning…
life posed a question—

“What will you see?  What will you open your eyes to?  I have given you the night…I knew you were awake…I left the soft rains to wash any visible markings—I wished yours, YOUR tracks to create THIS day.”

Setting out, I held the face of a young woman in the dining room…her words, “I have been here four months AND I have walked NO where—now I shall.”  She saw life in our steps.  Now I gazed at my feet~~~yes, held in boots, and in soft cushioned socks.  What was ahead?  I could SEE the path, the GPS device made the way a bit clearer and certainly added to the clarity of the destination sought.

I saw clearly the relevance of keeping the path.  There were little markers—actually there were—NONE.  It was easy to STOP and look…to see off in the distance, far greater than a stone’s throw—a white furry face, a bellowing clamor.  What were the sheep saying?  I am uncertain who held whose gaze.  I sensed a shepherd’s presence—but none was to be found.

Beyond each bend, over every summit, trudging down wet descents, following the curve of the river, stepping on stones to cross bogs, streams…I saw the dust the shepherd left…it rose like incense preparing the way.

Is this what life wanted me to SEE? Was there more?  Perhaps, less?

I did not mention seeing the sun rise over the ridge of the mountain…it held in the lens of my camera…orbs of green, pink and red—was that the shepherd?

Yes, the simple lens of my camera captured moments of what held me.  Over and over again, it was the face of the lamb—

I saw this more than anything else.  I close here as its voice echoes in the distance…’SEE’

Behold the lamb of God—

Sketch of Myself/ Standing beside…

Sketch of Myself/ Standing beside the Dreamers
                                            “When all of God’s children,
               Black men and White men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics,
                    will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the Old Spiritual,

                                 ‘Free at Last, Free at Last.  Thank God Almighty,
                                                    we are free at last’.”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”
Pen Sketch by Artist Sandra Mattucci

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 7

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 7

August 28th, 2017 (Additional Day in Grasmere)
What Exhortation Will I Leave Behind?

I have walked great distances within the nearness of my dwelling—the place I know as HOME.  I have embarked, traveling curbing distances to lands unknown.  After walking for days, I arrived and my heart felt as if it had finally been “found…”

My eyes OPENED to the vast splendor spread out like a bouquet of the freshest flowers…none the same AND setting my being aloft.

The colors—an artist’s pallet could NOT create…oh! yes…close to what the artist could produce by trying to paint this masterpiece.

Ah, the eloquence of it all held within an inner eye attempting desperately to reveal and bring forth the glory of Her Nature.  She feeds the soul with sustenance like no temporal food can fill…

Waiting, waiting, waiting~~~with arms ALWAYS open inviting the sojourner to return…

Return again, and again, and again the scene will ALWAYS be NEW—

The seasons will cast their ‘change’ in the very blink of an eye.

Transformation stills the valleys and a gleaming light always present transfigures any pilgrim simply seeking to arrive.

The branches of the pines rise.  Their endless refrain my exhortation to life…behold the eternal Resurrection.


Sketch of Myself/ Honest Abe

Sketch of Myself/ Honest Abe“It is rather for us to be here, dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Abraham Lincoln.Gettysburg Address Nov. 19, 1863

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Poem “Song of Myself”
Pen Sketch by Artist Sandra Mattucci

Journal/Coast to Coast—Day 6

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 6

Date: August 27th, 2017/ Rosthwaite to Grasmere
                                                     I Have Not Forgotten You

Sunday morning…
The liturgy began.  The entrance hymn sung by a host of sheep bellowing as they rushed to their mother’s nipples to ‘drink’…
This metaphor…my opening prayer…
“Feed me gentle Mother from the abundance of this earth’s substance.”

The procession was a soft blanket of green grasses, it changed into a stony pathway but the Gospel call was to “Come.”  Here I pause…what will I write?

The pastor was the present pasture leading to far off never lands~~~
Yes, the pastor was ‘being’ itself…every living thing…a being~~~ a pastor proclaiming this liturgy ignited by the sun breaking open the clouds.  Cows frolicked in the fields, chewing cud.  They would not wait for communion—why should they?
Bread broken and shared, the soft grasses dampened by dew—a banquet of plenty.

There was no sitting for this service.  Oh, once or twice I found a rock that said, “Come, I’ll hold you.”  The congregation swept in and out~~~voices laughing, some just rising, whenever, however they entered this Holy of Holies it was their beginning…

The first reading was simple.  It allowed the sweet swelling of silence to ensue.  For whatever was meant to ‘arrive’—the ‘space’ would be open.  The responsorial psalm was sung by the choir masters…birds~~~angels with wings and their voices lifted to the belfry of the steeples~~~endless steeples carved by an unseen hand.  Every once in a while I gazed upon a finger print leading to a page turning itself over to the second reading.

A glance back allowed the reading to ripple…wave after wave~~~endless miles lasting forever…NOW.

The ALLELUIA pierced the space…a mist set in fast and furious—The Gospel begun…nothing visible on the tops of these mountains.  Trusting steps, each step taken laid ground work for the service’s consummation—no act need make THIS moment real.  We  were in the living presence of YOU whom I shall not name. You were in us…have I forgotten You?  This, I thought, I heard You ask.  But why?

Here, now—I know I am because You are.  Swallowed in this landscape, You are bigger than this speck I AM.  I’m humbled realizing You have sought me here to see in what is invisible…every direction shielded~~~spirit in all vapor drizzling down.  I AM following this Gospel and it is more clearly manifested in a clarity that can only be grasped from the chambers of the heart.

I heard beating…but, was it mine?  A window opened for a short time allowing ‘in’ the enormity of this chapel space.  THIS cathedral I am in does not end.  My prayers became like bogs sucking me into earth, releasing me only to step into another.

A rapid descent opened a doorway to this day’s final rest…
“Careful, Careful, Careful” the rocks cried out…”Step softly”—Try as I might to explain this liturgy something spoke inside me…You are in this liturgy NOW—it is ALIVE.

“Remember…I have not forgotten you~~~you are carved in the terrain of my being.  Before you were, I AM.  Go in peace…love and serve Her who lights the moon and stars and the celestial wonders you still have ahead of you.  Your time is not come—when it does, they will all be there to greet you.

