PRAYER

Wasn’t time for church yet,
but I knew I needed to be there.
Nearing the heavy wooden doors,
I shook the dirt and dust from my shoes.
Slowly making my way up the aisle,
I stopped and gently bowed at the waist.
Took my usual seat, front row right
so I could lean against the adobe wall.
The cool clay soothing me,
putting me in mind of the dirt
and dust of my soul -
and the life breathed into me long ago.
I come here and feel

connected to the earth,
and to the water

mixed with dirt that put a skin

on this church,
this Body of Christ.
Now through this simple act
of being with my God,
I understand deeply:
He called me here.
I listened, I breathed,
I ate, I drank, I answered,
and that made all the difference.

(dedicated on this special day to Buck - "drink deeply, brother")

RESTLESS WATERS

Restless waters summon me
to sit in silence at day’s end.
A grassy shore inviting
stretched out dreaming.

Carried away on swift currents
down river to new places.
Lessons to learn, life to live,
eager to press on.

But the river that called, tested me,
found me lacking and spit me out.
Stumbling on shore, magpies swoop low
screeching, catching a glimpse of this stranger.

Resting now on dry ground, I listen
to the song of earth’s heartbeat.
Notes written during creation
for me to hear today.

My new journey now set, I begin,
walking briskly along the shore.
The river that rejected me
is now my map home.

A traveler appears walking toward me.
Quickly, silently passing one another,
I halt and stare when I recognize
the old man’s face as my own.

EGO SUM NOLI TIMERE
(“It is I, do not be afraid”)

Whose cattle are these
that lowly moan
and feed on tall green grass?
Whose calf that cavorts
with careless
and innocent joy?
Whose geese that swim
the gently flowing river
as an armada?
I do not own them,
but they belong to me
as surely as I to them.
And when I stop
to watch,
and still my breath,
the cattle stop eating,
the calf stands quietly
and the geese stop swimming,
as we slowly bow our heads
to the Holy Presence before each of us.

Ego sum noli timere…

HOME

When I’m at my desert home,
I can see the tree where God lives.
Rust and copper stain the hills,
watercolored solid stone.

God’s creation pierces my heart,
wordless beauty engenders awe,
causing me to fall on solid ground
to listen closely to earth’s heartbeat.

A measured pace breathes between
my inner and outer God.
Moved to sing the eternal song
imprinted in my soul,
I simply move my feet and dance.

‘TIS A GIFT TO BE A SIMPLE,
‘TIS A GIFT TO BE FREE…”

Ripped belt loops and frayed jean cuffs,
Sweat-stained shirt and worn hiking boots.
Dust-caked face and calloused hands,
Joy-filled pilgrim on his path.

WORK AND PRAYER

One of the primary principles of monasticism is leading a balanced life of work and prayer. While on retreat at Christ in the Desert Monastery in Abiquiu, New Mexico last week, I took the opportunity to participate fully in the life of the monks by volunteering to work several days in the monastery giftshop. In prior visits, I have done this and found it to be a wonderful, quiet time to read, write and meditate. This year's experience was also wonderful, but in a different way.

Within walking distance of Christ in the Desert Monastery is a women's monastery called Our Lady of the Desert. One of the nuns from that monastery has taken over responsibilities as manager of all aspects of the giftshop. Any of you who have grown up Catholic can probably already see where I am going. This would not be an experience of quietly sitting, reading, writing and meditating. Sister Kateri put me to work. The following little ditty is in tribute to my tough taskmaster.

A SHIFT IN THE MONASTERY GIFTSHOP

Sister Kateri
“Come now, don’t tarry!
Work to be done,
Thy Kingdom come!"

MONASTERY (CHIP)MONKS

Skittering flashes at my feet,
a tumbling jumble of joy unleashed,
chipmonks in their brown-striped habits
lead me to the oak church doors.

Joy without, joy within…

RETURN FROM THE DESERT

"Come, Holy Spirit, Come..."

