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

Nature’s Wild

Nature’s Wild

Nature embracing nature’s wild…

How they cling
one to another…

Together they are
One in THIS vast


I AM united in
this ‘lens’
holding a gaze
knitted NOW within.

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.


JOSEPH…The New Testament

Joseph…The New Testament

Two wooden beams…

Did you see them in your dreams?

Wood in your hands—
it became like clay…
you would mold and fashion—
create like no other carpenter.

a little carpenter you had
at your side.
He watched YOU—
became you.

You LOVED his mother.
You would not allow her to be stoned as was the law
you believed in.

Within your dream
you were stretched.
“YOU” held her—
enveloped her, becoming
her Beloved.

Your tiny apprentice
grew beyond the trade.
He was pulled elsewhere.
In this time—
perhaps, you ‘ALREADY’ gone.

But, you spoke a
message of transformation
far from teaching
in words.

Your spoken
actions were epic.

Who would have thought
your boy, now a man,
would be hung
from the very craft,
skill, artistry
you taught him.

Joseph, father—
you taught your son.

He knew how to hang
from the wood.
He knew beyond the law
that YOU were
with him through the
end of the age.

Together, with
the woman who was
your soul’s companion,
YOU taught him to
believe AND make
all things NEW.

This is why he ROSE
from the wood
and led others
to SEE an empty tomb.

Joseph—you were/are so
much more than
ONLY a Carpenter.
“Dreams pass into the reality of action.  From the action stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.                               —Anais Nin

Three Boats

Three Boats…
You may SEE two boats
but the ‘invisible’ third vessel ‘carries’ them all as One.

SIBYL MAGAZINE—February 2017/ A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’

SIBYL MAGAZINE—February 2017/ A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’


Sandra Mattucci—A Key—A Stick…’Gifted’

Many faces pass me as I walk.  My thoughts so meaning-filled this day.  The “busy-ness” of life has given way to a quiet awakening within and by day’s end, all the walking took me back…back to its beginnings.  I left behind many earthly ‘things’ when I departed my homeland—a country flowing with milk and honey.  When I arrived in this unknown land, I ‘found’ the true source…the rich Honey Comb.

I was immersed in a sweet essence while I walked, as I glided across the slick cobblestone pavement.  I was mesmerized by the magnificent arch before me—above me a statue of
St James with staff in hand.  I stood—a foreigner, as one in exile embarking on a solitary journey and I heard the invitation to “Come, follow.”  My heart pulsated as I fought to free myself from my ‘false’ self, from the lure of success, from the hunger for recognition, accolades and applause.

The arch I would walk under/through pulled me like a string.  The church to my left whispered, “ENTER.”  I reached for the door handle pushing and pulling wishing it to open.  I felt a certain sadness when I realized the church was locked.  How was I to enter?  I took  a few steps and saw a stout woman holding a skeleton key which dangled from an enormous hoop around her wrist.  She gazed into my eyes.  Speaking not a word, she unlocked the door and beckoned me “WELCOME.”  A latch was lifted.  My heart unleashed a sense of deep gratitude.  Only now do I realize the gifts received.

A walking stick had become for me more than just a stick.  As the pilgrimage began, the stick and I found our way to each other in one of the many shops.  I spent time searching for the ‘right’ one.  This stick caught my eye.  I picked it up—I put it down and it leaned into me.  It became my constant companion.  A simple piece of wood carried me across rough terrains and through all weathers.  Tears bathed my being when I arrived in Santiago and gently placed my companion with all the other sticks.  Before my final release, I did throw it to the ground wondering if it would turn into a snake.  The only hiss came from my lips—blessing to the next pilgrim in need of its assistance.

A key unlocked my heart.  I, the foreigner, was carried by a companion ‘staff.’  A slivered moon illuminated the night sky and I was struck not by the light of the visible curve, but by its shadow in the black sea.  There was my true self in the shadow.  Who I am, who I was becoming, even after all this time—UNKNOWN.  In my silent practice of being, I am trusting what is slowly being revealed.  A new day is dawning and endless sunsets sink into mists of endings.  HERE my true self awakens.

Until March,
Buen Camino

MARY…The New Testament

The New Testament is a branch—
EXTENDED from the expanding roots of the Hebrew Scriptures…

I OPEN the story through the voice of a Woman
—a woman of courage
—a woman who overcame fear
and simply said, “Let it be done.” (Metaphorically speaking)

What was done to her birthed a child, who challenged his time, his people, his culture, religion & politics AND it was she who taught him the words, “Be NOT Afraid.”
THIS he echoed timelessly in every NEW step he chose to walk…


MARY…The New Testament
“Don’t be afraid”
Sure, easy for YOU to say
…’whoever you are.’

