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

Architect of the Heart…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

                            Architect of the Heart…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

Each prayer whispered…
Every silent utter…
The wet tears caressing, cascading
down your cheeks…
A hearty burst of holy laughter
THESE are what break the
walls surrounding the heart
breaking them ‘enough’
so that the Architect moves in                     
Softly, gently
and at times pushing, pounding
the Architect expands what IS—
making more room—
‘showing’ more ways to LOVE.
How beautiful when the Wall
comes tumbling down.
It is then the heart truly can hear
its own beating—joined
with ‘EVERY’ living, breathing
it reveals the Architect’s blueprint.
No matter where we LOOK…

Messy Lives…A Pilgrimage to the Holy land

                                    Messy Lives…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

in a silent room
—a song
—a prayer ‘sings’ itself
outside my window and I listen.

From a Muslim Mosque
across the Galilean Valley
in THIS town of Nazareth,
prayers became ALIVE.
Their echo is heard before the sun’s arrival.
Allah Awakens.

I pause and join                                        
THIS prayer.
In my breath, YAWEH
bringing together Oneness
stretching across the night sky
across the rolling landscape
across the flowing water ways.

I join others who have
‘risen’ in prayer.

NOW…church bells echo
from the Christian Cathedral.

I hear a symphony
in ‘all’…
the sounds of traffic, a honking horn—
still, the busyness of the day
has not begun.

A rooster crows—
a dog begins to bark

my tiny coffee pot
lets me know it is time to pour.

The aroma fills the air
like incense…                                                        
can I dare draw THIS comparison?

I AM in ‘church’—
Three distinct religions call to me

and yet I feel as if I’m in an
all encompassing MOMENT—
NO religion to be NAMED…
Relationally ‘united’ in ALL things.

In our Messy Lives,
a beauty resides
when quietly, solemnly
we share ourselves
enough to listen.

The sound of a child stirs a parent
and the little one lovingly
is called back to sleep.

BUT, the little one’s dreams
have ‘revealed’
an entry—
the door ‘open’
—time to play.

I awake from THIS messy prayer
NEVER having slept…
(Although you might think these thoughts a culmination of ‘all’—)
these words take on a mind of their own.

I’ll go back
re-read, add on, eliminate
change a line


maybe I’ll leave this mess
and give thanks
for THIS very MOMENT in life.

Stone Cutter…A Pilgrimage to the Holy land

                                       Stone Cutter…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

What was it Joseph?
What was it you were truly
chiseling?  Reshaping?

He watched you…
pretending to be you.

He picked up ‘any’ stone…
he could NOT reject any.

Is THIS why he became
the corner stone?

He recognized in the broken fragments
‘persons’ rejected, left out, lost,
poor, disadvantaged.                                 

He would call them
without hammer
without a chisel.

He would call them…

He re-shaped lives.
He transformed those who would
be called simple, unclean,

Your son, Joseph,
heard ‘every’ stone
he listened
to this day
he ‘cuts’ into

reaching the core…

This he learned from YOU…Stone Cutter.

Where is your Home?

Where is your Home?

Picking up a rock,
I spotted an earthworm cradled in the dampness
echoing, “It’s taken.”

Beside the sea,
I lifted a chorus of reeds.
A trout revealed itself
singing, “It’s taken.”

Scurrying upward
traversing a rocky hill,
a mountain goat stood
atop its steeple.
Like a bell the goat chimed,
“It’s taken.”

Shuffling my feet
through a sandy desert,
the heat played tricks with my
vision—a mirage?
I was drenched
and pouring over and over me the sound,
“It’s taken, It’s taken, It’s taken.”

Exhausted, I laid myself
down in a meadow.
A soft warm wind lulled me to sleep.
I dreamt of all the places I
searched, looking, seeking my HOME.

Waking hurriedly, I wondered if
“THIS” place where I found
myself was also taken?

Rising, I looked.  No one was there,
but when I glanced ‘down’
my ‘impression’ embedded itself in
THIS field.

THIS place …it was taken
by me, in this moment—

I lay back down
gazing into a blue sky.
The clouds formed a message
just above my head,

“Welcome Home.”

I closed my eyes—
what a beautiful place.

Prayer of Attention…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

Prayer of Attention…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

My being lured—
pulled as if by a string.

A voice with NO name
‘speaks’ in my breath.

I inhale—
the beat of my heart ‘wakes’

and, as I exhale                                             
another ‘beat’ goes out
into the world
like a soft drum roll

lingering on and on and on.

Called to ‘attention’
NOT in a moment
rather in Each moment—

Each moment
draws attention to the fabric

of life

knitted all around me
and in me

A single strand
One with ALL.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—July 2017/ A Return to Eden

SIBYL MAGAZINE—July 2017/ A Return to Eden

A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sandra Mattucci—A Return to Eden

A rush of emotions fills me.  Like a bottle uncapped, the liquid inside splashes me—its endless fizzle drenches me with delight.  What is it?  I believe no word yet created describes the daily ‘present’ I swim within.  This present ‘sea’ enveloping me is more than ‘feelings.’  Each new dawning rises inside my being and I am bathed in the flow of life.

As I walked the Camino, dramatic moments captured me.  A waterfall of tears dropped from the corners of my eyes.  At times, I barely breathed as emotions flooded my being.  Still, joy washed through me that I could not satisfactorily explain.  I was embraced in peace—I was alone but did not need nor wish the void to be filled.  I did not want to leave these tranquil surroundings.  I desired to hold sacred this place much like a mother who holds her child for the first time.  But—I had to let go.  I was entering Eden again slogging through the mud realizing the grounds of life beneath my feet.  Every foot step I walk, have walked, will walk tills me in this garden within its soil.  Eden’s beginnings bear fruit everywhere I glance and beyond my gaze what is planted is bursting with life.  I’m immersed in a lush fertile blanket of life.

I am absorbed in the succulence I taste daily.  Each day I choose my path at times without realizing the adventure ahead.  Yet, I select unafraid to bite.  I abundantly consume all the original blessings allowing the juices to wash over me moistening my lips, cascading down my chin, over my naked breasts and quietly prayer sings itself into being.  Prayer is my breath.

All around me beauty abounds—endless birthing fills this garden spreading itself with the gifts of life.  Shadows appear of faces past and of the futures that yet have not arrived.  This Eden is a Holy womb of splendor.  I am draped in heaven, not in some place beyond.  I frolic, running with ease.  I have stopped bowing, genuflecting and I am extending my hands like the wings of a bird.  I am in flight.  Yes, I fly.  I fly and a voice softly echoes, “Daughter play, play in this garden and when you tire, rest and I will be there stroking your brow.  I will hold you and when you wake, I will dip you into the sea where a host of dolphins will carry you upon the waves.  I will be right here, daughter.  How I love your laughter…the exuberance of your tender innocence.  Laugh again and again until you begin to cry.  I will cry with you for you have found the solitude you have sought.  It has been within you.  One day you’ll leave this garden but your seeds will sprout and others will taste the ‘you’ dwelling in all.”

