The painting of light build its own canvas,
The needed impression,
And communicates only what you see.
Make of it whatever you will.
Those sacramentals on the table,
Pickin’s for the grieving family,
Some unworn watches, car boot sale bargains,
The oil painting of home in Ireland from Uncle Jim,
A funny plate, from a holiday in Cornwall.
All sacramentals now,
To be spread amongst others,
Or saved for another such event,
30 years from now.
As his children set the dining room table again.
For another semi-colon in an eternal sentence.
The path on this seashore seemed familiar,
The walk from the Welsh village contained all the characters from Undermilk Wood,
Yet, none came from their houses,
Making this our own set, and not surreal at it seemed.
Her hand firmly clasped in a grip of 37 years,
No mans land in marriage, yet as perfect as the first days,
Only better now because we know each other,
And that we didn’t make the right choice.
But rather God did.
Holding her hand in a grip,
Which will not hurt, caressing, but not easy to shake.
Like the time we have spent here together,
Traveling encased in a dream which has lasted all those years.
We walked together.
Here now was the alternative path,
Close to the coastal wall,
Tall, make of Celtic stone and surrounded by a hedge of many years,
Making it full on impassable.
Years ago it was narrow, but easily navigated,
The alt path now blocked by the darkness,
Even though it is full on daylight,
On this coastal day in Wales.
We are forced back to the main path
Perfectly cleared of any debris, illuminated and almost straight,
Making it clear where we are called to go,
But winding enough to make it interesting,
Filled with parts unseen to increase that Holy Longing
Which is our love for each other,
And for Him.
The Welsh weather keeps our skin perfect,
Never too much sun, but when it comes, a little wind to douse it’s affect,
So as not too feel too warm,
And then changing to overcast,
As shadows dance over the coast,
Creating sunbeams, and shadows, and images,
Only to be apprehended by an imagination, or a paparazzi camera.
Yet yearning for Gainsborough, Constable, or some Hudson River artist to daub it, and capture it forever.
There is no contradiction between
mystical love and physical love.
They are one.
And when one you are in divine union
it is with the lover of all lovers.
Not just the source,
But love itself
Instincts and physiology may cause attraction
But from where does such a spark ignite?
From a mystical place within
Somewhere inside where a desire to share unlimited
Love is stored and bottled up.
Not for personal gain or control,
Or even immediate gratification
But in two gifts from God.
The first gift is all the magical nature of creation around.
Abundant in our lives … even if at times we have to look beyond our feet to find it.
It’s in the faces of those in our day
Waiting for us to love and treat them
As He would wish.
The other gift is freewill.
The ability to become what was intended
Or to swallow ourselves in self,
Only to find we have redefined love to be singular
A closed cell where I control the door,
Of an empty room.
The Song of Songs is no mistake,
Mystical union and physical can be the same;
A continuum of love in all experienced
The appreciation of beauty
With awe and wonder
Understood because the need to own it is absent.
Love is humility and servant hood and hope
Engulfed in a mystical desire to rest in God
For all our moments.
We cannot compartmentalize love
And then experience it.
We are love
At a given moment.
For true love is extending this moment
Traveling to the Saturday mornings saw the weather change,
The sadness of those passing in our family around us,
The unchanging nature of liturgy,
And of community prayer.
Through this, she sat, praying,
Touching dialog with the lightness of a water droplet,
So as to leave a mark which placed Francis,
Or Jesus on the conversation.
The fellow explorer filled with love,
No agenda, but seeing where the way has been lost,
Or should be … the Franciscan way.
Only when a nail is placed in His hand, does she respond less gently.
And even then, not chastisement,
For this soul is the essence of a Franciscan.
Love encased in wisdom for the world to savor.