THE DESERT CALLS

And so, once again, the

desert beckons me. But,

before I go, a deep bow

of gratitude and a tip of

the skullcap to Sister Christine

(http://www.abbeyofthearts.com/)

for pointing me back to a book I

need to take with me to the desert:

Teaching the Dead Bird to Sing

by W. Paul Jones. It's been several years since I read this book, but it is

calling to me once again. As if I had any doubts about this, one quick

glance at the quotations in the front of the book assured this book's

place in my backpack. I share them with you now. May they speak to

you as they spoke to me:

"I would soon go down into the silence."

- Psalm 94:17 (Grail)

"My one companion is darkness."

- Psalm 88:19 (Grail)

"Deep calls to deep..."

- Psalm 42:7

"The soul knows for certain

only that it is hungry."

- Simone Weil, Waiting for God

"The experiences called to mind here

were born in the desert that we must

not leave behind."

- Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

"You called, you shouted,

ans you broke through my deafness.

You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my darkness.

You breathed your fragance on me;

I drew in breath and now I pany for you.

I have tasted you, how I hunger and thirst for more.

You touched me, and I burned for your peace."

- Augustine, The Confessions

Pray for me, as I pray for you.

Amen.

SACRED COMPASS

Wind in my face brings solace
to my soul, as I stand
at the portal to a sacred world.
Ready to journey upward
where blood red sunsets
signal the desires
of my heart to fly.

Birds on wing take final spins
before indigo darkness
sets them to rest.
Their soaring flights
ignite my imagination
giving birth to windswept dreams.

A weathervane detects
my heart’s movements
but cannot reveal
the depth of my emotion,
just as a conductor leads
an orchestra, yet he never stirs

our soul like a single,
haunting oboe.

A mapless journey reveals a new path,
so I move where I am led,
trusting my heart to take me
to the place where I can test
my wings against the wind,
always mindful of
the sacred compass.

(poem inspired by photo taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner at www.abbeyofthearts.com

- come join the Poetry Party there every other Monday)

LIGHT AND DARKNESS

And soon the night of weeping
Shall be the morn of song!
- The Church’s One Foundation (traditional hymn)


The night has come and soon
the darkness will spread her wings
and bring me fearful dreams
of beasts who roam the night.

Despite the full moon’s glow above,
night strips me of my courage
to fully live into my heart,
authentic, strong and true.

I pray that angels softly shut
my eyes and lift me gently
to lands where tears are strangers
and darkness finds no home.

I travel far above the night,
and stretching out, I grasp a star
and placing it securely in my bag
I know that light will travel with me.

Arriving at a seaside scene
my guardians place me ‘neath a tree
to shade me from this bright creation
always and forever green.

My star now shines in bright sunlight
amidst the company of others,
at the edge of land and water,
portal to our pilgrim home.

Where our voices lift in song
celebrating our return
to the shores of contemplation
in the land of truth and beauty.

DAFFODILS

Here in the land of singers and trumpets,
heralding spring from a black loamy stage,
proud flowers brightly sway as a cool breeze
passes, illuminated from within.

Their long night of darkness fin’lly over,
pushing tender green leaves toward Mother sun,
hiding a deep saffron grace from the world
‘til we’ve humbly earned that gift from heaven.

Bursting open upon a bright random
morning, reminding us all of a joy
we posess, nodding to the immortal
Godseed, illuminated from within.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner - www.abbeyofthearts.com)

ODE TO PAIN

You are in pain......you hurt……you hurt me……that double-edged tongue which you so clumsily wielded…has excised the part of me that cared……past tense…pay attention…..simple words…carelessly spoken…it’s all about you………and now you have time to pretend you have no idea what happened…because……it’s all about you…the only thing you ever shared…was pain.

I was your friend……past tense…pay attention…I cared more about your well being than you did…………doing everything I could to be sure you were not alone…that despite your often foul personality you would still be a part of the whole…did you honestly think that young one cared?

But you hissed and snapped like an angry snake in that sacred dome…whatever humor…you thought…you brought… to the table was covered in bile……that everyone smelled……your dark secret is out…now everyone knows……...present tense…pay attention……and so… at first chance…you escaped…………but light and love …cleaned up the mess…you left behind…and so you’ll move on……like you always do……there’s a sucker born every minute…hope you find him.