You are this garden.  A return to Eden—unspoken oneness over and over.

Until August,
Buen Camino

The New Ark of the Covenant…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

The New Ark of the Covenant…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

THIS morning
the sun rises in Nazareth.

What was it like for you, woman
that very first morning
you held him in your arms?

I know a star shone
above you.
Did the SUN fill the sky
like never before?

You, Mary
birthed the Son of God (You, the New Ark of the Covenant)
AND, now
in this place
may I, too,
give birth
to the Christ
inside of me.

As the sun rises upon Nazareth.




Someone I have
loved for a lifetime
has tried to teach me
the lessons of

I did NOT want to

I’d do everything to
push the lessons away

—I wanted to fit in
—I wanted to be accepted.

But, now, I’m listening
to myself.

My friend who has loved me
before I was,
ALWAYS loved ‘me.’
This friend
has sat waiting—
wondering when I’d
love me enough to
endure rejection
AND love back.

Loving back the people
who say…

—THIS is God!
—GET the story right!
—You’ve LOST your way!

My friend laughs with me
NOW when I say,

still, I SEE God in everything.

My story…while it may not be
RIGHT, it is far from WRONG
and I’m living each page
writing itself.

What I’ve lost,
what I’ve let go of are
—rules that exclude
—dogmas that speak of infallibility
—rituals that are consecrated
by a single gender.

Rejection has become
a Sacrament…

An anointing—
preparing me for what?

I have no idea.

I know me…
Again—my friend is laughing,
giggling aloud.

I know you, too—
NOW you know me!

How…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

How…(A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land)

How is
my mind
to grasp what inside my heart I can barely feel?

I begin to ‘imagine’ you
in this place
so ordinary.                                                   

It is NO wonder
no one recognized you.

Your family had little understanding
of what it was you were to

Even you—YOU did not realize your destination
—what lay ahead for you.

You grew in wisdom,
in knowledge—right here
in this country side.

My ‘pen’ knows not
how to write in this space.

My ‘eyes’ simply hold
every gaze
clicking image after image
‘seeing’ you EVERY where.


The Voice of the River…

The Voice of the River…

“Come, may the vessel
of your being
submerge itself like a prayer
in my flow.

Move in
to my stillness—
let your hands be like
oars, stroking gently
the soft skin
of my wake.

Be mindful of
my eddies—
if you should go off
course and find
yourself twirling
and twirling
round and round
getting no where—
settle yourself…
‘stop’ fighting…
regain your vessel
and bring yourself
back into the flow.
you’re stronger than
you know.

When my white water
hanker down—
brace yourself.
The walls of water
crash into you.
Oh yes, they’ll
try to pull you under.
Even if they do,
have faith in ‘your’ vessel.”

Have faith even when
you grow tired…
out of breath.
You’ve made it—AGAIN.

You’ve been on this
river a lifetime.
As many times as you’ve
gone down this way
(seeing or not seeing),
it is never the same…

AND, yet it is.

Like old paradigms…
‘ways’ set before us—”
they are packed with lessons—
some to bring along
as we are ‘given’ in this FLOW—
other lessons we’ll leave on
the shore…
maybe they’ll sink deep enough
to be forgotten


they’ll be the ‘stories’ we tell
around the campfires
igniting our spirits NEVER
to forget where we come from
and giving us the
courage to realize
new tributaries
lie around the bend.

The landscape
changes alongside this
river’s edge.
This is natural.
The world changes…
yes, naturally and yes
at times, unfortunately,
by hands that destroy
for profit’s sake.

Be careful of those
who call themselves
“Masters”—the meaning
holds many connotations…
some I wish forgotten
BUT history remains.

We’re floating on THIS
same river—FREELY.

The river calls each
‘vessel’ to its flow.

No one is
barred from the river
even though ‘some’ would
like to place a ‘levy’
and believe they
possess it…
SEE it as their domain.

The river does not serve us…
we must serve ‘her.’

She’s guiding us to
uncharted places.

Yes, you’ll get wet
even soaked

…a NEW baptism.

Jump into the river…

Put Down Your Nets…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land (Arriving)

Put Down Your Nets…A Pilgrimage to the Holly Land (Arriving)







                                                              Put Down Your Nets

Here you are…
You’ve come—put down your nets.
Will you follow?
Are you able to put down ‘everything’ and
step in the footprints of my sandals?                                      
Follow me and I will make you
‘fishers’ of people.
The sea is restless…
we are so caught up in all the cares of
THIS world.  What do you hold in your
mind at this time?
Cast all aside—open the four chambers
of your heart to my message of
long ago—Follow me.
Can you SEE that today is NO
different than all that had been two thousand years past?
These ‘friends’ I called
risked everything—they longed for
the climate of their lives to change.
They had no idea what lay ahead—
did “I?”  I’ll leave that for you to decide.  Be open~~~the journey
has JUST begun…
“As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew.  They were casting a net into the sea, for they were fishermen.  “Come, follow me, Jesus said, and I will make you fishers of men.”   And at once they left their nets and followed him…”                                                                                                 Mark 1:16-18 (NIV)

My Feathered Self…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land (Before Departing)

My Feathered Self…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land (Before Departing)








The soft hairs
on my “tempel’s” tent
RISE like feathers.

What will I see?
Will my eyes weep
like his when I
stand before the Holy City?

My arms unfold
like a hen’s.
Will I, too, OPEN my
‘pupils’ wide enough to
hold the people as
a brood of chicks are held
AND, will I long to comfort and embrace
the pain that seems
to roll on and on
like a wave that never
even after it embraces the shore?

I’m weeks away
from taking steps upon your
soil…but the musings in
my soul
‘peck’ & ‘peck’.

Will there be morsels to feed my being?

My feathered self
sits NOW—

What will ‘break’ when
I stand where
your feet walked?
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.”                                                                                                                                                                                 Luke 13:34

A Stone Wall

Greetings Friends,

The poem below ‘A STONE WALL’ sprang from a Journey lasting a million lifetimes & beyond.

The pilgrimage to the Holy Land (February 2017) brought me into communion with a unique set of strangers who became ‘community.’  The journey appeared staged, planned.  It was EVERYTHING but that…

Each of YOU, my soul’s community, I brought along as I placed your name ‘inside’ The Stone Wall.  My being shook as I tucked the HEART of our collective Oneness within a crevice.

So many of you expressed joy as you ‘gazed’ at the photo array I launched—asking, waiting for the moment when I would share parts of the journey.  A journey calling me back, inviting me to trust—FOLLOW!

‘A Stone Wall’ will usher in the next eleven Thursdays where I’ll reveal some of the inner stirrings I experienced before I departed, as I arrived and when I returned HOME.

How can I NOT try to LIVE the commission given to each of us (however we feel called) to make ‘FRIENDS’ with ALL Nations.  Trust we are NEVER alone until whatever the End of Age means.

And NOW—

                                                              ‘A Stone Wall’

 A hand
reached for a stone wall.