“Please don’t be troubled.”
Alright, but what kind of greeting do you come with?

Did I really hear what was just
whispered to me like a breeze in the wind?

What has been done I already feel
growing within the fabric of my being—
a tree bursting forth within my womb.

My heart is exploding in wonder.
I know SO MANY will not understand this.
I’m not sure I truly do, Yet—

I will be looked down upon.
They’ll call me names and utter all kinds of insults…
But, I will not be afraid.

My mother taught me this…
She taught me to listen carefully to the ‘Spirit’ of God
and I shall pass this onto the one living
already inside of me.

I am ‘worthy’…this my mother taught me as well.
Yes…I, a girl…

From my youth, it did not matter I was a girl.
In fact, it was everything that mattered.
She sang to me, cradled me in her arms,
told me, “You are a gift of love—
Shine in the world.”

She didn’t really prepare me for just how deeply
it would hurt, but one must
‘grow’ through the seasons of life.

He came and I told him how much he
He seemed to laugh with delight.

I told him never to be AFRAID…
He listened…
His final words in this world—
“Be NOT AFRAID I am with you always even to the end of the Age.”
“I must be the Virgin and give birth to God.”
                                                                  17th Century German Mystic Angelus Silesius

A Mountain and a Lake

A Mountain and a Lake

The mountain
beheld the silvery lake
at the rocky bottom of
its base.

The water enveloped the mountain—
the snow capped peaks
spread amidst a blue sky—
an endless ceiling encompassing
the sun’s radiance.

The mountain and the lake
spoke to each other
without words:
—they drew no comparisons
—they did not compete
—they did not make mention
of their differences…

Instead, they ‘blended’ into
each other
their Oneness…
a mirror’s image of what
the human eye sees dimly.

Micah…(Hebrew Scriptures)

Micah…(Hebrew Scriptures)

“[God] hath shown thee, O man [O woman]: what is good…”

EVERYONE is good for EVERYONE is of God.

“and what doth the Lord require of thee but to do JUSTLY…”

doing JUSTLY..why do we invest so much of our mind’s understanding JUSTICE.  Simply be JUST—you know if your actions are NOT.

“and to love mercy…”

surely you have been shown mercy in your imperfect life…may mercy open the door to your heart written with the sign LOVE over ALL four chambers.

“and to walk humbly with thy God?”

I’m walking…
where are your footsteps leading you this day?
that is in you and others will witness the Divine that LIVES in YOU!

May we bow to each other in holy compassion—
for each of us is created in the image of God.

  Micah 6:8

Watch your words;
they become your ACTIONS.

Watch your actions;
they become HABITS.

Watch your habits;
they become CHARACTER.

Watch your character;
it becomes your DESTINY.

Author Unknown



The BIG ‘c’hurch

The BIG ‘c’hurch

Every step
and the ones taken in between
each known ‘footprint’
has been guided by
an unnamed source
leading me
to the BIG church.

Its cathedral ceilings
are peaks
packed in snow thousands
of inches thick.

A choir master lets loose
an avalanche.
A surge of crescendos
tumbles down, down, down…
a symphony in time
never to be heard in this
way again
AND then the choir
unleashes another rumble.

The pews spread outward—
miles upon miles of rolling meadows.
Oceans and riverbeds…submerged,
when the moon
caresses the chalice it is holding—
earth’s most precious blood.

The altar—the table
is wherever the sojourner stops…
breaking bread, giving thanks.
The tiny forest creatures
gather seeking the crumbs that hide
between every
blade of grass.

When the sun, an eternal candle,
finds its opening
through the unframed windows,
its flame ignites places
waiting to be revealed—
even if no one SEES.
Rejoicing goes on ‘in’ this church
because it cannot NOT

Its doorway has no locks—
it is never closed…
it lives by the seasons~~~
always changing
never the same
open for all.

No dogmas
No rituals
No sacrifice.

This church is in constant

This church
This BIG church is in relationship
with the stars above
and the secret core bubbling inside
earth’s inner being.

It is in this ‘tabernacle’ the
HEART beats
—it has always been beating…

in chaos
in calm.

This BIG church
stands erect.

Upon her the lives of many
linger day to day
sometimes forgetting ALL that
is offered EVERY moment.

Those who have much
paint images of a church
of their own making…

While those with
‘little,’ often referred to as ‘pagan,’
give thanks for
THIS church—
This BIG church.
They pause
knees bent, arms raised
offering thanks & adoration.

In this BIG church
the service NEVER ends.

Its invitation—simple.
“Come—follow me.”

Jeremiah…(Hebrew Scripture)

Jeremiah…(Hebrew Scripture)


Did you hear me?

Can you hear me?
Get someone else to do this…

I’m too young.
Or…I’m NOT the right person.
(Who is the right person?)