RETREAT

Apparently someone bound and gagged the poet and stuffed him in the closet as I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in a week. In lieu of a poem, I’ve decided to write about a recent adventure (names have been omitted to protect privacy), so here goes…

A couple of weekends ago, I was on retreat. The theme of the retreat was “Aspects of Love.” There was a nice crowd of folks – maybe 35 or so total. We began the retreat on Friday night by sitting in a very large circle on the floor and introducing ourselves. I knew about 30 folks from prior retreats, so I was feeling pretty comfortable. We were also asked to explain what came to our mind first when someone spoke the word “love.” Now, this is the part of the talking circle I hate the most. You have to figure out what you’re going to say when it’s your turn, while listening to folks’ answers, all the while hoping they aren’t going to “steal” your answer and you’ll have to come up with a new one in even less time than it took you to come up with the one that someone “stole.”

I finally settled on an answer. I wasn’t happy with it, but it was the truth. While everyone else in the circle was talking about love being portrayed by little bluebirds singing as they circled their heads with pretty ribbons, I sat on the floor with my sore butt worried that I would soon be labeled the dark lord of the retreat since my word was “pain.”

The man sitting to my right is one of my best friends. He has seen a LOT of pain in his life yet he manages to be the warmest and most compassionate person I’ve ever known. He is my friend, and yet I couldn’t bear to hear what he had to say. All I know is that when he was done, I didn’t hear the word “pain” which made my word of choice “golden.”

My turn: I can’t look anyone in the eye. I hear a voice speaking, and despite my being a bit hard of hearing, I can tell that the voice is coming from my mouth. The words sound a lot like those of the adults in those Charlie Brown TV specials – “wahwah wah wah wahwahwah…” The noise ends and I look to my left. The man who is sitting there is now speaking. I guess I did okay as folks aren’t running screaming from the room for fear that I’ll soon be asking them to drink some grape Kool-Aid.

Fast forward to Saturday morning: One of the staff members for this retreat is a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW). I know her. She is very sweet, very smart and very easy to talk to. Part of me wants to have a conversation with her about my choice of the word “pain” to describe love, but part of me doesn’t want to go any deeper, and so I sit, and my butt gets sore again.

Before the LCSW begins her presentation on self-compassion, we are asked to complete a self-evaluation quiz. Some of the questions seem repetitive. The second time around, I have to stop and think more deeply about my answers. Then I begin thinking more deeply about the other questions. Before I know it, I am deep in the throes of understanding that my “pain” need not be assuaged by other people, but that I have the tools to repair my “pain” through self-compassion.

The LCSW begins her discussion of self-compassion as an “Aspect of Love.” I’m sure she is wondering what is going on with me as I am sitting on the floor nodding my head at every word she says as if I was one of those bobble-head dolls. It may only be Saturday morning, but I have already gleaned my take-away from this retreat.

However, contrary to my smug conclusion, I would soon learn that only half a lesson had been learned. It would still take a heroic effort on my part to make this lesson a part of my life – a part of who I am, from this point forward.

The balance of the retreat was filled with a wide variety of creative and beneficial experiential exercises that allowed me to incorporate my recent lesson learned. But, it was an off-the-cuff cutting remark directed at me by one of the other retreatants that gave me my first true test. No purpose would be served by detailing the event, but suffice it to say that self-compassion became an “Aspect of Love” lesson put to good use and well-learned.

And so it is 2 weeks post-retreat. I’m still me, but I’m a calmer me. (My personal acquaintances should stop laughing here.) Because of this retreat and because of my willingness to listen to words about self-compassion, I’ve come to realize that while I cannot prevent it, I possess the power to heal my “pain.”

Amen.

STORYTELLERS

Late at night, the sentinel grins
at its sculptor’s naïve folly,
thinking he could capture time
and achieve immortal glory.

The sentry resumes his task each night
after graveyard gates are locked,
giving lie to those who claim
“dead men tell no tales.”

Row by row they take their turn,
spinning yarns from lives well lived,
adding to the Book of Life
tales of courage, joy and pain.