The hand and the wall
at first, it was so cold.

Ah, but not the stone…
it was the hand—‘frigid.’

The sun ‘beat’ on the

The hand now consumed by
its warmth, uncurled its
fingers which held
a slip of paper.

On it, Names, a list of
endless persons…

The unknown individual slipped
the paper into a break
within the stone.

The stone held the hand.

In the moment, the wall seemed to
embrace everything this unknown
person knew not how to put
into words.

For a time the stone, the hand
held each other.

As the hand let-go,
the stone, ‘transfigured’
held the names
forever in the warmth
of a slender crevice.
“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone…” Matthew 21:42





SIBYL MAGAZINE—June 2017/ Galloping Chariots of Fire

SIBYL MAGAZINE—June 2017/ Galloping Chariots of Fire


Sandra Mattucci—Galloping Chariots of Fire

Backpack in tow, I set out in the early morning.  The ceiling over my head shades of black.  “I am here…I am here.”  What matters is the BEING—being present, walking slowly, and observing quietly.  I saw before me sparkling fiercely galloping chariots carrying embers of shooting flames.  Were they merely stars?  Soon the sun split the darkness splashing hues of pink and orange upon the snow covered mountains.  My eyes could not stop scanning the vistas.

Glistening in far off galaxies, these flames were the signposts for my tomorrows.  In this moment, this NOW, our ancient ancestors embraced me and gently whispered to me.  “Slow down, trust in this time.  Look out and see the myriads of diamonds (stars) that dance in orchestrated harmony.  Walk On.  Together we will find a way—we will keep the flame alive.  Yes, you are a living flame—you are ignited with wonder.  A search for the truth is in you.”  This I heard, a clear message delivered by one of the horses let loose to herald this understanding—this glad tiding.

My steps began to take on a new life.  Though I had walked several hundred miles on this road to Santiago, I seemed to be growing stronger.  The pack on my back was lighter as I rid myself of many unnecessary things.  I walked in so much bliss.  I stopped.  I gazed upon the sun enveloping the landscape as tears rolled down my cheeks drenching the soils beneath my boots.  Each step I took, I was mindful of those who traversed the path before me—the unnoticed—the unnamed, those not needing to draw attention to themselves.  A whispered ‘Namaste’ by this pilgrim sparked an enduring smile and no other words were necessary.  Extraordinary nobodys walk The Way simply to become living flames for eternal tomorrows.

A hidden spark unfurled itself above my head.  It lit the way as I moved onward toward the west.  Night sank into the horizon’s abyss while behind me that great orange ball, a furnace of fire, awaited the revolving dance of steps—endless steps past and present.  Those who had gone this way before and those, like myself, turn the world so that the sun would bring to life the birth of another day.  My mind held this sacred space as if two hands joined in prayer—every moment of life a meditation of awe.

We do have the power to change the world.  I have just begun to understand the joy in my every step.  One day I shall join in the galloping of the chariots.  Their flames continue to dangle, never to be extinguished.  For now, I walk on.  Somewhere within I experience a new rush of adrenaline, my body—every living, breathing cell in unison gives gratitude to this NOW.

Until July,
Buen Camino

A Return to Eden (Another Book)

A Return to Eden (Another Book)

These shoes have walked endless miles.
‘Terrains’ of old stories
words after words
—weave around curves
—climb mountain tops
—cleave through barren lands
—wander through cities
—reach one sea to another
connecting shores
—harbor in towns
—stumble among the displaced.

In gratitude, I whisper.
Your footsteps are formed alongside mine
through the Hebrew Scriptures
and then through The New Testament.

Now is the time for another story.
Perhaps it is ALREADY being
written yet NOT filling any
sheets of parchment at this time—
or is it?

This moment, Present
hollows a dawning
where old wine can no longer
pour itself into New wine skins.

Life is bursting—
it has always been birthing
with life every single day.

—It sings a song
—Life ‘gathers’ a chorus
NOT creating another religion.

a HARMONY beats
born again in the heart space—
in the core of the transformed mind
that has the clarity to
speak with a vision
beyond the human eye’s gaze
yet, a gaze
that sees and bears
witness that NOTHING
can be accomplished until
we rise in LOVE.

Until we look in the mirror
of our’selves’
seeing more clearly what
we dislike in another is at the center of our own being.

With ripened awareness
we reach out to our enemies
joining hands.
If they do not reach
back, we forgive.

We press forward
returning to the garden
lush, abundant, flowing
in every direction.

We see the sun
in and upon ALL gathered.
Everyone has a right to
eat, to be warm, to be sheltered,
to be ‘equal.’
No gender claims superiority
over another.

Violence does not dwell
here.  There are no clubs
or swords, no weapons
to dismantle what has been
‘gifted’ to us—
to dwell in and serve.

We are to serve each other.
Yes, the scraps from so many
tables tossed into garbage
or into our flourishing seas…
Oh, the millions that could be fed.

Returning to the garden
we witness all we have
to share.
It is our task to share with
those who have nothing
to bring them to this garden
where they are no longer
terrorized physically, mentally,
emotionally AND most
significantly spiritually.

In the name of whatever
you call/or do not call God,
in this garden
Om is echoed.
I AM is a treasure
‘breathing’ in ALL.

If we do not act
in kindness,
THIS garden will re-create

She has born many pains.
In chaos, this garden
springs to life again & again.

In calm, she holds fast
inviting us to reap
what we sow.

This garden does not
have a fence.
No signs are posted
expressing that only the JUST
are welcomed.

Enough bloodshed
has seeped into the Garden’s soils


She nurses her ground
holding her children…
—they are her roots
—we are her branches

The tree of life
in the center of this garden
extends into the Universe
—expanding the galaxies
—lighting new paths of consciousness

In all this UNKNOWING,
we live.
ALIVE in the graces of wonder,
we are gifted to ‘breathe’
each day.

Our ending always seems
to bring us back to a beginning

The ‘creators’ time is at hand—
paint, weave, write—
sing, explore new depths,
draw, click your camera


We are the communion of saints
Past and Present.
Let us return to the garden
we truly have never left.
“Apprehend God in all things, for God is in all things.
Every single creature is full of God and is a book about God.
Every creature is a word of God.
If I spent enough time with the tiniest creature—even a caterpillar
I would never have to prepare a sermon.
So full of God is every creature.”
—Meister Eckhart

Fruit of Desire

Fruit of Desire

I AM the fruit of desire.
In me, ‘millions’ of seeds

—long to be planted
—hope to be re-created.

First, I must ‘taste’
what I AM


Believe that I AM GOOD.

It is from here,
‘ripening’ Begins.

PHOEBE…The New Testament

PHOEBE…The New Testament

‘The Woman is Coming…
The Woman is Coming…’
Her name Phoebe.

She carried
a letter in hand—
a message of GOOD NEWS.
This ‘learned’ woman—
This educated woman who
conveniently ‘seemed’ removed,
rode in.  She came not on a horse
in a darkened night


she entered with the grace
of the ‘spirit.’