NOW, and again Go in Peace…Be Peace…
I AM with you always until the end of age…

I have not forgotten you…”
“…Therefore let the moon shine on thee in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain winds be free to blow against thee: and in after years, when these wild ecstasies shall be matured into a sober pleasure, when thy mind shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, thy memory be as a dwelling-place for all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, if solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts of tender joy wilt thou remember me, and these my exhortations…

(A portion from William Wordsworth’s Lines Written a few Miles Above Tintern Abbey)

Sketch of Myself/ The Gate


Sketch of Myself/ The Gate                                                       The Gate is Narrow…
                                                            Lift the Latch..
                                                              It is Open

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Poem “Song of Myself”
Pen Sketch by Artist Sandra Mattucci

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 5

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 5

Date: August 26th, 2017—Ennerdale Bridge to Rosthwaite
                                                       A Needle & Thread

This day…my pen became a needle.  The ‘blue’ ink became like thread in an attempt to quilt together words—Words that would ripple like the lake traversed…a passage of unknowing wonder.  The needle of THIS pen moves in then out, up and then down.  The paper NEVER is torn, but the stitching attempts to convey the patterns…a lake consumed ‘in’ mountains.

A shower softly painted the glass surface of THIS majestic pool.  Clouds birthed shadows.  The mountains not ONLY around us, but reflected in the water, pull the sky down opening a window for the sun to warm and ignite the dawn’s beginnings.

Every step…knit one, pearl two, knit one, pearl three.
I was in this lake, this mountain, these clouds, the sun’s rays, the seabirds skimming the plate of water, sparkling ripples…the needle in my hand runs from the page.  How do I express the blanket knitted in my being?

The lake was a lacquer drenching me like a particle held in a clam’s shell or oyster.
Did I belong here?  The terrain refused to cast me out…it continued pouring itself over me, through me, within me until I SAW in me the pearl~~~fashioned, chiseled, shaped by years~~~shining alongside everything else that is Nature’s Treasures…

The needle and thread finished?
Heaven’s, NO.  The needle broke open my being…the landscape filled with purple heather pierced my heart. The climb—a thousand steps, if not more…rising, rising, rising.  I could not stop…AND, I did not want to—

At the summit, the sky was whisked apart.  The lakes, the mountains bowed in splendor…it was as if I heard them saying, “Thank you for finding yourself here.”

Ink poured on this page~~~a single strand of words…no-thing could adequately express what I have beheld THIS day.  There are no tears in this seamless piece…there have been so many pauses.  You may read my words wondering, “What is she trying to say?”  Maybe, I do not really know—but, I know where I have set my soles…the ground lives inside me…something NEW breathes in me…

Knit One, pearl two, knit One, pearl three~~~truly we are NEVER finished.

Sketch of Myself/ Pooh

Sketch of Myself/ Pooh
                           Pooh:  “Sometimes the most interesting conversations
                                                         are had with stuffed fluff.”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Poem “Song of Myself”
Pen Sketch by Artist Sandra Mattucci

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 4

Journal/Coast to Coast—Day 4

Date:  August 25th, 2017—St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge
                                                            A Path Shared

hours trekked preparing—
cross training for a journey~~~
eyes unprepared for what the imagination can barley grasp.  The steps holding fast—my breath learning how to keep a new tempo with sudden ascents, tiny steps grab onto quick descents.

My being captures the wind.  I know THIS fierce freedom~~~my body like a mustang on a hill galloping and then carried.  All the preparing~~~physically, mentally, emotionally…the pace set.

Prayer was/is the constant source…
a well from which I drink brings me here…
NOW, again, yet a first.  Beside me another being…two steps~~~now four.

In oneness, a shared path we walk…our pace different and ‘we’ breathe holding each other’s steps.

A dance displayed~~~the ballroom of creation’s floor going off in unimaginable directions.

The music of silence
—a partridge jetting out from the tall grasses
—bogs swamping our boots
—the dribble of mud caked on our pants
—a pause at the river
feet plunged in, ‘another’ steps in with boots on…an exchange in this ballet…I hand over the map held in plastic to hold back the possibility of soaking rains.

I cross and then my companion prepares to do the same.  In her doing so, the map or maps slip from her hand gently, slowly preparing to make their way down the stream.  A pregnant pause…a rush to recover~~~they are recovered and soaked…a holy laughter ensues.

From here we climb, and climb, and climb~~~is there a summit?—NO!
Here it is—-NO!
NOW? Yes!

A rock pile, cairns…a hill (Dent Hill) of remembrance.  It begins to rain.  We are literally in the clouds.  The view through speckles of vapor~~~ stunning.  Shadows, silhouettes are tucked between edges that would not—could not fold.

We walked amidst angels today from beginning to end.  When we thought ourselves lost, we could not have been more found…AND, the dearest angel met today again and again and again—the friend beside me stepping, trusting, a willingness to open to this shared path.

Still, there are more than two pairs of footprints walking with us.
There are a set of ‘soles’ not asking us to follow but, THIS time, stepping in ours delighting ‘we’ believe, at least enough, that we will make our way.

Our ending~~~that will be a tale—
Perhaps, we will share—
Parts we will hold sacred—
One thing certain already…

We will never be the SAME.

March On…

March On…
                                               Not with boots ‘stomping’
                                              but, instead, ‘feet’ dancing,
                                              voices rising, spirits soaring…

                                                      We march on…
                                               women, men, children…
                                                       We are ONE

Journal/Coast to Coast—Day 3

Journal/ Coast to Coast—Day 3

Date: August 24th, 2017

THIS day…I Raise my head—
I see,
AND am filled with Blessings…

One extraordinary kaleidoscope of hidden treasures bursts open the ‘chest’ tucked in every corner of a terrain etched out~~~

An invitation heralds like a letter addressed—“this might be the way you follow.”  This after this gentle ‘prophet’ prepared a banquet, holy communion, to sustain my companion and me on the path unplanned this day.

We set out to complete the loop~~~a seven mile stretch began at the marker C2C— #000.  Before our arrival at the Irish Sea, we spotted a messenger, St Bega a young girl who at age 12—ran away from home.  Her father, a king, but she would not subject herself to an arranged marriage.  She sailed away arriving here, living as a hermit.  Already I AM ‘captured,’ and set free in this place.  She left her ring band behind~~~she lived her life doing good things for people.  She held a vision~~~
the mother presenting her the Christ child and she sought to create a nunnery.  We entered the priory—we entered the garden…we beheld The Mother, her children all around her and in her arms a little one rested.  I experienced deep peace and I  heard a voice—a woman entered the garden and said, “You can enter the church~~~it is beautiful.”  Steps led to the west entrance. It was like passing through a halo..