Storytellers one and all,
in rhythm or in verse,
the old scribe nods while carving words,
into solid granite.

Years from now, my story, too
will find its way into this tome,
to join my fellow pilgrims there,
my story freed, I’ll rest at last.

(Inspired by photo taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner @ www.abbeyofthearts.com. )

BLESSED

I am blessed beyond measure in many regards. One of those blessings is my association with a number of organizations that allows me to take time away from my day-to-day life and go "on retreat." This past weekend, I attended a retreat whose theme was "Aspects of Love." I was asked by the organizers to compose a poem that I would read at the conclusion of the retreat. With acknowledgment to William Butler Yeats for inspiration, I present that poem now:

RETREAT

I went out to the woods
because their was a fire
in my heart that needed tending.

I know that words alone
cannot contain or change
the shape of this sacred flame.

And so I give myself the gift
of time to listen to the sound
of my heartbeat.

On holy land I cast off false illusions
and shed plates of armor
revealing a tender place
where love and I can live
and grow and thrive and welcome
each other home.

SECRET PLEASURES

Slowly I opened my eyes
as angels woke me from my rest,
asking me to speak
about my secret pleasures -

Receiving a present
covered in deep red wrapping paper
with a big white bow.

Feeling the heft
of a 1,000 page novel
that I hope will never end.

Sharing a homemade meal
and tasting love.

Seeing God in a stranger’s eyes.

Crying at the beauty of music
composed 300 years ago.

Smelling my old leather
jacket after coming in from the rain.

Seeing the secret shadow
of a rabbit on the moon.

Arriving in a foreign land
and feeling my heart sing.

Watching your mouth as you speak
and hearing every word
inscribed upon my heart.

Falling back asleep to dream about my secret pleasures.

VERNAL EQUINOX

Winter, Spring.
Life, death, life,
shiver, quiver, groan,
shrink, thrust, spill,
cover, reveal, bask,
dark, light, glory,
hungry, fed. Amen.

SHORT WALK/LONG JOURNEY / V2.0

Paper thin, pale skin begins
to crepe like dry moth wings -
unable to carry any longer
the heavy loads of heartbeat and breathe.

Clouded eyes blink and struggle
to focus for a minute -
a sharp exhale rushes out
and meets the shaky rise
as I struggle to stand.

Feet shuffle across a forest floor,
making their way
to lay this broken body down
and rest in a soft pine needle nest.

At last I find my placecard
for the eternal feast.
UNKNOWN.

Poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of Christine Valters Paintner (www.abbeyofthearts.com)

WILD GEESE

The wild geese have left the temple
to join me on my path.
Welcome companions who’ll guide me
to new paths of wonder.

Each step I take finds them
gracefully overhead.
Showing me the way to venture
northward to unknown lands.

Swooping and diving, young ganders
make a scene testing their wings.
Summoned by their elders,
they complain as they rejoin the flock.

Closing my eyes I am carried
to the coast of a rugged isle
where tidal pools provide a haven
for clams, puffins and seagulls.

Just as quickly I'm at the summit
of a verdant mountain, gazing down
on an artisan village blessed
by the arches of a double rainbow.

Gently I return from my journey
from sea to mountaintop,.
Delivered by my guardian geese
to the easy chair I never left.

SUNLIGHT

On this gray late winter morning,
as rain washes all the color from the earth,
Beauty sits at her wooden desk and
writes out invitations to her friends.
They’ll enter through the transom,
a window, or under a door, not wishing
to be heard, but soon enough they’ll unravel
your mind and steal your breath.
The slash of sunlight that strikes
the hallway floor prepares you
for the return of wonder to your heart.
Colorless sunlight opens us to joy and awe.

REACHING OUT

As that long tunnel appears
and the blinding flash of light
draws me home, I cross
into a world devoid of color.
I search in vain
for a drop of blood
to soothe my anxious heart.
But soon, gentle sepia
lulls me to sleep.
When later, I awaken
and open my eyes
gentle faces greet me,
open arms envelope me
and together we continue
our timeless dance.