She not only carried the letter (to the Romans)—
She proclaimed its message to
those who would hear.

Are we listening to Phoebe?
Her story is ‘baked’ in the soil’s ‘cracks.’

New waters are ‘refreshing’ the landscapes
sometimes destroying charted paths.

New pathways forming
Women’s voices calling—

Hear us.
Hear us.

We are a part of this Story.

A Gospel Message according to Phoebe.

Amen & A(wo)man
“It ain’t those parts of the Bible that I can’t understand that bother me;
it is the parts I do understand.”                           
                                                                                    Mark Twain

Let GRIEF be your Sister [Brother]…

Let GRIEF be your Sister [Brother]…

Let her damp, moist hair
be your comforter…the place where you rest your head.

Let her solitary arms
hold you even after you’ve stopped

Let her ‘beating’ heart absorb the
rhythms of your pulse
be joined, be joined, be joined.

Sit with her by the sea—
stay with her until the moon rises
and the stars begin dancing on the water.

Cry with her and let your voice
go out to sea with the waves
moving with the ebb and flow of the tides.

Listen to her—
hear her ‘unspoken’ voice—
she will not rush you—
of this you can be sure.

She’ll ask you to stay longer
and suggest you sip
from the cup
holding the tears
you’ve lovingly collected.

Drink, drink, drink
until you’re full—
laugh now
laugh until
you’ve emptied
the weight of the chalice
once full.

When you’re ready,
greet the sunrise
and blinded by its light

Trust this time of ‘unseeing’—
hold the mystery

and return to her
whenever you need.

Parable of the Talents…The New Testament

Parable of the Talent…The New Testament

I’m the One.
Yes, the One
given only a single talent—
an equivalent of 15 years of

Imagine what I could do with this!
“I” close my eyes.
“I” could be content
no worries.
And, if, I drew ‘others’ into this,
this, this____________.

I open my eyes
and I see all around me
Ordinary people
trying each day
to have enough to
get to tomorrow.

This Noble Man…Herod’s son~~~now
there is a play on words.
He’s left me this single talent
and I will not, no I will not
buy into this, this____________.

I’ve buried it in a field along side
my crops.
My crops blossom
and I sell what I can.
I’m taxed on most.
What do I really have…?

My integrity—
I try to share.
I try to give what I can.

Many come to my door and I cannot
turn them away.

That ‘talent’ in the soil—it grows.
Nothing BUT control, power,
status, competition—it creates a
bar, a dividing line separating ‘people.’
‘ONE’ people—into classes.
The Noble man returns after being
kicked out of the kingdoms
he sought to conquer.

He came to reclaim what was
never his—

I return the talent.
His anger unleashed.
I’m still free
for I’ve chosen not to buy
into this, this_____________.
“If there is one thing I fear less than everything else, it is, I believe, persecution for my opinions.  There are a good many points about which I may be different, but when it comes to questions of Truth and intellectual independence, there is no holding me—I can envisage no finer end than to sacrifice oneself for a conviction.”
Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

LAZARUS…The New Testament

Lazarus…The New Testament

Thanks…thanks a lot.

All this was so that YOU might believe—
no one asked me what I believed.

I already BELIEVE.

My life on earth was so full.
I wasn’t waiting to die to live.
I lived…I was ready to die.
I’m really not sure I’m ready to be back.

I could tell you what it’s like, but would you
really believe?  I think not.  You see…you
will not be back here again…
yes, you heard correctly—most of you will not be
coming back like me.

Don’t wait to live…
Don’t say it will all be well in the next life.
Trust…you are the “Sun.”
Shine and ‘see’ the glow in everyone you meet.

Yes, I’m back.
You can believe me or not.
Heck, would you really trust someone who has been raised from the
“Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me.”
                                                                                        Emily Dickinson

The Song you are made of will STOP…

The Song you are made of will STOP…

Everything stops
and ends—
but, it begins AGAIN


In my timeless years of life—
Some might say, “She’s young”—
others might whisper, “She’s old.”

But, I’ve watched the seasons
and go.

I’ve longed for Spring—
the flowers birthing through earth’s soils,
leaves unfolding filling the forest
with endless shades of green.

I’ve melted in Summer—
soaking in the sun,
glancing at its zenith
knowing my life is heading
toward the west
and sunsets.

I rush towards Fall—
its paradoxes,
its mysteries,
its brilliant colors and it IS
the quelling of death
knocking upon the door.

Leaves fall.
The winds pick up
and a fierce tempest blows.

Soft droppings of white
flakes usher in the frigid
landscape of winter.

There is a song in winter—
I’m uncertain how it is sung,
as at times it stings
and ends.

We believe ‘some-things’
but, in essence, more is happening
beneath the earth,
within the trees
than at any other season.

So…one day the song
I’m made of will stop
painted in the stars
a symphony will play-on
for those
whose song

will live on in the chirping bird,
the whale’s cry,
a wolf’s howl,
a mosquito’s buzz.

The Music lives on.

Martha and Mary…The New Testament

Martha & Mary

Martha: Did you hear me?

Mary:  I am listening…

Martha:  Oh my…the house needs to be tidied—
and what will I prepare?
I already have bread in the oven
but, what shall I serve with it?
Are you here?

Mary:  Oh, yes…I’m listening…

Martha:  Just look at me—
my hair is all over the place.
I cannot stay in these clothes for
they are filthy, sweaty—all wrinkled
from wear.
Just look at me!  Can you see me?

Mary:  I’m listening…

Martha:  Sure, sure
you’re listening—
But, you have NOT heard a word I said.

Jesus…would you please speak some sense
to my sister—After all she’s sitting there
listening to YOU…she’s not listened to all
I have been doing alone.

Jesus:  Martha…can you hear me?

Martha:  Jesus, I’m trying to.

Jesus:  Martha ‘can’ YOU hear you?
Your sister, Mary…she’s outside weeping.

Martha:  Why is she weeping?
I’m the one busy working, preparing
making sure everything is just right…
Oh, I can barely hear myself think—
if I just had a little help.

Jesus:  Martha…she, Mary, is weeping for YOU.

She wants to listen to you,
but you cannot even ‘hear’ you.

Are you listening?
“Part of waking up is that you live your life as you see fit. 
And understand:  That is not selfish.  The selfish thing is to demand
that someone else live their life as YOU see fit.  That’s selfish.”                                                   
                                                                                                      —Anthony de Mello

SIBYL MAGAZINE—May 2017/ ‘Part’ In The Whole Journal

SIBYL MAGAZINE—May 2017/ ‘Part’ In The Whole Journal


Sandra Mattucci—‘Part’ In The Whole Journal

A part in a Whole?  Of a journal?
While walking ‘The Way,’ a journal carried the voice of the Tree within me.  With a sense of deep reverence for all creation, my body included, I wrote in its pages.  A lyrical melody played in me, danced in me, sang in me.  Through all kinds of weather, the story blossomed into being.