Inside…the kaleidoscope danced in every direction~~~symbols painted, quilted, etched, carved~~~my eyes bounced in between. Tears held within washed me in mystery beyond words.  I was wrapped in the ARMS of the Mother…and in the arms of ALL the significant women in my life~~~alive today and those who have made their way.  They filled my spirit NOW birthing a joy bursting as if from a cocoon.  My wings—drying as they prepared for flight.

Just then—Mary arrived.  Mary~~~the keeper of the plants swayed into the Chapel extending “Welcome”~~~offering invitations for sweet communion.  She revealed herself, her lovely weavings adorn the altar AND the simplicity of her Christ presence filled the room…
She was love.

The kaleidoscope of her being set us off in the direction of the sea…our boots blessed in the roaring waves as they raced to the shore…stones gathered to carry us to Robin Hood’s Bay~~~ our ending.  We’ve begun, BUT truly will our ending BECOME, once again, a beginning?

Our soles kissed the trail…a union grounded in ‘being.’  Here the kaleidoscope exploded~~~colors deep beneath the surface pushed through creating an endless green comforter.  To our left, a comforter of blue in an array of hues sparkled in the sun until soft drops of rain dabbed the canvas beneath our feet.

A light house greeted us as we made our ascent…its very ‘presence’ lifted us, our steps renewed and we walked as if we were in flight…were we flying?  We slid along the cliff sides.  In silent wonder, we held the sounds of the surf countless feet below.  Yellow fields of wheat to our right~~~liquid gold.  In my mind’s eye, I leaped plunging into a sea of grains~~~their seeds…the life they shall offer I AM fed and, though it is not a food consumed, I am filled with nature’s nurturing, life-giving resurrection encounters.

Making our way off the trail, we turned back for St Bees…a train track running parallel to our left side.  We walked amongst sheep, cattle, forest trees, tall grasses, wet bogs, and angels disguised as clouds.  The sun began her descent as we made our way back to our ‘beginnings’—

I write, I whisper, “GOOD NIGHT.”  I almost wish I could erase the line hoping THIS day would never end.  We were asked to find the kissing gate.  We never did, or did we?  I feel like I have been kissed by Heaven and endlessly reminded—“SIMPLY RECEIVE!”


Sketch of Myself/ “From the Beginning…All IS Good”

Sketch of Myself/ “From the Beginning…All IS Good”                                                                                   In Memory of Richard ‘Dick’ Glater
                                     (September 20th, 1941—January 9th, 2018)

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Poem “Song of Myself”
Pen Sketch by Artist Sandra Mattucci

Journal/Coast to Coast—Day 2

Journal/Coast to Coast—Day 2

Date: August 23rd Arrival in St Bees Time kept ticking—flying through the night…hours passed—the minutes thread themselves into seconds and on August 23rd, 2017 our descent was made into London.

A distance from our immediate view, Big Ben stood erect~~~a time piece echoing the hours until NOW.  The clanging bell (for a first time) STOPPED…moments seem lifeless.  But, am I more ALIVE in its present-present not ‘clanging’ to time?

I have toyed with this piece…this piece of time—dictating when we should arrive, what time to begin. Time, time, time does not mark the beats of my heart.

My gaze holds the changing patterns before my eyes…my lids wish to close, but a train (the train I am on) slips its way through the green misty country side.  Sheep graze in the fields, bright luminous purple flora laces itself in the grasses. Small shafts of light break the clouds for a splinter of a moment AND, at this ‘time,’ I am held in silence.  So many, the scenes of my life, flash in front of me directing me to where I am and preparing me and my kindred companion for St. Bees and the Indian Sea. Our first steps will begin on Friday—tomorrow, not yet come and like time unheard, I will not rush to fill in the lines waiting to be written.  I will allow the clanging/ceaseless bell in the capsule of THIS temple—time to rest.

Like Ben, I’ll refrain from making any sound and hear the song whose notes make NO sound yet carry a vibration guiding a way that will be followed in a path charted, often unmarked, destined with unfamiliarity yet welcoming us home.



A Path Shared…(A Journal) Coast to Coast (C2C)

     The brilliance of a ‘shared’ walk across England (Coast to Coast/August 22-September 14th, 2017), remains like a golden nugget tucked within the heart of a mountain and the valleys of my being’s terrain.

Months ago, I and a fellow Sojourner, traversed this stimulating landscape.  In words, I attempted to capture the daily encounters…the ‘ones’ putting flesh on my soul.

The memories now in the mansions of my dwelling—they are golden gems.  For the next twenty one Mondays I will share some ‘light’ that radiated from the pages of my journal and snapshots that captured my heart.

Welcome to C2C…


                                   A Path Shared…(A Journal) Coast to Coast (C2C)

Day 1

The date: August 22, 2017

   “I live my life in widening circles
                                                that reach out across the world.
                                               I may not complete this last one
                                                     but I give myself to it.

                                   I circle around God, around the primordial tower,
                                          I’ve been circling for thousands of years
                                            and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
                                                   a storm, or a great song?”

                                                     ~Ranier Maria Rilke~

Yesterday, the day before departing for a journey, a trek, the circle of the sun was overshadowed by the moon. (An eclipse)  The landscape’s horizon grew dim, the birds flew without a song—sparrows dipped in the earth causing the dust to rise and coat their feathers.

Metaphorically, the shadow became my friend who departed her tiny tent of a being on August 12th.  In my arms, she drew her last breath and I breathed part of her within me—

I felt her in the shadow—emblazoned in the sun…she has become sun, clouds, dusk and dawn~~~she is ALIVE in all things and as I write it is NOT metaphorical—her ‘BEING’ is in everything and the Divine paints itself in this grief~~~my heart broken and so full of life.  I write upon a blank canvas.  Yes, these words which, perhaps, make no sense still flow as I sit within a cage waiting for the gate to open.  I will fly across a pond…a light glowing in the distance. The light circles revealing its fullness and welcoming the shadows as they pass in between the brilliance of light uncharted.

So, just who am I?

