With This Ring

With This Ring

I was pulled 
like a magnet.

The light, a burning flame.
My eyes could not turn away.

I was blinded,
yet, I could see
a ring around the sun.

The ring, a kaleidoscope of

My eyes blinked and blinked
like a set of windshield wiper blades
trying to clear what
was before me.

I was held in this circle.
A Gospel, without words.
A creation story revealed
EVERY day.

No beginning, no ending.
An eternal ‘I Do’ wedding me
to this life.

This life inviting me to a wedded Union
with all things Good.

Woven into this circle,
the colors fading
yet, not away.
The colors faded
‘into’ me.

I felt a wedded bliss.
The Sun inside me—
and, I was in the Sun.

‘With this ring’…

“You may now’…

Something kissed my brow.

The birds sang a Pronouncement:

“You are One with All.”

Pardon me now while I kiss
the sky.

Drops of Color/ The Wheel

Drops of Color

The Wheel

Like the Seasons,
the wheel circles

—dipping down
—drawing in
    the endless drops
    that fill the spring.

A sudden rush~~~ water swirling

—spinning the wheel
—holding barrels
   of sustenance
    for only so long.

NOW, the wheel spills like a waterfall

releasing its content
refilling once more.

The circle
—round and round it goes
    empty, full, pouring itself out…

Simple, to discover the Divine

—in a wheel
—in the water
—in the wood
     that holds long enough
     to let go
     over and over again.

A Telescope

(Excerpt from a Journal/Camino St Francis #1/September 2019)


When I was a child,
I looked out through a telescope
gazing at stars…dancing fireflies.
I tried to catch one…
didn’t work—I
tried again and again.
Trust, look at my knees.
I tumbled, fell and 
I laughed.
The stars seemed to shine more brightly
the more I looked upon them.
I still know the meaning of being ‘star’ struck.
Light beams meandering upon a velvet sea of sheer blackness.
Sometimes I imagine I’m swimming in that pool of darkness.
I pause here because something has
changed or maybe it’s the same.
I have been HERE and I AM asking who am I, and Who are YOU…

You no longer have a name and yet you are in ALL things.
What is MOST real in THIS moment is YOU
looking through the telescope at me.

Do you know who I am?  In my simple understanding, you do know who I am.
I’m setting out on a walk…AGAIN.
Silver wings will fly me across the sea and I’ll traverse a landscape where 
the Lover of creation, the poor man Francis of Assisi LIVED, until Sister Death brought him into the eternal landscape of stars—his friends.

Francis asked the same question I ask.
Did he EVER discover WHO he was?
You called him to BUILD your church.

Within, I believe it NOT a church of brick & mortar.
I trust it was a church, the church where Spirit dwells…
in that HID-DEN cave inside each of us!

While writing, I feel a star
or a slew of stars moving in me.
They are shining…yes, yes—
You see them as You LOOK through the lens.

A silence hovers over me.

What is happening, what has begun?
I am writing this page at the END of my journal because I strongly hold 
where we END we BEGIN.

So, WHO am I?
WHO are You?
What if I find out?

When I return to this side of the pond in three weeks,


I’ll have to buy you a TELESCOPE.

No—NOT to look out of, but
to allow the One inside of you to look
and look 
and see

Drops of Color/ In the Back

Drops of Color
In the Back

Is this a poem I’m beginning?
Is it a conscious moral inventory?
Black words are spilling
across a white background.
The ‘words’ are the fruit
splashing from a pen.

I’m a white woman.
Yes, a white, retired Peace (Police) Officer.
I’ve undergone countless hours of training.
Defensive tactics were taught to me and
to other brother and sister officers. Never
a choke hold was spoken of—nor role modeled!

One instructor, who taught us DWI (Driving while under the Influence) procedures,
expressed first and foremost that when someone is
intoxicated ‘we’ need to understand that the person’s 
JUDGMENT is impaired.
The responsibility befalls the officer
to handle the situation 
with great care, caution and safety for ALL—
including self.

To expect an individual to ‘follow’ verbal
commands when under the influence—
the expectation is absurd.

The Use of Force continuum
is there to protect persons…
the aggressor and the one attempting
to stop the aggressor(s).

Shots to the back.
An individual fleeing…on foot.
All information on Mr. Brooks available.
A simple warrant could have been completed.
An arrest made later.

Simple to write.
Easy to say.
I was not there.

Yet, I’m sketching
another picture of a black man.
A man whose life was taken
and the law would  decide a sentence.

There is a LARGER issue
cracking open the stained-glass
windows covering hid-den truths…
NOW, things being filmed on camera
and still questions…
maybe he/she is guilty?
A life gone too soon by the
very hands called to Protect & Serve.

I have my own story
—a knee taken to my neck (metaphorically).
A situation dismissed…
I was, according to investigators (at the top),
an oversensitive female.

But, a wise teacher (MT Winter)
guided me…
It’s not the time to make this
about my story.

This is about Rayshard Brooks, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor
countless others and…I pray, “NO more.”

I pray, “Lord, hear the cries of your people.”