This task you ask…
I’m NOT right for the job—

WAIT…this isn’t a job, it’s a __________

it’s a CALL…

One I NEVER saw coming.
I’m sinking into this, this
whatever you call it.

I understand so little
but, the little I understand I offer.
“One of the very worst self-murdering lies that people tell themselves is that they are no good and have no gift and nothing important to say.”
—Brenda Euland

Without a Lens

Without a Lens

You stand
trying to ‘capture’
the very essence of nature’s
natural (panoramic) surroundings.

AND, then (without knowing),
nature ‘captures’ YOU
without a lens
revealing the beauty
YOU live ‘in’


Men [Women] do not mirror themselves in running water—they mirror themselves in still water.  Only what is still can still the stillness of other things.
Chuang Tzu

Isaiah…(Hebrew Scripture)

Isaiah…(Hebrew Scripture)

Alright Prophet—
reveal yourself!

Who were you?


Out you went.
You were driven…
your handle on an
eternal steering

Curved roads
mountain tops
country sides—
you’d STOP


“One is coming”

One is coming
to restore what’s
been broken,
divided, lost.

You were gone
when he arrived—

Yet, your “oneness”

He quoted you
more than any other prophet.

Funny—he left out your line
of vengeance…(Isaiah 61:1-2/Luke 4:17-19)
should we even
wonder why?

It’s really simple—
isn’t it prophet…?

The stones get
it as well
as the sea
and the blanket of

Interesting how
cackle over
what you’d written.
Or—even if you
actually wrote it?

Poets, well
they spew words
like a sheet of
or an eloquent
trying to make sense of it all.

For themselves?
For others…
others who listen?

Who listened to you, Isaiah?

Ahhhh yes,
those believing,
folk without much of anything…

with a faith
not even death
could snatch

“Young men [women] may grow tired and weary,
youths may stumble, but those who hope in Yahweh renew their strength,
they put out wings like eagles.
They run and do not grow weary,
walk and never tire.”

                                                                                               Isaiah 40:30-31

SIBYL MAGAZINE—January 2017/A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

Sibyl Magazine—January 2017/ A Pilgrim Seeking Temples

What is this?
Sibyl Magazine is a Publication for the Spirit & Soul of Woman.
At the beginning of 2016 I was invited to submit a piece of my literary writing…
the invitation could not have been more timely as the Pilgrimage I walked in 2015
(The Camino de Santiago) had began to ‘gestate’ in and through my very being.

The GOOD News—
The ‘piece’ was accepted and I’ve been invited to ‘write’ a monthly article for 2017.

Yes—the sharings will focus on the unfolding of the Pilgrimage I NOW live daily…walking ONE footstep at a time TRUSTING I am exactly where I AM meant to be.

Hope that monthly in 2017 you will enjoy the WALK with me.

Buen Camino



In March 2015, a journey ‘written’ in the sands of time would seep to the bottom of the hour glass.  The preparations for my pilgrimage began in past chapters.  I trained my being: physically—long walks in all elements; mentally—quiet refrains with no interruptions; emotionally—the longing of my being to connect with soul and spiritually—who are YOU, Source of Life, AND ‘who’ am I?  Delicately the ‘garden’ of my person took root…endless pages were written and many blank pages waited dabbing.

I uprooted myself on March 23rd and departed on my journey.  I would ‘transplant’ my earthly dwelling thousands of miles as I crossed over waves which rolled over from shore to shore to an unknown place.  (BUT, was it really unknown to me?)  I was a foreigner whose soles ‘touched’ a path known as The Way (The Camino de Santiago).  Millions of pilgrims traversed this landscape.  These ancient ancestors, without penning a sentence, shared their stories and kindled a flame within me.  As I stepped ‘into’ their footprints, I became ONE with them on this sacred path.  It was not until I returned from the pilgrimage that I began to sink my roots deeper and more firmly into the ‘grounds’ of Life.

The seeker of temples I became was a ‘temple’ that looked ‘into’ the faces of eternal temples.  I discovered EVERYTHING: trees stretching their branches into the clouds; mountains pulling blue skies into their snow-capped peaks; rivers swirling like woven tapestries; animals draped with bells clanging in the morning’s mist; flocks of birds singing because they could.  WE, I included, are ALL temples—treasures in a field of the Universe manifesting the uniqueness of the Divine.

All BEGAN before the formations of GAIA—the Cosmic Mystery which births itself each day as it calls EVERYONE to the dance—the flow of Life.  My call was an invitation to leave possessions behind.  I discovered that when we are empty, we truly are FILLED.  My temple’s story is not my own…it is part of a web creatively fashioned.  Each slender thread of Life placed, as if cemented, lends to something NEW.