Am I a falcon, a storm or a great song?  Maybe I’m something completely other than these three BEINGS or maybe a part of me IS the falcon~~~wings in flight, carried by the storm swirling in my soul AND the song unfolding revealing who I AM as I walk a path—A trail called Coast to Coast (C2C) and this time I walk with a companion, a soul friend whose voice is solace, whose presence is gift, whose story writes itself in between the pages of my life.  Will we ever be the same?  I think NOT.  How can one be if one enters into the fullness of a journey yet unseen, but already begun?

So many questions impregnate my hollowed dwelling~~~ the questions echo within the chambers of my heart…they crackle through the cage of my ribs, they plunge into the blood running through my veins.  Answers no longer suffice—all I’ve been taught, studied, believed in…GOOD—but, no longer carry the relevance they once held.  I’m fine…perhaps, more than fine, in all UNKNOWING…no more pretending everything makes sense!  Sense is not what I seek.  Instead, what I seek—the ability to LIVE each day grasping life’s lessons~~~ allowing me to awaken, inspiring me to see that the wheat and the weeds within the garden of my life grow purposefully.  The wheat lives in me, the weeds live in me and they dwell together.  When the harvest of my life comes, I pray I see the wheat & weeds as anything but separate…their roots allow me to hold to the grounds of life.

I carry so many persons on this passage.  The weight of my backpack—not heavy.  The more I remember as I make my way, the more I trust the lightness of my steps.  Together, my friend and I will be led…heaven knows it is how we are here—NOW!  It has BEGUN.


Sketch of ‘Myself’ 2018

                                              Sketch of ‘Myself’  2018

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” I’ve bound together a tapestry of sketches—
a ball point pen—a sheet of paper.

THIS ‘timeless’ Sojourner soaks the pages NOT with words, but instead with ‘images’…
a simple prayer unspoken, yet imbued in every detailed shadow…black, white—color.

From a transformed heart, I will share with you on the Mondays in 2018,
“Sketch of Myself.”

“I am the poet of slaves and of the masters
of slaves

                          I am the poet of the body
                          And I am
                          I am the poet of the body
                          And I am the poet of the soul
                          I go with the slaves of the earth equally with the masters
                          And I will stand between the masters and the slaves,
                          Entering into both so that both shall understand me alike
                         I am the poet of Strength and Hope.”

Whitman’s earliest proto-lines that lead to “Song of Myself”

                                       Crossing—over or under…it is all up to you

What I Need…Love, me

What I Need…Love, me

As soon as I
learned of You,
I asked, “Bring us together.”

It seemed the more
I pleaded—the
further the divide became.

I attempted to
bridge the divide—
fortunately, my idea
did not come to fruition…
if it had, I am uncertain
how these words
would have written themselves.

I have come to
realize or accept
‘coming-together’ was not
in Your plan…
At least, the way I needed
it to take place.

So, I simply do not
ask anything of You
anymore…how is that for persistence?

Don’t get me wrong…
Please, do not read this

All I know is
You are there—
You are constant.

I do not need much else.

I know You are love!
How? You are not something
I can put into words.

Because of that—that
love…that is You
I try to pass it on the way designed for me.

Often I have been
blessed by the recipients
of my love.
Truly—it is in giving that
we receive.

It is difficult
when those whom you would long
to share it with MOST
—envy you
—spew untruths
—harm those you love
because they love you.

This is a short autobiography of my life.

My life so full
—graces ‘unfolding’
beyond my ability to see.

I do not need

Because—I know
You are there.

Photo taken by Lisa Marie Teubel walking a shared path on England’s Coast to Coast Trail

Mystery Transfigured

                                                      Mystery Transfigured…
                                                 THIS day…’we’ celebrate Life.
                             Everyday after we hold in gratitude the ‘birth’ of EVERY being—
                                               AND, we envelop the unknown—
                                           everything begun before the memory of today.

                                                         Mystery Transfigured

A Season of Change

A Season of Change

I have watched
the seasons come
and go.

They have changed
and so have I.

The large Oak
rooted in the forest
—a broken branch
—its torso reshaped by wind
—leaves come and gone
only to be reborn
in ‘another’ new season.

The tree stands, for now,
as do I.

All the other trees…
pines, maples, birches, weeping willows,
they, too…stand.

The trees~~~
they call NO attention
to themselves.

They ‘face’ the seasons—
all the different
weathers—and, simply
say “yes” to a
silent voice ‘birthing’
life into newness
each day
—an ever unfolding
‘incarnation’ of mystery.

The change of seasons
mindfully calls
me to its passing.

I’ve harvested
what has grown inside
my interior shelter.
I have released what I
no longer need to carry.
I have quieted myself
for moments to listen
and I have painted images
at times, in word,
adding flesh to
the exterior of my

Changing—I have become
the Seasons…
a solitary speck
joined with every sand
crystal washed ashore
and pulled back out with
the tides.

Something far larger than I
lives in my marrow
and collectively calls me—
speaks to me
in this dance…this Season of Change.

I simply, divinely
am living ‘in’
each step
until they be no more.



Saying ‘yes’
to life
gives birth
to the Universe
inside us.

This unexpected
‘Creation’–it groans
and sighs…waiting

Continuously born anew
—gasping in wonder
—blissfully laughing and crying
—sorrow so deep
the flood gates
release the living pools inside.

Breaking open dams—
Lavishly forming
new channels,
IF willing,

the ‘vessels’ we are
from our ‘beginnings’
reach an ending.

Pouring freely—
pouring into
an open sea
widening the way

we start
again and again
moving beyond reach of the shore…




Many times
the words become ‘lost.’

It is then THIS Wanderer
becomes alive on a trail leading toward
endless tomorrows.

No longer
immersed in crowds,
the need to follow others
saying, “This is the way.”

Now…this lost path
traveled by few—
it is the yellow Brick Road.

‘Oz’ is not the destination.
No, it is the enchanted
eternity ‘being’ lived in.

All around
life pours itself out—

in chaos…a scarecrow becomes
‘conscious’—“thinking”…the wonder of it all

in calm…a tin man lubricates a
heart that has never missed a beat

a stillness learned…a courageous lion sits
perched within a pride.

so silent

The only sound ‘breath’
…breath, a prayer
holding this moment

hoping NOT to be found…

and a pair of shiny red shoes
lay beside a roadway

the path trodden
rising as if no step
had ever been taken.

The Wanderer—
a small ‘point’ on the horizon’s line

In a spectacle of wonder.

