—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.
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(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 YOU!
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 —LIVE— 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.
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An empty chair, brooms, buckets, shovel, a hose and a single pair of clogs.
Inside… 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 neighborhood don’t even know her name.
She prefers to remain anonymous 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
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 differently but, THIS tiny place holds a treasure the world could not afford…
With the exception of LOVE in return.
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Look Look above ~~~a cornfield of blue flowers laced with delicate linen designs. The artist weaves a needle and the sky is fashioned.
Look 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 soils. The artist dips the brush…
Look 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 full. The wheels of the ocean’s waves unfurl. 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.
Look 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 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 Smiles.
“I AM looking upon the work of your hands. I See… it is all that matters.
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
A Giant fell.
A hush could be heard for miles and the ground shook.
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— remorseful.
Be mindful if you gather stones…
and how you might be called to use them.
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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. Right?
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 brew.
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.
NOW… 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: www.onesingledrop.com 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.
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As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
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
May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.
Let freedom 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.
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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
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 until…”timberrrrrrrrr.”
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 BUILT and fashioned with care.
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