Long ago persons gathered around sacred fires retelling stories.  Oral accounts paved terrains.  Words—NOT written BUT, STORY was ALIVE…’breath’ itself handed down…EVERY ‘temple’ shared a vision which spilled into the fabric of every TODAY.  Pilgrim, ‘temple’ I AM drinking from this well that ALWAYS was present to me.  SOMEdays I’m mindful of ALL I do NOT know and fall in love with the endless questions as I embrace the joy of everything unanswered.  My soles walk with renewed step—every footprint where it is meant to be. My pilgrimage’s ending—HOME…A BEGINNING.

Every new day pearls are discovered…stunning priceless gems…gifts given for ALL.
What is asked…A LIFE well Lived.

A Wheel

A Wheel

Are you the ‘hub’ of the wheel?
Are you its spokes OR the wheel itself?

Maybe you are beyond the rim?

Round and round we go—
Enjoy the dance from wherever you twirl…

JOB…(Hebrew Scriptures)

JOB…(Hebrew Scriptures)

You…gave the Creator
lessons in ‘good.’

Yes, you Job—
You knew ‘nothing’ of a council
gathering…you had no idea your
name came up as the next contestant
on ‘evil’s’ list.

The One, yes the very one who fashioned
YOU turned you over (at least that’s what is written in the Book)
not once, but twice.

You knew nothing of this ‘layout’
or ‘blueprint.’
In fact, you seemed to ‘blot’ out
everything ‘within the script.’

Your friends…your wife
‘tried’ to help you to ‘see’ the
errors of your ways.
They demanded you to name
to ask forgiveness—
to curse the One who formed you.
Yet, you would not.

Instead, you sat in your aloneness.
Yes, the Divine left you sitting.
You ‘stretched’ the very essence of the Divine—
because of your goodness, Job.

You would not denounce the Source of Life—
Yet, you invited this Creator
into the fullness of intimacy.

You sat
asking one question
after another
until the Divine
left the council
and spoke
Soul to Soul with YOU.

In your stillness—
in your quiet…
a relational
Mystery resurrected.

Your need for answers
were no more.
Your questions
became the
perfection of

The Source of all Life
did not dwell
‘outside’ of you
but, ‘inside’ of
and ALL around you.

You have a secret
so many long to bare.
“Participate with joy in the sorrows of the world.”     —Buddhist principle

The Path Behind

The Path Behind

Often times…
I intentionally gaze ‘back.’

In deep gratitude I raise my head
knowing the path behind paved
the way to this ‘present’ NOW—

How can I not, NOT whisper
aloud, “Thank you!”
The Wild Geese
“Horseback on Sunday morning, harvest over, we taste persimmon and wild grape,
sharp sweet of summer’s end.  In time’s maze over fall fields, we name names that went west from here, names that rest on graves.  We open a persimmon seed to find the tree that stands in promise, pale, in the seed’s marrow.  Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes.  Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear in the ancient faith: what we need is here.  And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart, and in eye, clear.  What we need is here.”                                     —Wendell Berry

A Letter from Chief Seattle…1852

A Letter from Chief Seattle…1852
(To the United States Government who inquired about buying tribal lands
for the arriving people of the United States…)

“The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land.  But how can you buy or sell the sky?  The land?  The idea is strange to us.  If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of this earth is sacred to my people.  Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect.  All are holy in memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins.  We are part of the earth and it is part of us.  The perfumed flowers are our sisters.  The bear, the dear, the great eagle, these are our brothers.  The rocky crests, the juices in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man, all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors.  If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred.  Each ghostly reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people.  The water’s murmur is the voice of my father’s father.

The rivers are our brothers.  They quench our thirst.  They carry our canoes and feed our children.  So you must give the rivers the kindness you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports.  The wind that gave our grandchildren his first breath also receives his last sigh.  The wind also gives our children the spirit of life.  So if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children?  That the earth is our mother?  What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth.  All things are connected like the blood that unties us all.  Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it.  Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: our god is also your god.  The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us.  What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered?  The wild horses tamed?  What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the vine of the ripe hills is blotted by talking wires?  Where will the thicket be?  Gone!  Where will the eagle be?  Gone!  And what is it to say goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt?  The end of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last Red Man had vanished with his wilderness and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here?  Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother’s heartbeat.  So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it as we have cared for it.  Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it.  Preserve the land for all children and love it, as God loves us all.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land.  This earth is precious to us.  It is also precious to you.  One thing we know: there in only one God.  No man, be he Red Man or White man, can be apart.  We are brothers [and sisters] after all.”















New Year Blessings to ALL—
May ‘we’ collectively pray to HEAR Mother Earth’s heart beating …
so EVERY tomorrow may dwell in this sacred world we’ve been invited to embrace!