The temple—my body a living Tree woven in this earth took on life.  It was drawn to the sun’s warmth as I walked.  My toes, life’s roots, curl through the mud giving thanks to my soles which hold them allowing them to linger in the soft blanket of grass.  My soles celebrate my heels—the strong base providing me the strength to stand.  My heels embrace my ankles in a passionate hold.  They are the soft part of the branch that flexes giving mobility to the root system of this temple…this Divine being.  My ankles support my calves—those muscular barrels holding the knees.  The knees carry the weight of this tree’s ‘top’ and allow the roots to dig deeper and deeper (especially my injured knee broken, yet firm) finding a way to continue to grow.  The knees embrace the quads—the trunk of this sacred tree.  They hold this dwelling place, and even if moved, the trunk holds a place sustaining the pelvis, tender areas, protected by bark and climbing into the stomach—the storage bin for nutrients sustaining this ‘being’ day in and day out.

Above the stomach, front and back—the core…the heart center of SACRED MYSTERY.  It beats within the cage of ribs held by the spine allowing this shoot to bend and sway.  The breast plate—the chest adds dimension to this living, breathing temple and near to it on both sides—arms.  Arms (branches) are instruments used for gathering, caring, holding, pulling, embracing and stretching.  The arms, when at rest, can be seen in the posture of hands held in prayer.  The neck bends sometimes ‘upward’ in awe, and at times ‘downward’ in humility, giving thanks for what so often is forgotten and no longer remembered.

Finally, we arrive at the head—the compass of endless directions.  The mouth an instrument of speech is often overlooked in its quest to embrace the gentleness of ‘quiet.’  The nose captures myriads of scents and is an enabler to ward off danger.  The ears invite all to hear…to listen.  Eyes are the gateway to light beckoning us to gaze upon the dwelling place of the MOST HIGH.  Finally, the crown once enlightened, trusts none of anything would be if the roots (toes) inching into the soils of time did not continue to feed off creation’s very presence—birthing, groaning and laboring every single day.

This temple…my body—a part, a TREE uprooted finding LIFE in being human.

Until June,
Buen Camino

I Never Saw It Coming

I Never Saw It Coming

Her words—
“We must ‘master’…”
Master what?

Just when I think
(there’s a scary phenomenon)
I’m done thinking.

I know when I believe
I have mastered something
I am pushed to the edge—
the edge of a cliff
and I leap.
I free fly
mindful of ALL
I have trusted—

What from the initial beginnings
was birthed,
I NEVER saw coming.

Now—I am in the womb
Nicodemus asked,
“Can I return into my mother’s
womb and be reborn?”

I can emphatically

I’m swimming
in embryonic fluids.
I’m growing,

Though my eyes are closed,
they are so
open to

What will be?

I never saw
what was to come so
I’ll simply
be for now.

The ONLY thing
I must do
is ‘nothing.’
Yes, nothing.

I’ll begin
to master

who  I AM.

Zacchaeus…The New Testament

Zacchaeus…The New Testament

I’m so small…all these people tower over me.
Hey…there’s a tree…it’s so beautiful—
it will let me climb her because she sees me as I am
and passes no judgement.
I only wish to ‘SEE’ him.
I’ve heard everything, but I want to see with my very own eyes.

There ‘he’ is…my heart feels something it never has…it’s beating and I
hear each tick, tock, lub, DUB—
I’m warm all over…my spirit feels like a branch attached
to this majestic tree.

Come Down‘…did I hear correctly?
Come Down Zacchaeus
he called my name.
Tears run down now over my cheeks…I have no control.
I’m not ashamed or intimidated.  Confused—‘maybe’
Yet, I feel such joy…

I’ll be eating with you today Zacchaeus

What will I serve?

Not to worry, he whispers…whatever we have.
We already are preparing for ‘communion’ even in this instance.
Come down now—
take my hand.

A banquet had—and from this day forward it has not ceased.

Now, whatever I collected…I’ve given back with more
and I seem now to always have ‘left overs.’
So, so you ask, why have I changed?

Let me tell you…how could I not.
Come—sit at my table—I have bread to share
wine to savor…

Life is surely a Table of Plenty.

“Differences bring us out of ourselves into a newer, fuller way of being human.”
                                                                                                         —Joan Chittister

Old Wine Skins…

Old Wine Skins…

I’ve carried you
for so long.

I’ve heard ‘about’
New wine skins
but I still returned
to the old…

I MUST confess
I did NOT understand
UNTIL now.
I heard the story
and the OLD wine skins

I was soaked in
fermented tasteless wine—
I began to weep
mindful of what I
have allowed myself
to carry for far too

I’m laughing
drunk from tasting
NEW wine.
Only a drop
touched my lips
and I’m intoxicated
by the sweet aroma
I’ve withheld
from myself
until this moment.

Old wine skins
I thank you
and bid you

New wine skins
pour in me
the empty place
that has
ALL things NEW.

Prodigal Son…The New Testament

Prodigal Son…The New Testament

How many times THIS
parable told?

How many times its
message slips away?

A Father’s love.

His son seeks his
inheritance before his
father’s time.

STILL—the father gives to
his son
who sets out.

A lavish life sought
—every last cent

He works—
is paid little.

“I’ll return home.”
“I’ll  ask forgiveness.”


Before he reached the doorway
of his home,
in the distance
the father gazes and Sees his son.

The father rushes with
an unspoken urgency.

He holds his broken son
in his arms so weary
after losing him.

But NOW—with
strength renewed,
he envelopes his son
kissing him
running his hands through
his hair as if he
were born again.

The father does NOT say,
“You must repent of your sin…
You must seek my forgiveness…”

No—the father says,
“Prepare a banquet
for this son of mine
was LOST but
NOW is found.”

The son did NOT have
to do ANYTHING to
earn back his father’s

It always was.

The other son
heard the jubilation.
Jealousy NOW filled his heart…
“Father, I, I, I…”

Again the father teaching
his child,
“All that IS mine is Yours.”

Are you hearing the parable
in a new way?

Which son are you?

Can we ALL become like
the father?

Grace is in the

forever flowing

longing to be
“If I am in your truth, God, keep me there.  If  I am not, God, put me there. ”                                                                                                                   —Joan of Arc

The Art of Suffering

The Art of Suffering

Setting an easel,
I began to
assemble the pallet.

There was NO beginning.
I dabbed my brush
in an array of colors.

One mixture blended
into another.

The canvas before me—
I was bathed in tears.

I stroked the mat
with the weighted

So many I loved
ALREADY moved on
or preparing for
their journey
into the celestial
stars lighting a WAY.

It was suffering
that allowed me
THIS moment.
Solitude held my
every sigh.

At times I heard
something ‘inside’ me
sound, “Breathe, breathe,

Another stroke
caressed the sheet
before me.
The brush in hand
NO longer heavy.

The more I painted,
the lighter my ‘being’

My eyes NO longer filled
with a buoyancy
blocking my vision.

I could see the
images in front of me—
FACES…hundreds of
faces (soft skin, gentle fur)—
I held their hands…their paws.