The Liturgy

The Liturgy

a ‘wind’ stirs

setting into motion
what ‘reason’
cannot begin to

A candle remains aglow
in the pregnant

The whirling gives
to expectant

—There is a change
in color
—Then a letting-go
—An empty period, dormant…
lifeless, yet
moist with preparation—
for arrival.

The winds lift
the cover.
A seal waits,
waiting for ‘whenever.’

A shadow cast.
The moon sets
in the presence of the sun’s rising.

Returning again
changed, and
yet, the same.

This beginning will end
when a cusp of air
hurls itself across the
water sprinkling
life on a a bed of grass
longing to be christened.

An ending will sweep
across the garden
to prepare itself
for another

Death does not end.

a bell softly
clangs in the distance.

The liturgy has begun.




A shadow hovered.
In the darkness
hanged a solemn void.

She, curled in a corner…
‘fear’ gripped the soft
delicate temple of her
shivering body.

A profound ferocity
broke her silence.
With a strength
that lay hidden,
her incarnate voice spoke,
“Yes…let it be done.”

Fast forward…
everything in between
created and unknown…

That hour.
A bleak shade pulled
down ACROSS the world.

Her knees bore into the earth.
Her hands clenched
the rocks she dared
to grasp, but would not

Soils spilled through the
open spaces of her

She looked up at
her child.
Her ache so deep—
she began to choke.

For one moment
did she stop and think, “If only
I said, NO?”

When it was finished…
She held her child
in the cradle of her arms—

Lifeless, she caressed
his brow…
Her tears washed
the blood
stained across his face.

The other women stood at her side.

This was NOT a moment of bliss.
These women were ‘conscious’—
allowing the pain.

No outward ACTS of violence…
their ‘silence’ a protest—
THIS, the Gospel message.

Mary’s voice held back words
AND her beating heart
echoed aloud, “Yes, yes, yes!”

SIBYL MAGAZINE—December 2017/ An Artistic Web

SIBYL MAGAZINE—December 2017/ An Artistic Web

A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sandra Mattucci—An Artistic Web

A slender thread spooled itself from within my being.  From where did this fine feather-like hair of elasticity come?  An invisible place inside me creates, often times, without my seeing the intricate web of life from which I hang. My every step, a piece of twine, dangles from the earth within which I am centered.  The core of my being is fashioned to the very breath inhaling and exhaling in effortless wonder.  But is it that effortless?  I humbly respond, “Yes.”

For a moment, I envisioned myself to be a tiny spider dwelling in a gigantic home called earth.  On this spinning marble, she swings mystically fashioning a pattern, not needing a single second to look back to see if everything is unfolding as it should.  This tiny clever being trusts what is forming is GOOD.  She hopes that the web she is weaving will hold her, what flies into her design will sustain her, will birth the life growing inside her.  Her children’s first steps will emerge from the strands she has woven.  Storms will arise and wreak chaos on the foundation she has spun into life.  Even if all she has artistically made is launched by winds to a new uncharted terrain, she will build anew.  Each time knowingly and unknowingly all within her will continue to create an Artistic Web of Life which will connect her to her dwelling place.

The Camino upon which I embarked, began before I physically set out.  I was nudged to make the arduous pilgrimage to discover the me I thought I had lost.  I accepted the invitation.  The path became the ground of my being.  I walked, I skipped, I danced, I paused.  My back pack did not slow me down.  Instead, the rhythm of every step gauged the pattern of life.  Returning home, I took my pen and began to fill in the canvas.  Slowly, the creative process took on a life I could not have imagined.  The web of my being discovered this simple pilgrim.  I found myself an explorer of sorts.  A gentle strand, frayed at the edges, connected me to all of life.

My imagination stretches me and I swing from a tree branch attaching myself to the wings of a seagull in flight.  I caress the peaks of mountain tops and attach myself on an unfurling wave…I cast ashore on a speck of sand and I rise to the stars.  I latch onto the moon and dare to reach for the sun where I will burn with desire.  The quest, to seek the Source of Life that lives and moves and fashions my being, connecting me to all.  The artistic way of life is a never ending pilgrimage.  The ‘temple’ now easily discovered.

These past twelve months you have woven yourself into my story.  Find your thread now and create the life you are meant to live—Beautiful temple that is You—that is I.

In Gratitude
Buen Camino



Torrents of rain—
Summer sun—
Sleet, snow

Driving down the
what’s the speed limit?

I’m going to make it
on time.

What’s this?

Orange & White

NOT today!
NOT today!

Suddenly, I’m in a
back up…
The orange & white cones
surround me—

I’m moving again—slowly!

—Pothole repair
—Complete lane changes
—New painted lines

Someone ‘honks’ behind me!
We’re moving.

I make it on time…

The unique parallels—
What needs ‘constructing’
in our own lives?

Can we slow down?
Hold off rushing to NOwhere…

The pavement of our heart’s
does it need mending?
Are there cracks, divides
that separate us from our
very selves?

What paint are you using
to SEE the world?
Orange & white are
comforting colors.

Stop…proceed when ready—
you can create lane changes if
you’re off course.

The road ahead is yours to
blaze…use caution
when necessary.

Trust ‘your’ inner guide.


“Just…a Dream?”

“Just…a Dream?”

It was a cold winter’s night—
the creatures scurried round
and round.

The trees joined branches
circling the ‘pine’
standing in the center.

The wind whistled
—it howled.

The tree in the middle around whom
all were gathered
began to sway.

A little girl
wandered through the forest—
she heard the hoot of an
owl, leaves crunched beneath
her every step.

Suddenly, she saw a star—
it burst through the
velvet black sky.

Tiny spectrums of light
attaching themselves to
something up ahead—

The girl ran.
Twigs cracked echoing
in the chill of the valley.
She almost fell over a stump…
with urgency
she traveled in haste

and when she came
to the site,
she barely could
believe what lay
directly in her gaze…

A beautiful pine decked
in star dust—
its light revealing
all the tiny creatures that
nestled around.

The other trees
seemed to give a bow.
When they clicked
their branches,
one song after another
could be heard…

The little girl chimed
in— “Oh, Holy Night,”
“Hark the Herald Angels Sing,”
“What Child is this?” and
finally, “Silent Night”…

The small child curled
herself underneath the tree—
the animals cradled
beside her…

the owl flew down
unfolding its wings like
a blanket
and covered the sleepy child.

When the child woke
after sleeping in heavenly peace,
she threw back her covers—
her boots were unlaced
at the foot of her bed
and she rushed to her window
speckled in frost—

a star hung in the
night sky.