Come, Source of Life…I pray.



In the night,
I drift
and often wander.

These moments
—silence like a clap of thunder
—lightening striking an
    unseen place in my Soul.

In this dwelling place,
I reach for your hand.
I realize both of your 
arms have been waiting
—waiting to wrap themselves around me.

I close my eyes.
I can never remember
the length of the moment
held within you.

Next, we’re swinging
side by side.
The light of the silvery moon
—a Segue.

We hum—no words.
I take in your breath.
You take in mine.

Back and forth
we glide
—toes pointing
toward the sky
—the backward
regaining momentum.

Our hands let
as the sun rises.

My heart
begins to beat
another day.

Drops of Color/ In this House

Drops of Color

In this House…

there are mansions…MANY.

On the outside,
a bare wall—
you can see leakage.

A door tarnished.

An empty chair, brooms, buckets, shovel, a hose and a single pair of clogs.

She’s setting a fire
—a steaming cup of tea
placed beside her rocker.

She is in from her garden.
She’s picked the vegetables
—she’s milked the cow
and taken the creamy suds
to the family down the road.

Three small children—
Dad lost his job.
Mom diagnosed with_________.

Several persons
who await her produce
‘attempt’ to slip the woman
a coin—
she kindly smiles
—shakes her head
—closes her hand around theirs…tucking the coin
‘back’ into their possession.

Some in the 
don’t even know her name.

She prefers to remain
but, every once in awhile
someone calls her out.

“What you see in me
is in You” she whispers—

and moves on.

She walks to her home


there are many more
like her.

Persons in the most
‘unlikely’ places
changing the world.

The real saviors of
the world NOT calling
attention to themselves
yet, LIVING each day

Caring for

the earth giving her the 
bounty to share.
Loving creatures
who lovingly return
sustenance as if appreciative
of the love received.

You may vision a mansion
but, THIS tiny place
holds a treasure
the world could not afford…

With the exception of
LOVE in return.



Look above
~~~a cornfield of blue flowers 
laced with delicate linen designs.
The artist weaves a needle
and the sky is fashioned.

Look below
~~~a shaggy rug
each strand lifting as if greeting
a long awaited friend.
Embracing affectionately, they become
fashioned to one another
~~~they roll in the cushioned earth
of green grasses
~~~brown roots hold them in the 
The artist dips the brush…

Look ahead
~~~rolling wheels.
They move with a rhythm.
The artist winds the brush
like a watch that runs
beyond time.
White spray—
flocks of seagulls form
~~~waves rise then fall
~~~the tide in, then suddenly out,
driven by an unseen hand
cresting the moon until it is
The wheels of the ocean’s waves
Yes, here is where the artist
dips the brush.

Oh, Look
and feel
~~~a soft whisper rising
like a stampede of wild horses
~~~dust filling an open landscape
~~~a top spiraling
gathering everything in its path.
The artist lets-go.
Everything created changed.
The design unsettled.

A quiet hush,
colors melted
—the scene invisible.