Many times I held their
hearts when I could NOT
get there in time.

Each encounter
past and present
solemn and joyous.

This suffering came with
a price—
a cost—
NOT even the rarest of
diamonds could repay.

Suffering flowed over
filling my person
with a love resurrected.

Paradox?—Of course!

The colors spilled
over the canvas
onto the floor.

I sat in ‘its’ puddle
and became One
with the Art of Suffering.

What a Joyous Masterpiece.

The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde

The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde
(A GOOD Friday message)

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden.

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass.  Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach trees that into springtime broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit.  The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them.  “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years.  After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle.  When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

“My own garden is my own garden, ” said the Giant; “any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.”  So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.


He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play.  They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it.  They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.  “How happy we were there!”  they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds.  Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter.  The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom.  Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep.  The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost.  “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.”  The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver.  Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came.  He was wrapped in furs, and roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down.  “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.”  So the Hail came.  Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go.  He dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.  “I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer.  The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none.  “He is too selfish, ” she said.  So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind and Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music.  It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by.  It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world.  Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and delicious perfume came to him through the open casement.  “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight.  Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees.  In every tree he could see there was a little child.  And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads.  The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing.  It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter.  It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy.


He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all around it, crying bitterly.  The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it.  “Climb up! little boy.” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out.  “How selfish I have been!”  he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.”  He was really sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden.  But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.  Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming.  And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree.  And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him.  And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring..  “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall.  And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him goodbye.

“But where is your little companion?”  he said: “the boy I put into the tree.”  The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.  “We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”  “You must tell him to be sure and come here tomorrow, ” said the Giant.  But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant.  But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again.  The giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him.  “How I would like to see him!”  he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble.  He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden.  “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing.  He did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked and looked.  It certainly was a marvelous sight.  In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms.  Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.


Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden.  He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child.  And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?”  For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I might take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

Nameless Women…The New Testament









Woman with the Hemorrhage                                               A Woman Caught in Adultery
Lk 8:43-48                                                                           Jn 8:1-11









Kneader of Dough                                                                   Canaanite Woman
Mt 13:13                                                                               Mt 15:21-28









A Woman with a Bent Back                                                        Persistent Widow
Lk 13:10-17                                                                                Lk 18:1-8

                                                    Woman at the Well/ John 4

Nameless Women…The New Testament

Come Out
Come Out
wherever you are…

The tornado had lifted—
You’re NO longer in the
shadows of Kansas.
You’ve ARRIVED in OZ.

Even though you have NO NAME,
your story is FRESH and in

Brilliant blues
and indigo
Shades of green
and orange
light up like the sunrise.

Pinks and red
yes red—
the blood flow of
YOU daughter with the

You had the courage
to cross the lines separating you—
casting you from the community
who labeled you ‘Unclean.’

You dared touch
the hem of his garment.

You Adulterous Sister
you rose
like those before you
ready to cast their stones…

Each of your NAMELESS lives
simple unspoken act…
A line drawn in the sand.

You kneader of dough
ONLY a woman allowed to
touch the leaven for a man
considered unclean.

He acknowledged YOU…
your hands
a woman’s hands ‘kneading’
bread for life AND you ROSE.

Canaanite Woman
you knew it was your
last effort to save
your child.
You dared to speak,
“Even the dogs get the scraps
that fall from the master’s table.”

At first he wished to send
you away…
but YOU, you
showed him that love
never ceases—

Your child healed.

The Woman with the ‘bent’ back
ONLY you knew what
broke you…
NO ONE should be able
to CHOOSE what was
done to your body—

You were healed.

Persistent Widow
again and again
you went to the judge.

Your request granted.

AND, Woman at the Well
you were Chosen.
You were called to GO
You were told to proclaim
a message…

A new spirit
A new truth

A well flowing
with living water.

Nameless Women—
YOUR voices
Run in our rivers—
Swing in our branches—
Stand on Mountain Tops—
Part the dry deserts.

You, Nameless Women
ARE birthers of the Gospel.“I pray every single second of my life; not on my knees but with my work.
My prayer is to lift women to equality with men.  Work and worship are one with me.”
                                                                                                       —Susan B. Anthony


Wonder Why One Wakes Early?


Wonder Why One Wakes Early?
                                                                                               Do you really have to ask?

The Blind Man…The New Testament

The Blind Man…The New Testament

“What do you want?”

There was NO hesitation.

It did NOT matter what
anyone else thought, believed
or feared.

His parents would NOT speak
for him
‘restricted’ by their own
‘belief’ system which
forbade them.

A system ALWAYS
talking about SIN…
was it THIS man’s sin
or the sin of his parents
that left him THIS way?

For THIS young man
the questions no longer mattered—
the rigidity of the rules around
him brushed aside.
With courage he spoke,

His eyes were ‘opened.’

Even in his blindness
he saw what
many who see
NEVER behold!
“Life is either a daring adventure or it is nothing.”
—Helen Keller

A Face In the Mirror

A Face in the Mirror

Begin there.

Gaze deeply.

Learn to love
that which is before you.

Is there a crack in
the mirror?
No, it is the
perfect wound of

Let go of
everything that

—you cannot
—you are not good enough
—you are not able.

Let go of past hurts—
acknowledge them as you must
in order to release them.

Painful though they be,
let ONLY joy seep in the
crack of the mirror.

That crack in your
being longs to be
filled…but only with
‘living water’

stretching the mirror
expanding the love
before you.

Yes, love what
is directly in front
of You.

When you reach
and wrap your
arms around THIS
very being

You’ll have no
loving ALL beings

seeing them all
like the sun
and bowing in
blessed wonder.

Behold the face in the Mirror.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—April 2017/Unknown (Drinking From a Well)

SIBYL MAGAZINE—April 2017/Unknown (Drinking From a Well)


Sandra Mattucci—Unknown (Drinking From a Well)

The pilgrimage of life is filled with unknowns.  While I walked the Camino de Santiago, I became increasingly conscious of the number of unknowns I met along the journey.  I was walking with the most incredible “No-bodys.”  These pilgrims came from all over the world and were walking for a variety of reasons: personal, religious, spiritual.  Their station in life mattered not and their occupations were not discussed.  Instead, this community of pilgrims simply joined hands with the ancient pilgrims of the past and traveled the long and often arduous road.  Their names—unknown.  Their goal: Santiago.

When I returned home, “back” to where my roots were planted, the amazing “unknowns” I had met continued to take hold of my being.  I transplanted myself into new terrain—physical, mental, emotional and spiritual venues.  Now when I plunge into these present day “trails,” my being knows how to drink from the well which no longer leaves me thirsty.  Deep within this well—as I look “inward,” I cannot see its bottom.  Is there water below, I ask?  Emphatically, I say “yes” but I remain somewhat uncertain.  Yet, I trust in this Unknown—in a spirit and a truth that assures me that every moment reveals graces once the eye is open to see no matter how despairing life might be.  Yes, when harmony pervades my being, it is from this well of unknowing that I walk, that I drink, that I remain mindful each day to the beauty present in my life.