(poem inspired by photograph provided by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner - www.abbeyofthearts.com)

DEMONS

On this dark afternoon,
let me go to my room
in silence
to be alone
with the demons who terrorize
my nights and days.
Here in the quiet
they fear my prayers
to the One who can rescue
my heart from their firm grasp.
I fear that words are useless
to convey my pain
and confusion;
how I cannot
control these visions
of a life without meaning.
An open window beckons
but my body lacks
the will to move.
But before I can turn my face
a bird appears on the sill,
watching me with eyes
as curious as mine.
I close my eyes to pray
and just as a tear
begins to roll down my face,
I feel the light brush
of a crow's wing against my face
drying my tear, giving me hope.

SENSE OF SMELL

Briskly on this winter’s morning,
my feet barely skimming
the icy surface of the ground,
at last I reached the garage door.

The key, that tiny thin strip of metal
instantly froze my entire hand
as I stood there jiggling
to make it fit the lock.

Finally enough curse words had passed my lips
to satisfy Beelzebub’s minions.
Opening the door, I threw myself inside,
and just as quickly slammed the large door shut.

I needed a few minutes to catch my breathe,
so I leaned against the heavy door,
blew into my hands, closed my eyes
and tugged my knit hat on a little tighter.

In that blessed moment of peace,
the unique scent of old books passed by my nose.
Taken aback, I opened my eyes and saw the stacks of books
and boxes of books to which I’d become blind over time.

I remembered the spring that Uncle Walt stole my poetic ear,
the summer I journeyed by elephant on “The Road to Agra,”
the haunted fall of “The Handmaid’s Tale”
and the winter I trekked, “Thirty Leagues to Boston Town.”

Years from now, when old stories are told,
I often wonder which ones they’ll tell about me.
I’d be grateful to hear the one that ends,
“His garage smelled like a library.”

A VISIT TO EL SANTUARIO DE PARADISO
- wherein we quickly learn why angels have wings

With a simple, quick call the time and date was set. And so, at the appointed time, I approached the white building in eager anticipation. No doorman…hmm, I guess even Saint Peter gets a day off every once in a while. Spotting the entry access board, I pressed the buzzer. Almost before my finger left the button, a clear, strong voice spoke my name. I listened intently to the instructions, never having been here before. After being buzzed in, I was to walk through the door to the elevator. Upon entering the elevator, I was to press the top floor button. Finally, after leaving the elevator, I was to look to the left for a stairway that I would take to the top and find a front door. (That's the part where the wings on angels come in handy.)

The door, not gates, not pearly, well maybe painted pearly gray stood before me. And, just as with the access board, my presence seemed known before I had a chance to announce myself. The door opened widely and my guide declared, "I'm K." After removing my snowy shoes and leaving them outside the door, I was led into El Santuario De Paradiso.

My bearings went a kilter as I was presented with an overload of creative beauty displayed in all manners of ways under 40 watt bulbs. K. is El Santuario's textile artist, but today he would also be my guide into the world of creation. Fabrics predominantly of earthy tones hung from high ceilings (yes, ceilings). Creation, creativity, cosmos, order, chaos, labyrinths, holy patterns from a universal world of spirituality created through the artful application of bleach lay overlapping one another, covering light sources illuminating their inner beauty. I suppose K. had been speaking for a while, but his art spoke to me more loudly.

I was shown a room of rest that took me to a Middle Eastern desert tent of royalty from long ago. It was easy to imagine quickly falling asleep in such a haven and the smile that would cross my face as I awakened to so much beauty.

I shared with K. my love of beauty and creativity and my avocation of poetry. Unfortunately, I came ill-prepared to share my work. A business card would have to do for now.

And finally the time came when we both ran out of words. We shamelessly looked deeply into one another's eyes for some time and instinctively knew we were in the presence of the Godseed at work. There were few words left that could express our feelings and so with a warm hug, I was on my way.

Just a few short weeks ago, I was blessed to receive the whispered message, "Son, take my hand. Let's go for a walk." I'm not sure I can even trace the steps that led me to El Santuario de Paradiso, but I know who led me there.

I am truly blessed.

Thank you, K.

Amen.

