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

                                                         Mystery Transfigured

Yes

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

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

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

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

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

Pouring freely—
pouring into
an open sea
widening the way

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

Yes.

The Liturgy

Inside
a ‘wind’ stirs

setting into motion
what ‘reason’
cannot begin to
resolve.

A candle remains aglow
listening
in the pregnant
silence.

The whirling gives
birth
to expectant
miracles

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

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

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

Blossoming—
Returning again
changed, and
yet, the same.

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

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

Death does not end.

Quiet…
a bell softly
clangs in the distance.

The liturgy has begun.

 

SIBYL MAGAZINE—December 2017/ An Artistic Web

A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sandra Mattucci—An Artistic Web

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

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

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

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

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

In Gratitude
Buen Camino

“Just…a Dream?”

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

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

The wind whistled
—it howled.

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

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

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

Tiny spectrums of light
fell
attaching themselves to
something up ahead—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a star hung in the
night sky.

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

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

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

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

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

The little girl
whispered,
“I Believe!”

She covered herself
in a swaddling
blanket
closing her
eyes
singing,
“Joy to the World.”

New Paths…
            Travel NEW paths—the depths are endless!

Great Heron

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

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

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

INTERMISSION

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

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

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

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

 

Nocturne

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

The sounds of night—unseen.

I hold this moment.

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

SIBYL MAGAZINE—November 2017/ A Well on my Back

A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sandra Mattucci—A Well on my Back

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

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

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

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

In becoming Empty, I am forever full.

In Thanks…Until December,
Buen Camino

Prayer…

has a way of sneaking
up and down
upon you.

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

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

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

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

In prayer—
no words necessary…

The unveiling of Oneness
ALWAYS before us, beside us,

within us.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—October 2017/ A Shaft of Light

A PILGRIM SEEKING TEMPLES

Sandra Mattucci—A Shaft of Light

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

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

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

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

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

Until November,
Buen ‘BEAM’ Camino

What is the Soul?

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

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

If you answer “No,”
I need not
go on.

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

She is Risen

Here inside
this shelter—
A roof over head—
the sound of a million
drops can be heard as they
pelt the canvas top.
They spill into a sea of green~~~
a woven blanket…
each slender strand
effortlessly holds a drop balanced as if
on the top of a sewing needle.

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

BUT, a way to where?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pallet—gone.

Walking into the sun,
they became the Light.

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

She has Risen—
She has risen,
indeed.

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

 

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

There they stood
outside its gates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The little boy made his way—I wept.

                            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                     
‘unnoticed’~~~
Softly, gently
and at times pushing, pounding
firmly—-
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
‘being’~~~
Prayer EXPANDS—
it reveals the Architect’s blueprint.
No matter where we LOOK…
it is A PROMISED LAND.

                                    Messy Lives…A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

Quietly,
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
clings
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

OR

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

                                       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…
“Come—
Follow.”

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

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

reaching the core…
AWAKENING lives.

This he learned from YOU…Stone Cutter.

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
But,
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

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

Rejection

Someone I have
loved for a lifetime
has tried to teach me
the lessons of
‘rejection.’

I did NOT want to
understand…

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,

I don’t UNDERSTAND God…
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!

The Voice of the River…

Speaking—
“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.
Trust…
you’re stronger than
you know.

When my white water
comes,
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

OR

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…

A Hid-den Place

A hidden place
awaits us—
Once discovered,
there is no
turning back.

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
“touched’—
at first, it was so cold.

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

The sun ‘beat’ on the
stone.

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

 

 

 

 

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.

Inside—
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
itself.

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

AND

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

FOLLOW

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