In the distance
beyond her sight,
she noticed a glow.

The child thought she was dreaming,
“Could it have been real?,” she
thought to herself.
She heard a faint ‘hoot’—she was certain
it was the owl.

Then the wind began to roar
and she heard,
“Star of wonder
Star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright…”

The little girl was
singing along
until a forest creature
made its way to her
window pane…

it laid a
pine cone
on the ledge
and scampered off.

The little girl
I Believe!”

She covered herself
in a swaddling
closing her
“Joy to the World.”



My ‘eyes’ closed
before me
like in no other time

The Bridge—
I saw it so many times.
I walked across it.
I touched it…
my soles to its wood.

THIS time I looked in
the water and there it was—
so visible.
But, I could NOT touch it.

STILL, I knew the message
like at no other time

Do I believe in
The Resurrection?

The bridge ALWAYS
before me…

I’ll cross it one day
(The BRIDGE which holds my gaze in the water…oftentimes invisible)
and STEP into



can behold.

Great Heron

Great Heron

The curtain opens.
The water’s edge
a striking reflection
like that of a Monet—
Slender legs like river reeds
dance unhurriedly.
Slowly, the stalker
seeks her prey.

her feathered tutu
adorns her body.
A gray sailing ship
removed from the
pool, she’s afloat.
Her reflection gazes
back at her.

The trout come out
from beneath the riverbed…
Swimming like Olympians, the fish
enter ‘open’ waters.
Is it safe?  The music softens.


The sun rises—
it is the moment she’s awaited.
Frozen, transformed as if a
rock wall of stone
her eyes ‘fixed’
holding the moment.
Her neck, like an elastic
cord unleashed.
Her beak a fine sword
rips through the water.
The symphony plays a high note.

Rising triumphantly
a poetic tragedy held—
then devoured.
The morsel no
longer visible
cascades down the elevator
of the heron’s
lanky neck sending
the feast to the
storage bin.

The curtain closes.
The performance far from
The dance goes on
and on
and on.
From the orchestra pit
a ‘pitch’ played—
a haunting completion.

A fish leaps from
the surface…a splash heard—
two slender reeds sway
unnoticed in its direction.




Sometimes I do not
                  seek the words.

Instead, I hold a
       simple gaze
   and the words seem
       to write me.



You, fairest darkness
your ebony melts
like honey trickling from a comb.

The sounds of night—unseen.

I hold this moment.

My inhale—cascades down the keyboard.
Pregnant pause exhales long enough to
become a star.
Written and inspired under the wise tutelage of June Gould/Guest House 2017.
Mary Lindberg eloquently performed the piece “Nocturne” while the poem ‘played’ itself!

Death’s Doorway

Death’s Doorway

I stood
beside death’s doorway…
there was NO sting.

For a long time I sat until a
stirring utterance seemed to
whisper, “It’s NOT your time…but you are welcome.”

So many I knew and loved passed through
this Way—I held my questions
sitting in the Silence.

Death spoke. The doorway spread wider.  I heard ‘its’ creaking and she
said, “I’m NOT an end.”

Do I really believe this?

Death seemed to understand my
inner stirring…
present day ‘trials,’ chaos all
around, suffering
(and YES, GOOD tucked between).
It is anything or everything BUT an illusion.

The ‘pains’ of life have
become my greatest teachers.
(would I choose these moments?
Heavens, NO—still I would not
change what at present is)

Death nudged me from my
mindless stupor—

“I’m your friend…I’ll carry
you to the beyond…when it is your time.
We’ll go alone, you & I , but—
I’ll say no more. Hold the Eternal…
and for NOW—
please close the door.”

SIBYL MAGAZINE—November 2017/ A Well on my Back

SIBYL MAGAZINE—November 2017/ A Well on my Back

A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sandra Mattucci—A Well on my Back

I carried a well on my back each day I walked the Camino.  It was FULL of everything I needed—‘well’ at least what I thought was essential.  This ordinary pack I chose to carry was weighted.  Each morning I meticulously filled and re-filled its contents.  A deep space existed within like a pool. It was so deep not even an echo could be heard as I set out.

Without realizing, I became this well.  I was anything but separate from what I carried on my back.  Daily lessons revealed themselves.  I left some-thing of me, from this well, behind—I left it for another in need and for a need in me to free myself from all the right ‘stuff.’  Literally and figuratively, I began emptying this well.  I longed to pour out more especially when my ‘sights’ fell upon a woman seated outside the cathedral doors.  She sat christened in the sunlight, wrinkled by rains that drenched her body, but her posture was prayer.  She held out an ’empty’ basket.  She had no need to perform.  She spoke not a word.  My eyes immediately focused on this woman whose quiet demeanor drew me to her.  I noticed the many tiny photos scattered at the bottom of a simple basket which rested at her knees.  Images of children captured my attention and tugged at my heart.  Were they her children?  You had to look deep ‘into’ her well to see what was her heart.  She had let go of everything.  She trusted that she would receive all that she needed for this day.  And, if not, if she received nothing from the pilgrims who passed her, she would be content with the little she had.  She was filled with gratitude.

Loose coins in my pocket seemed to fall into her basket without my raising my hands to place them into her container.  My instincts were correct.  She raised her eyes to meet mine and whispered, ‘thank you.’  I turned away weeping.  It was she who became for me the grandest of cathedrals…empty, yet so filled with gratitude.

The pack on my back was lighter.  Each day as I set out, if I listened closely, I heard a hollowness in this well.  Throwing a stone into its chamber, I would hear the splash.  Voices teaching, prodding me “Fill your bucket, you can ‘pour’ out more,” but now I was twirling around in my inner mind—EMPTY yourself, it is then you know how much more you have to offer.  I pray that I never become so full that I am not able to hear a drop upon a stone’s throw.  I desire to hold the emptiness just enough that I never stop giving.  A servant’s heart, empty I am, inwardly receiving a spring of living water.  Each day I attempt to live in this current flowing into wells interconnected in time and beyond…

In becoming Empty, I am forever full.

In Thanks…Until December,
Buen Camino



Who painted THIS reptile—EVIL?

It wraps itself, coiling around our
‘healing’ medicinal logo!
(Caduceus/Rod of Asclepius)

It is the ONLY living creature
who sheds its skin,
transforming itself—LIKE




has a way of sneaking
up and down
upon you.