Yesterday is a memory—tomorrow lies beyond.  In anticipating each new day, I stand in awesome wonder as I await what is to come.  My focus: to embrace the present unknown…the unfamiliar.  What unfolds is what is intended to be without my having to do much but live.  I would not want to think that I have grasped this powerful happening because when I believe that I have, I will have lost its wonder.

Living life is DOING and it is BEING.  Since returning from my journey that I celebrated by walking alone and yet with others, I have become much more attuned to understanding that in being I see my life as the cup that continues to dip into the well of abundance.  There I find the sustenance to savor, to taste, to share.  The well does not provide drink for only my own consumption, but it is available to all who thirst.  It provides for a sacred sharing—a holy communion.

Each of us is called to share from our abundance, from our nothingness, from this Unknown, this Community of Creation.  It is then that we are born anew.  A cloud of witnesses sings from a heaven here on earth.  A chorus of birds chants ‘Alleluia.’  How blessed is this UNKNOWN,

Until May,
Buen Camino

Nicodemus/Re-Enter the Womb…The New Testament

Nicodemus/Re-Enter the Womb…The New Testament

How can this be?

By night he came
through the shadows.
Nicodemus, you came
searching, trying desperately
to understand THIS light.

Hidden, your ‘literary’ mind
attempting to grasp words—
words that always seemed
so simple for you.

You could utter all kinds
of explanations.
You elicited facts—
Quoted laws—
written lessons handed
down through the ages.

BUT now
you heard,
“You must be born again.”

AGAIN, your understanding
‘limited’ by your own mind.
Your inability to
hear the words—

You thought,
“I’m a grown man—
how am I to re-enter
the womb which gave
me life?”

To return to
THAT, that beginner’s

That infantile pure mind
that bursts forth out of
nine months in a sea of darkness
AND, then—
Beholds ALL things
as NEW.

Every day
after swimming in
the depths of dreams,
we open our eyes
bursting ‘into’ another

A NEW day
we begin again—
we are born again

to behold life
and re-capture
the innocence
as when we first arrived.

you sought what could not be explained.

Your learned mind
a fresh slate

YOU—birthed anew.

“Be who God meant you to be and you’ll set the World on fire.”
                                                                      —Catherine of Siena



I understand
that I do not understand
much of anything.

I walk in the early
part of the day
trying to quiet my

It rustles..this mind of mine,
until the wind
picks up blowing it

As the sun pierces
the dawn,
a solitary flower
lifts its head…
it needs nothing.
Its only understanding
is to RISE
even if ONLY
this day.

The soft hooves of the doe beat
on the delicate earth
and her young nibble upon its
soft grasses.

They seem to understand
it is a new day
and they go about
with doing what must be done
or left undone.

A storm approaches.
The sky rapidly
the only thing to
understand is to settle
in, settle down.

I’m able to find the
comfort in a sturdy
while the environment
in which I’m enraptured
swirls, holding on
with roots dug deep.

Leaves pulled—some
hang on, hang in
while others tossed,
displaced, removed
but they seem to understand it was
simply time—
time to go
and become part of
something NEW.

These days
so much seems to be
NEW and I understand
until once again a new
understanding presents

I’m becoming an EXPLORER
of Meaning.

Jesus…The New Testament

Jesus…The New Testament
An Ordinary Man named Jesus

What ?
Ordinary you would call THIS man?

There are many tales
of THIS man’s life…
Stories written, inscribed,
‘bound’ together LONG after
his time.

So much written
that is NOT factual
yet, ‘held’ as truth.

Some hold THIS understanding
trying each day to live
the faith of THIS ordinary man.

Still others ‘use’/misuse
THIS man’s life
creating ANYTHING
but what he exemplified.

We do know
facts springing from
THIS man’s public ministry.

THIS Jesus
set off on foot
sharing ‘parables.’

He asked questions:
“Who do people say I am?”
“Whose face is on that coin?”
“Which brother did what his father asked?”
“Who did you go out to see?”

Many times he remained
anyone tell you silence
does NOT speak.

He NEVER went about
promoting himself as
the Messiah.

He healed many
THIS Jesus
and would often
say, “Don’t tell anyone.”

Many in his time proclaimed
themselves healers & Messiahs
asking for payment
upon services rendered.

THIS Ordinary Man
simply said, “Follow Me.”

He ‘often’ spoke with
who opened THIS
ordinary man’s eyes.

Could he have been married?
‘Shaky’ ground we are treading.
It would have been un-ordinary
for a 30+ year old Jewish male
NOT to have been.
More would have been written
had he not been.

Would it matter?
Would it change how you
have come to know him?

The Wedding at Cana—
His first recorded miracle.
Could it have been__________?
Why would his mother
come to THIS Jesus
regarding the wine running out.
A mother’s concern—
would it NOT be if it were ONLY her son’s wedding?

THIS man
challenged the systems of
his day.

He took tremendous risks.
He devoted himself to those
who had little.
Isn’t this why he turned over
the money tables in the

The ‘little’ monies people had
the religious zealots would
ban the people from using—
Why?  Because Roman monies held
Caesar’s face on the coins…

The people were told it was pagan monies
and they were made to cash them in for shekels.
What was received—its value was less.
(Ah, but the religious system was
in harmony with the politics of the day—
tax exemptions…are we really
different today?)

He saw the corruption.
He named the injustice.
He spoke of love

AND—to those who set out
to take his life

—He did not establish armies
—He did not build walls to ‘protect.’

Rather, he stretched out his arms
like a mother hen
gathering her brood
and said, “Forgive them for they
know NOT what they do.”

THIS man transformed our
understanding of death.

THIS man’s suffering
revealed a LIGHT
within which we ALL live.

An eternal JOY
surpasses human understanding.

THIS Ordinary Man…Jesus
echoed he is with us.

Believe it or NOT

We dwell in this Cosmic Mystery.
THIS Christ Consciousness
THIS Divine Temple of Creation
Incarnate before any eye
ever open to its vast

THIS ordinary man Jesus
called out to Abba (Father).

Remember the ‘time,’ the history
of his day.

THIS ordinary man—ALIVE in us today.

THIS Jesus invites us to
call out “Mother,” “Source of life,”
“Spirit”… “Nameless breath.”

If ONLY we would
expand our hearts.

