Home in the High Desert, California

Here I sit with a team of friends,

Listening to our owner bellow directions from astern,

Yet heading in the other direction.

xxx

The delight of sweaty teamwork,

Singes the air with a natural perfume,

And a synchronized movement of the body stills my soul,

Eliminating distractions of a day spent in my head.

xxx

And beckons me forward.

All calls are not equal.

The fire alarm invites us all to leave the building,

Calling us to safety and anxiety.

While the call for supper invites us to share,

With loved ones in spiritual and bodily nourishment.

xxx

Of all calls, the ones imbibed with love should never be screened out.

Because the source validates the message.

xxx

And should be acted upon.

THE UNBROKEN WORD

We hear the phrase “get out of the boat” in scripture. (Mt 14:28-30) Peter sees Jesus walking on water and is invited to join him. Initially successful his trust in God fails, and then he begins to sink after an apparent few steps. Jesus saves him and brings him to safety.

This pattern is often prevalent in our own lives. We ask for proof of God’s love, but when called to trust in God we find ourselves failing and then require further rescue. It is interesting to note that while we spend much time creating a barrage of requests for God to bestow us with gifts from our prayers of intercession, we often do less when it comes to simple acts of trust or worship in our prayer life.

As we exit the Christmas season, perhaps we can consider some other prayer forms which don’t have us coming to God always with our shopping list of personals needs. After all, we all know how we feel about relatives and “friends” who only show up when they need something, versus those who are visiting and contact us solely because they love us, or care for us.

This week, I will try and approach God with an attitude of trust and love. Remaining open to His will with a mindset of trust, not the attitude of “prove it” which we all see too frequently.

If we trust in Him, all will be good. For He is “with us always”.

TREES

Trees, awaiting the dawn again without agenda,

Today may be a cold one,

So less sunlight and moisture for our roots,

Nevertheless, we stand together,

Grateful and trusting.

XXX

That we will be nourished and stand for another season.

TREES

Trees, awaiting the dawn again without agenda,

Today may be a cold one,

So less sunlight and moisture for our roots,

Nevertheless, we stand together,

Grateful and trusting.

xxx

That we will be nourished and stand for another season.

Shame sits squarely inside the house,

Unwilling to move, fixed like the wallpaper,

Which you know needs changing,

But you just stare at it.

XXX

Meanwhile, guilt (for more serious offences) has absconded into the garden.

Never to be seen again.

Trust, an open door for the open heart,

Willing to take all comers based on a willingness to believe,

In them; some value; or just plain love.

xxx

A door with hinges marked welcome,

But marked on the inside,

Open arms or a lighted fire within.

xxx

May mine remain open,

With the hinges rusted over in love.

xxx

The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,

Remains the blankee of all blankees.

Transported to a bigger island,

Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,

Endures above all.

xxx

Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,

Cover me in an Irish liturgy,

Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,

But always present.

Protecting me from the others who abound outside its threads.

xxx

One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,

I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.

Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,

As I appear to have outgrown it,

Merely by a change of school.

xxx

She was gone, like a womb I longed for,

But could not contain me,

A new encounter occurred,

Each day, new people, standards, experiences.

Most of which I did not like.

xxx

With the blankee gone,

Many years followed me,

Drearily passing, with little of note to report.

As I searched for a new one,

And tried to knit a replacement.

xxx

To no avail.

The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,

Remains the blankee of all blankees.

Transported to a bigger island,

Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,

Endures above all.

xxx

Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,

Cover me in an Irish liturgy,

Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,

But always present.

Protecting me from the others who abounds outside its threads.

xxx

One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,

I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.

Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,

As I appear to have outgrown it,

Merely by a change of school.

xxx

She was gone, like a womb I longed for,

But could not contain me,

A new encounter occurred,

Each day, new people, standards, experiences.

Most of which I did not like.

xxx

With the blankee gone,

Many years followed me,

Drearily passing, with little of note to report.

As I searched for a new one,

And tried to knit a replacement.

xxx

To no avail.