In the busy highways
and byways…
in the sounds of traffic
and blaring muzak
the silent hush of prayer
“I’M HERE, I’m Here, i’m here.”

In the soft wind
draping through the leaves
dangling within the trees’ branches—
prayer sits in an empty
nest…”I’m here.”

In the darkness
frozen in winter’s nakedness,
a band of snowflakes
paints the world a delicate
essence of white.
Prayer is the shadow
bringing ALL together
night and day…”I’m here.”

In the sweet, savory
moon going down in
the west—
the curtain
closes on a musical
that never ends.

In prayer—
no words necessary…

The unveiling of Oneness
ALWAYS before us, beside us,

within us.

My Soul’s Address

My Soul’s Address…

Does not live on a
particular street.

No zip code
can trace its location.

A label attached to a letter will NOT
lead to my Soul’s Address.

Where then can my Soul
be found?

Wrapped in the blanket of
my body~~~

—which stretches like
a tree
—that basks in the sun
—that delights in falling rain
—that shivers in the cold
—that ‘feels’ both joy and heart break
—that one day
will unzip itself
releasing my soul.

My soul has borrowed THIS tent
for ‘some’ time.

My Soul’s Address soars like a flock of migrating birds
into the eternal unknown.


SIBYL MAGAZINE—October 2017/ A Shaft of Light

SIBYL MAGAZINE—October 2017/ A Shaft of Light


Sandra Mattucci—A Shaft of Light

A cloudy sky, a down feathered blanket stretched outward across the dome above my head to all four corners of the Universe.  I walked under a tapestry such as this on several days of the Camino and I have come to love these ‘clouded’ moments—so solitary and wildly abandoned.  The gray skies cast shadows revealing hidden images tucked in the landscapes ‘in’ between.  During these times of stillness, I envisioned stretches in and between the soul of my being.

Stepping quietly, the only sound I heard was the ‘crackle’ of my foot prints.  I waited and watched knowing it would come, but when?  What was it?  What came?  A shaft of luminous light pierced the seamless aloof sky.  The light, so intense, cast a tunnel reversing the ‘unknowing’ and paving the day allowing the dampened colors to be exposed.  The wait over, but the clouds found another way to cast their shadows.  Trekking in this timeless “unexpected,” I was pushed, pulled and my very breath reshaped.  Then another ray penetrated the vast sky like a contraction followed by numerous other strikes in rapid succession.  What I beheld was a fan spreading out like fingers being stretched—no visible between.  Time became forgotten, inconsequential.  Golden light seeped to touch the earth as my being soaked in warm resplendent hues.  I would not understand if the shadows in my ‘person’ remained unseen, unnoticed.

I am alive in this womb of being.  Cloudy days renew the ‘birthing’ of endless dawnings within.  The embryonic fluids of a life lived have thrust me in the spiraling gestational rhythms of life where every change of season births me anew.  Creation is adorned in all its majesty and I am called to celebrate life around and within me.

The Way opened paths to me that I had not recognized and whose message I did not grasp.  Today I sit—my pen strokes this page as I attempt to convey the lived experience.  How do I relay adequately the beauty revealed in bleak unknowns, in transparent prisms of light which at moments ‘blinded’ my sight until the heavy damp clouds let loose, raining down on me, soaking me with showers heralding a charted path.  Every step—every breath seemed to be a first.  My being embraced the wonder.  My eyes opened seeing life anew.  Each morning as I walk, I am new.  Everything I smell, hear, touch and what ‘touches’ me ever so intimately, I hold never to take for granted what I have been given.  My spirit swells with bliss.  The womb of life bursts yet again.  Reborn am I.

A shaft of light ignites the sky.  A bolt of lightning nothing can hold back strikes.  What will be struck?  A thunderous roar like a band of endless drumming reverberates and shivers ripple down my spine.  I walk, I wait trusting the light will come.  Now I realize I am this light Shining On.

Until November,
Buen ‘BEAM’ Camino

SIBYL MAGAZINE—September 2017/ Treasures ‘within’ the Universe

SIBYL MAGAZINE—September 2017/ Treasures ‘within’ the Universe


Sandra Mattucci— Treasures ‘within’ the Universe

Each day as I walked the Camino, I embraced the soil that welcomed my footsteps becoming every curl of cracked mud beneath my boots.  All weathers greeted me and took on vibrancy.  The land became alive as I walked upon its flesh.  Far from being buried in all I encountered, I was awakened to creation before me.  The landscape became a treasure beckoning me to look out and ‘see.’  As I focused on a hidden chest I sought since childhood, I recalled fairy tales and hunting for buried treasures.

Allow your imagination to recall the adventures that transported you across oceans, a single oar in hand, sea creatures circling your little boat until it caught a final cusp of wind and brought you to an uncharted island.  Uninhabited?  Was it really?  A jungle appeared and countless eyes gazed upon you.  You dared to step.  Suddenly, you were hurled into the air not knowing what lifted you from the surface you thought safe.  The adventure continued.  High into the tree tops you were taken in by a family of what appeared to be familiar faces.  These creatures nuzzled you, ran their fingers through your hair, tugged at you, then beckoned you to be still.  Below a ravenous hunter smelled you and rushed to have you, but you had been baked in an orangutan’s dander and laughed heartily.  These creatures never knew you but they welcomed you, held you safely in the haven of the lush jungle greenery—their home.  They bid you to stay promising you shelter, food, and comfort, but I had to pursue the treasure our ‘little’ minds literally believed ‘real.’  Reawakened as an adult NOW, the make-believe chest overflowing with rubies, diamonds, gold coins and sapphires is the landscape—the terrain is the Pearl of Great Price—the Way has become my life.

Richness fills me.  Not even the Dow Jones equals the gains I have made on my journey of discovering the me I sought.  The little I have is all I need.  The Camino experience opened my eyes.  I ask myself if I am willing to let go of more as I pursue the quest for the ‘pearl.’  I now realize that the pearl is the universe that has been created as my dwelling.  Myth and metaphor cloud the endearing memories of childhood which lured me to see what my adult mind easily complicates as it whispers, “Grow up now.”

The Reign of God in my soul sees the tracks made by my boots, the mud drizzled across my face as I wipe the sweat off my brow with dirtied fingers.  I look at the sun and gaze at the storm clouds covering the light.  The rain begins its dance and I am reminded that unless we become like little children we will fail to see the treasures within the Universe.  Galaxies beckon us to so much beyond.  I leap into the biggest puddle that has formed.  Therein lies the Treasure.