THIS man said,
“We would do even greater things…”

If ONLY we trusted
we are ALL One
letting-go of fear
and following a
simple WAY—

“I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing to you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.”

~~~Rainer Maria Rilke~~~

Yesterday’s Harvest

Yesterday’s Harvest

days ago it seemed
the Fall Harvest—
the last ‘pickings’…
tempered vines
strewn in a wheel barrel.

The compost would be laid
as a blanket
upon earth’s brown skin.

Winter arrived—
the chill swept across
the landscape.
Flakes of powder—
each one different—
an artistic design unnoticed.

Yet, it held in time
on the frozen
pile of Autumn’s leaves
that the winds were unable
to blow away.

All that is about to be—
the awakening of Spring.

We have not seen the
great harvest of Winter
down deep, inside
the body of the Universe.

So much Life
created, re-created
in the death, the remains
of that last
wheel barrel full of Autumn.

The cycle repeats
each of us is in this
circular dance.

Do we recognize
what dies in us?

Have we let go
of useless, unsettled
‘leaves’ hanging around
waiting for us to allow
them their freedom—release?

Are we able to smell the fresh
scent of Spring
and allow it to fill us—
carry us off our feet
until we settle into
the warmth of summer
soaking in the drops of
sweat while sitting on
a carpet of sand
by the sea?

The wheel barrel
will come again—
fresh compost
gathering the last harvest.

THIS is the essence
of communion
daily received.

In the eucharist of life,
the paten
a simple wheel barrel.


John the Baptist…The New Testament

John the Baptist…The New Testament
A Silver Platter

People came to you—
to your lowly
desert haven
nestled by the sea.

You preached a message
a turning of one’s
and one’s mind
to a NEW Way.

You began the preparations.

You revealed ONLY the Truth.
For this you were imprisoned


for this your
head laid on a silver platter.

You chose suffering instead
of falsity, gain, and prestige.

You knew the price
and you chose the deepest treasure
discovered within…

You chose wisely.
The Desert is Holy

If the desert is holy
It is because it is a forgotten place.

That allows us to remember
the sacred.

Perhaps that is why every
pilgrimage to the desert
Is a pilgrimage to the self.

There is no place to hide
And so we are found.

—Tempest Williams


Full Moon

Full Moon

Holons merrily danced a
minuet around her fullness.

She impregnated the night
with hues too elegant for
mere words.

The veins of the naked trees
reached for her—
the air frigid—
‘still’ the branches
clacked in the wind…
the rush of sap swirled
inside ‘unfrozen’
—the moment far from barren.

Within the trees, the fruit of life
collided creating a Spring
of endless blossomings..

Who can say—
the depths of the moon’s
fullness do not
feed the vast wonders of creation…

The tides reside at her dawning
and rush back in when
her fullness is at its zenith.

Milky white dew drops
splash to earth—
the nocturnal animals drink
in the formed pools.

Awake in this wonder I AM—
a soft shadow almost
wishing the dawn would
wait to rise.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—March 2017/ Bottom Of An Hour-Glass

SIBYL MAGAZINE—March 2017/ Bottom of An Hour-Glass


Sandra Mattucci—Bottom of An Hour-Glass

One grain of sand slipped through a narrow chamber—another flowed effortlessly pouring itself over words drizzled at the bottom of an hour-glass.  Before each speck of sand incased in an imaginary castle leading to far off never lands, a steady flow of thoughts filtered through my heart.  I became mindful of a tree.  I wondered if a tree should fall in a forest would the sound of its rippling across the earth’s floor be heard?  Would there be a sound if NO one heard it fall?  This question reverberated in my soul and walked the Camino in me.

Breathing in the chill of the morning’s air, I placed one foot followed by another on the ground.  Soon I experienced a deep sense of wonder, of majesty, of beauty and , I listened.  It was all about listening.  Was there any sound?  Did it matter?  I felt deeply overwhelmed realizing that I had become this tree…no longer words sunken beneath sands.  I climbed through the narrow space of the hour-glass spreading myself outward like branches stretching toward heaven’s dome.  I saw myself as if in a mirror— the direction clear, but one I never saw coming.  Every step became a painting.  I was mindful of this sacred moment—of this terrain.  Like an artist’s pallet, each ‘shoot’ of my being became a brush into which I dipped.  The orange pink splashes of the sunrise illuminated the sky and danced around the horizon.  I was drenched in the blue and white raindrops which pelted a gray sky.  I slogged through deep brown mud and I danced in green buds that unfolded into every new day.

Life has turned the hour-glass.  Walking now, I visualize more clearly how the bottom of the glass has become its top.  But, when the sands are poured through, a new bottom became as did a new top.  What an incredible reversal.  Like life going round and round, new moments are given to each of us again and again.

As I took the time to re-read that last paragraph I penned, I paused to ask myself what it was that I had been saying.  I am writing something new and as I re-live what was—it is old news and GOOD News.  The hour glass sits.  I am able to turn it over anytime.  Actually, it turns itself without my having to do anything.

The trunk of this tree that I am (metaphorically speaking) is stronger than ever and at times I want to run from this knowing.  The resilient strength within me echoes ‘be not afraid’ and I press forward.  The hour glass stores countless lessons.  It is not about ‘time’ or time running out.  It is about the realization to draw life from the amount of time given and walk awakened into each day.

Until April,
Buen Camino

Elizabeth & Zechariah…The New Testament

Elizabeth & Zechariah…The New Testament









Who were you Elizabeth?

You knew didn’t you…BUT, you kept it ‘hushed.’

While sharing your voice,
You Elizabeth, wife of the great high priest Zechariah,
whose voice was made mute upon entry into the
Holy of Holies, became who you already were—The priestess.
You knew didn’t you, Elizabeth?
Your ancient womb bursting, pulsating
expanding with life.
It was you, a woman, who would audibly proclaim
his name.

You would name your son who entered a
dry, parched barren land, a desert place…inviting people to the
waters.  Truly ‘his’ dwelling was an invitation to the
true holy of holies.
He “listened” to you…
He watched you…
and knew deep within that he would become
a ‘seed’ destined
to blossom.
In the end, he was snipped like a wild
weed from its roots, but his message still heard echoing “Metanoia.”

It was your message—Priestess of God.
You proclaimed what was in Mary’s womb.
The refrain you echoed
Elizabeth even your companion Zechariah knew.

When your call was challenged, Zechariah would write down on a tablet
affirming that what you stated would hold fast.
It was only then his voice opened.
Your husband was born anew.

Wise Crone…
for nine months you were the voice that was
listened to.
Some finally understood.

The pages of your life, sweet Crone
were filled with un-daunting laughter.
Your story…
really never ends.

“Eventually I saw that the path of the heart requires a full gesture, a degree of abandon that can be terrifying.  Only then is it possible to achieve a sparkling metamorphosis.”
  —Carlos Castaneda

I Lost You God

I Lost You God


I’ve put all I’ve ever known,
been taught, studied—“DOWN”
and I stepped into ‘nothingness.’

I walked, and walked, and walked.
I stopped ‘thinking.’

I cannot tell you the moments
or instances—
it was sudden.

Everything, everyone became God.
In my mind, it was an
explosion of sorts.
Light spewed itself in ALL things.

I could not not drop to my knees—
the motion was a dance.

Inside me I felt a flow
moving. It was rushing through me
and I had to reach out connecting
with a tree rooted in earth.

I stood.  The ground beneath my
feet swayed or was it I that was swaying?
It no longer mattered.

We moved together
‘in’ this Life.

God—I believe I’ve beheld you…

NOT in a single glimpse
but, in the endless knitting
of a world creating itself over and over again.