there is the artist
~~~walking, so it seems,
into what appears to be
a scene of pillars dressed in
green leaves
~~~birds singing
~~~forest creatures have come out
of their hid-den places.
A pencil in the artist’s hand…
shadows etched.

See all the portraits?
Each day creation’s ‘creators’
You, me~~~
fashion the designs we are
meant to bring to life
and the One who brings us
to life

“I AM looking upon the work
of your hands.
I See… it is all that matters.

Well done…
Well done.”

Drops of Color/ A Few Stones

Drops of Color

A Few Stones

There were a few stones
in the sack.

always in place
in case…

in case a predator
seized upon
one of the woolly lambs.

This time—
there was a Giant.

A large ‘flock’
needed protection.

A few precious stones
pulled from a pouch

and launched~~~

A Giant fell.

A hush could be heard
for miles and the ground

A shepherd—
the one no one even gave
an account for—

He is
still remembered
as a king.
And even he—fell.

He stood back on his feet—


Be mindful if you gather

and how you might
be called to 
use them.

Do you know Her?

Do you know Her?

Recognize her?
You think she’s homeless–

We don’t want the 
likes of her in our neighborhood.
She is not allowed where we live~~~
her ‘likes’ don’t give off 
positive energy.

Well, I decided to 
follow her…
From a distance.

When she rose
from her bed of rock,
she pulled back a small
crust of bread.
The expression on her face
was that of an angel
and, NOW she was surrounded
by endless wings.
She fed the feathered creatures
as if a liturgy had begun.

She draped her
shawl, her vestment…
around her shoulders.
She gathered the ‘host’
of belongings
lying beside her.

She ceremoniously proceeded
through the streets.

As she walked by
the bakery,
she lifted a bag left for her.

The owner of the coffee stand
filled her a paper cup—
her chalice of morning

The butcher
left some slices of
meat and cheese curds
and off she went…

—beneath the bridges

—into the alleyways
—behind dumpsters.

She went ‘into’ the
‘hid-den’ crawl spaces.

She knew her congregation.

She shared communion.

She saw me
and pulled herself
to my side.

She didn’t say anything…
She did not have to.

I’m trying to follow.

I have so much
to let-go!

A humble, heartfelt ‘Thank you‘ to ‘all’ who responded to the last post: “I Can’t Breathe.”

I wept and honestly can say I am breathing a little more easily because of the enormous acts of LOVE ‘spreading’ across the globe…even amidst so much unrest.

Many of you asked permission to share the ‘post.’
By all means—please feel free to share these seeds of love I ‘tend’ and plant.

If you’re moved to share…please invite persons to go directly to:
and join the garden of the many community members.
One can Unsubscribe at anytime.

Let’s plant fertile ground in THIS Garden of Life we have been blessed to dwell ‘within’ and to care & nurture.


Drops of Color/ I Can’t Breathe

Drops of Color

I Can’t Breathe…

As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of 
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
innocent man.

I hang my head—my lament so raw.
Unraveling the words, my white, feminine flesh
spills black ink from a pen.
I do not know how to
frame the cry within me, choking me.
I must write, but what?

I sought the words of a Dreamer…

“…Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
     Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain Tennessee.
     Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
     From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

    And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it
    ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city,
    we will be able to speed up that day when ALL of God’s children, black
    and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to
    join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

    Free at last!  Free at last!

    Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

                                                                                                                                                                                             ~~~Martin Luther King, Jr.
                                                                                                                                                                                              28th August 1963

I wish to sing, but my tears flood my
wind pipe…I’m choking.
Mr. Floyd, the simplicity of my words
are an attempt to BREATHE for you.

Was this your life’s purpose…to ignite a flame?
Your purpose so much more!
Across the country, from Minneapolis, to Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Illinois, Utah and—
cries are heard.

Systemic shifts are caving in
amidst a pandemic.
Lives are being lost.
The Earth is quaking.

Will we all perish in our inability
to see we’re all FREE…we are all created equal?

God Almighty, how you weep now with us.

  You breathed life into the dust of this landscape, brown soils, creating humankind…
my heart is not able to reckon what we are
living in NOW
this was/is not a part of your Design.

Come to our assistance—
Come, if ONLY, to embrace our sorrows.
Let us sit for a while in these ashes.
Let us bathe in the folly of all 
our unknowing.

May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.

Let freedom ring
and ring
and ring
until God Almighty we are all Free at last.

I pray my ‘eyes’ behold the Dream Come True
before I take my last breath.

Forgive me while I still breathe.
I cannot keep silent.



He arrived—
as if out of Nowhere.

In a ‘way,’ we summoned someone to drive around the bend to transport us to the location we originally sought.  We walked in the opposite direction~~~through forests and orchards of horse chestnuts, tobacco fields, grape vines, peach trees.

Our sole purpose~~~ to visit what I would name, ‘Oxen,’ in order to purchase the cheese made from their luscious milk.

The Red Fiat turned the bend and stopped.
Our guide approached.  He wore a classic straw hat,  a long sleeve blue shirt, tucked in…pants held by suspenders.  He responded to our request.  Four women invited into this man’s small auto.  He spoke Italian— Emese and Deanna understood. Wendy and I looked and listened.  Each day he drives to the top of the hill where there is a small cemetery.  His wife died almost 2 months ago~~~they were married 50 years.  Tears fill his eyes.  When he makes his way from the cemetery, he seeks ‘pilgrims’ on their way to Assisi…any WAY he can HELP, assist, offer presence.  He was our Angel and he told us we were his miracle. 

He drove us to the entrance doors—to the store.  He wished to drive us back, but we graciously declined—yet, not before an embrace… a kiss first on one cheek, then the other.

A simple word  packed with MORE feelings than one can explain…”Thank You.”

Did we meet Francis of Assisi?  Yes!

Did we meet Christ?  Yes!

Was this man and angel?  Yes!

His name, Leonardo.

Today, I AM no longer the same having joined the path called Life~~~with him.

(Excerpt from a Journal on the Camino St Francis/Italy)

“If the only prayer you ever utter is ‘thank you’…it is enough!”     Meister Eckhart

Drops of Color/ Built on Water

Drops of Color

Built on Water

The house
was not built upon sand…

Nor did ‘rock’
hold the weight of an
array of limbs and twigs.

The branches were laced, intertwined,
woven together
on a bed of water.

Yes, this house built
upon a weightless
stream running slowly
—rushing effortlessly down yonder.

The builder,
out in the early hours of dawn
chopped trees 
like a pecking of a chisel

Yet, no sound heard
except the pounce of
the wood caressing the ground
and then the mighty branch
being hulled by a tug boat.

But, this boat
has no motor.

An enormous tail works
the water like a shutter
—swift movements
—a thrust forward then back
finally arriving at home base.

The builder tugged,
pulled, lifted
and sewed the wood
into the foundation.

Protected from the weathers
—inside, one dry elegant room.

A family gathers.
Day has begun
—hidden they remain,
until the first star appears.

The lumberers sharpen
their teeth
as off to work
they paddle.

Their house on 
the water
and fashioned
with care.