Until October,
Buen Camino

What is the Soul?

What is the Soul?

Let me ask you—
do you believe in
the soul?

If you answer “Yes,”
then I need not
go on.

If you answer “No,”
I need not
go on.

What matters is not the
answers we seek
but, the questions
that keep us LIVING.

Beside the Wailing Wall…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land(Coming Home)

Beside the Wailing Wall…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land (Coming Home)

I stood.

Another ‘wall’ split its center
‘dividing’ the masculine
from the feminine.

I began to wail—
I could not contain
my weeping.                                                    

Suddenly, a woman
drew herself near to me.
She stepped up
where a structured ‘rise’
allowed her to glance ‘over.’

I joined her.

A man approached.                                            
He did not appear threatening—
He stood on the rise.
On his side of the divide,
his small son beside him.

He embraced the woman
with a single arm
whispering, “I want you as
close as you can be.”
He pulled her to him
as if the ‘division’ was
no longer there.

AND, began
their child’s barmitzva.

This message of love the father gave
to his son…

I can ONLY hope
such love will
break down these human


She is Risen

She is Risen

Here inside
this shelter—
A roof over head—
the sound of a million
drops can be heard as they
pelt the canvas top.

They spill into a sea of green~~~
a woven blanket…
each slender strand
effortlessly holds a drop balanced as if
on the top of a sewing needle.

THIS day the roof of
the Universe appears
pulled back—
wide enough for
friends to allow their
broken companion to be
eased down…eased down upon
clouds…soft pallets
allowing the wounded One
to find a way…

BUT, a way to where?

To the Healer…Mother Earth
who gathers ALL she is given.

She calls NEW shoots
to life.
She opens the grounds
packed solid.
She invites the leaves
to unfurl
and rejoices in the song birds
as life re-creates itself
again and again
and again.

Her garden—ready.
She tenderly takes her time—
time which
means nothing to her.

She’s laced the edges of her garden
with lilacs, tulips, daffodils
and roses.

The forest animals come to taste,
to nibble and an abundance
is left over
after their feast.

The Mother holds out her
arms pulling to herself
the sojourner ‘let-down.’

She whispers. “It’s finished…
well done—Come, take your rest—Return to the Garden
from where you came.”

The showers continued to fall
into the night…
a few friends lingered
beside the garden.

When morning came,
the Sun could not rise
quickly enough…almost as if it knew.

Everything in the garden
unfolding every flower.
Tracks in the soil were visible
not only the images made
by the creatures.

Until this moment
footprints led out on
an unforeseen trail
never noticed
never seen.

Looking toward
the horizon, two silhouettes appear.
They stood hand in hand…
the Mother and the One
let down.

The pallet—gone.

Walking into the sun,
they became the Light.

A single drop fell.
This time the dew
gathered in my eyes.

She has Risen—
She has risen,

Inspired by and dedicated to Helen “Peanut” Surowiec—my FOREVER Friend.
                             August 5th, 1919 to August 12th, 2017


A Not so Ordinary Check-Point…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

A Not so Ordinary Check-Point…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

There they stood
outside its gates.

A check-point—
but, how could one call it ordinary?

I suppose
here—in THIS place—
it has become Ordinary.
Or, perhaps NOT.

I gazed
a little boy
of seven or eight
made his way up the hill                                           
toward the check-point.

Suddenly, he froze—
fear ‘captured’ his body and terror was in
his eyes.
He raised his hands
settling his frightened soul.

What ‘held’ him
‘outside’ the gates—
Two armed uniformed officers
machine guns in hand
fingers ALWAYS held on
the trigger.

I gasped
holding my breath.
I longed to wrap my arms around
the child—
I wished ONLY to cover his
but, you cannot pretend
what is VERY real
does not exist.

The little boy made his way—I wept.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—August 2017/ Eternal Temples

SIBYL MAGAZINE—August 2017/ Eternal Temples


Sandra Mattucci—Eternal Temples

A liturgy of Life.  The path I walk resembles eternal temples.  I envision sheets of music filled with endless notes, chords, harmonies playing orchestrated symphonies the likes of Mozart heard rummaging ‘within.’  We, every living being, is a page of endless pages.  We are sheets of music.  This is what the Camino has become in me—my path alive with the sound of music.  There is no rhyme or reason, the crescendos rise slowly descending ‘into’ a gentle silence.  Then, ignited like a flame, the light engulfs each stanza.  Have I missed a note?  It matters not.

While walking The Way, yellow markers were the ‘notes’ I followed.  On a few occasions I inadvertently missed a sign.  I veered off the path, but was I off?  Yes, I had to turn back to find myself anew.  As I stood examining the landscape in an effort to find the marked path I would walk, a song reverberated inside me that I had never heard.  An unknown lyric would never have formed had I carefully followed the yellow markers.  The extra pages written were a result of new paths discovered and unseeing encounters beheld.  Panic did not overwhelm me.  Instead, color seemed imbued in the black notes, the black lines measured with precision on the white sheet.

Music permeated the air around me wrapping me in its majesty.  I was consumed in beauty as it took on the color of every pilgrim, of horses grazing in the meadows, of farmers plowing the field, every dirt path, every scattered stone, of storks nestled high upon the  steeples of cathedrals, of rivers flowing holding the sky’s reflection, of the soaking rain slogging in my boots, of hot coffee with steamed milk sliding down the tunnel of my throat warming my insides, of mountains drizzled with creamy snow melting into landscapes of eternal temples.  Every living being a temple singing a song for a lifetime even if the moment be a minute of solitary unfolding or years of life coming to an end on the actual path named The Way.  If you are not able to hear the song in these words—all is well.  This is my song, my heart’s song.  I sing it as I write and it matters not how it is sung.  Still, it is everything that matters for it is from me—a me that cannot STOP singing.  I sing a timeless ballad.  My feet dance as my hands hold onto the dazzling stars.

The liturgy of life I live is not a composition formed by my religious beliefs though they contributed to the orchestration of my being.  Religion is no longer the bell ringing in my heart.  The song of each day’s dawning is the musical performance calling me.  I awake to the song birds announcing creation’s purest temple.  The curtain rises—so does my being as I walk toward eternal sunsets.  The temple’s last light blows itself out while smoke rises and the stars find their way home.

Until September,
Buen Camino