THE PATH SHIMMERS

Then He said, "Do not come near here;
remove your sandals from your feet,
for the place on which you are standing
is holy ground." – Exodus 3:5

Otherworldly, the ground appears
not of this earth.
Footprints are easily left behind
to mark our presence
for the pilgrims who will follow. But bare feet speak up;
neither tread, nor sole nor straps instead, the glorious
bottoms of our feet letting those who come after us know
we danced a shimmering path on holy ground.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with

permission of Christine Valters Paintner

(www.abbeyofthearts.com)).

MOONLESS NIGHTS

On overcast moonless nights
clouds and stars
dance and kiss
while no one can see them.

HOLY ENCOUNTER

"O Lord, you have seduced me,

and I was seduced."

(Jeremiah 20:7)

He briskly entered through a double door,
an imposing height softened by watery eyes
the result of the arctic chill. A Russian lambswool hat
added to the effect, set off by stark white hair
and a full white beard. My jaw slightly dropped
as I took full measure of his Biblical countenance.

Later, at dinner, I sneaked a peek or two,
noting that mere mortal food sated his appetite.
An easy manner with others brought a bright smile
to his face and a gentle laugh deep from his heart.
And so I knew with time I'd share some holy words.

We gathered in a sacred circle, men devoted to men,
committed to honest conversation and concern.

For a moment, I was unaware of his presence.
Softly, I felt his hands from behind upon my shoulders
and his face near my own right ear. Just as gently
I heard the words I'd longed for decades to hear,
"Son, take my hand. Let's go for a walk."

In an instant, warm healing began to spread within.
I slowly turned to face this ancient physician of the soul
who welcomed me with open arms. He firmly grasped
my head in one large hand and placed it on his chest.
With the other, he gathered me into the glory of his soul
where I rested, safely at home, for the first time in my life.

I am truly blessed. Amen.

JOURNEY

The death barque sits vigilant
on the shoreline, a holy vessel
beckoning me to a journey
through the sacred portal
between the land and siren sea.

Pray I may be anointed
by the living water, as I long
to be carried away upon the breath
of sacred silence to a land
where dreams fill the day.

Moving pictures with happy endings
play out over and over again,
while I'm held in the arms of loved ones
until I learn to walk again and
bow before the altar of eternal joy.

poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of

Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com.

ALWAYS THERE

SUNRISE

Wisdom sat down next to me

to watch the frosty sunrise.

She wouldn't look at me

but instead stared straight ahead.

After a while, I relented

and watched the sunrise, too.

Then it became all clear to me

when I saw the reflection of Her face.

FOR VINCENT


Proof that grace can happen when pointing a camera out a car going 25 mph along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico...




...

HOLY GAZE

A small favor -
just let me sit
and gaze into your face forever.

Time no longer matters
nor food or breath
for I can live on starlight.

Look upon me,
your poor captive,
and bless me with your smile.

And I will be content
to bask in your grace
for eternity plus one day.

PRAYER OF UNITY
(inspired by Psalm 85:8 and Isaiah 58:11)

The God of warm places,
of sleek herons and skittering salamanders,
lumbering manatees and agile dolphins,
give me a quiet heart
that I might see and hear
what you will show and speak to me
when I turn to you in my heart.

Gentle eyes that seek your beauty
easily find deep truths
writ large by nature’s envoys
in your sanctuary.

Deep springs of clear water
nourish the souls of those who taste
art, truth and beauty
in a single, overflowing, eternal cup.

HIDDEN THINGS

“I will show you hidden things,
hidden things you have not known.” - Isaiah 48:6

At dawn a portal opens
revealing hidden things
to ancient eyes that wisely
choose to closely watch.

Nature dances in close step
and sings with perfect pitch
chords created before time
in simple harmony.

Wild geese on a northern wing
follow their true compass,
a map inscribed within their hearts
by One who calls them blessed.

Hidden things, freely given
revealed in simple ways
guide us on our pilgrim path
delivering us home.

(poem inspired by photograph taken by and used with permission of Christine Valters Paintner of www.abbeyofthearts.com -
Come join the Poetry Party every other Monday!)