Words We Dimly Hear - Give Me Your Hand

I wish that I could write like this..... poetry from Rilke's Book of Hours.

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.


These are the words we dimly hear:


You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.


Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.


Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.


Nearby in the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness


Give me your hand.

It is You I Have Been Looking For

Kindness

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel  the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever. 

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say 

It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.

Heartbroken Over Oil

Is it just me or is anyone else heartbroken over the BP oil spill? I can't bear to watch anymore footage of oil soaked wetlands and wildlife. I can't believe that corporate bosses may have ignored managers' safety concerns, that government watchdogs may have handed out permits without enough oversight, and that politicians and pundits use the disaster for votes or ratings.


Chicago Tribune columnist Steve Chapman compares the lack of a plan to cap an accidental blowout to sending a man to the moon without a way to get home. I agree.


Water is supposed to be clean and clear. For many it's sacramental, a symbol of life and all that is good and abundant on our earth. To me, this brown oily death symbolizes the greed and corruption and division that keeps us confused and stuck.


Why can't we use "the nation's worst oil spill" as a catalyst to unite our nation in the search for sustainable sources of energy? Why can't we come together over this disaster just as we did immediately after 9/11?


During World War II, Americans made great sacrifices for the war effort. They rationed gasoline, sugar, and all kinds of extras for the common good. Why can't we decide that yes, we have enough, that maybe we could drive less, or drive smaller cars, or even pay a little more for energy, until the technology catches up to our needs.


Why can't we trade greed for generosity and corruption for real leadership? Why can't we make sacrifices for a better world for our children and grand children?


Maybe it's not about winning an election or winning in the ratings. Maybe it's about finally coming together as stewards of the earth say "to create a sustainable future for humanity and all of life."

If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things of nature have a message that you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.  ~Eleonora Duse

Opportunities Abound

There is no end to the number opportunities that we all have to connect in love with each other. Even in the midst of the worst tragedies.

I admire the two women who are the subject of the movie "Beyond Belief."

I am grateful for opportunities each day and each moment to chose forgiveness, connection, and love over anger, cynicism, and fear.

The Walking Dead

My neighborhood houses a facility for people with mental illness, who shuffle up and down Main Street and annoy some of the parents because they smoke in a park near the swings and slides that the kids could use. No kids ever go there because everyone avoids the smokers.

One of my neighbors calls them "the walking dead." Recently I was given an assignment for a class that I'm taking, to go somewhere out of my comfort zone, see the people through the eyes of compassion and write a reflection. The next few paragraphs are a shortened version of that reflection.

When I arrived at the park, I sat on the bench trying to put myself in a state of prayerful silence. Immediately, one of  residents whom I usually find most annoying plopped down next to me.

“Are you new here?” she shouted.

I tried not to cough on the smoke that kept drifting in my direction. I tried not to notice the huge sore on her upper lip.

Instead I asked her name and she told me that it was Laurie. I remarked that cigarettes these days must be really expensive. She agreed and informed me that because cigarettes were now $8 a pack, most of the residents smoked cigars, which were only $1.50 a pack. Her voice became less obnoxious as time went on. When silence returned I prayed that her cough would get better.

Everybody in the park was either smoking, lighting up, or bumming a cigarette from another person.
The spring chatter of the birds was punctuated by coughs from those human chimneys. I also noticed that when each person got up to walk back across the street to the nursing home, he or she would say “Good –bye” and politely explain why he was leaving. Albany Care is a community of people who need to be connected, just like me.

Soon “De BOR ah,” as she likes to be called, sat down next to me, with a great big beautiful smile on her face. “Maary!” she shouted. ‘Thanks for coming to visit me.” I know Deborah from church; she is a robust African American woman with bleached blond hair, who covers her face with gold sparkly foundation. She loves to pray, dramatically, with her hands and head held high, most often standing, occasionally after the rest of us have sat down. She always has a huge smile for me, when she asks me for a dollar. If I offer it before she asks, sometimes she turns it down.

When she’s not smiling, she’s actually looking down in a forlorn manner. Today she told me about her boyfriend who would help her find her own apartment. She also told me that she felt that it wasn’t fair that her mother treated her poorly. I listened and exchanged small talk with her and when she wasn’t talking to me. I prayed silently that her pain around her mother would be healed and that she would be protected from anyone who might try to take advantage of her.

She asked for money. I gave it to her and then we walked together to the corner store, where she used it to pay off a pair of shoes that she had put on a kind of informal layaway. She kept telling me that she wanted to pay me back. She wanted to give me something. I told her that all she needed to do was remember that she is loved and if she wants to she can pray for me.

Immediately, right there on the park bench, Deborah folded her hands like a child before bed and fervently prayed a beautiful and lengthy prayer for me.  Crazy as it may have seemed, that moment felt holy, right there on that park bench. It felt just as holy as Easter Sunday in my community at St. Nicholas Church.

There were many more moments of connection in that two hours. Before I left we hugged.

I understand that I should be careful about hugging people whose illness can cause them to be unpredictable. I understand that I can’t always expect a lucid conversation from each person from that facility. But most of all, I understand that God’s love shines on them as much as it shines on me and you. I really do them too!

People with Disabilities are Not "Punishment"

As I watched the Rachel Maddow show last night and learned that a Virginia lawmaker referred to  children with disabilities as "God's punishment," my writer's block suddenly lifted. I usually don't write about politics but this is more than politics. To me, it's about valuable people being used and regarded as less than everyone else. 


I'm also disappointed that the show did not include an interview with a spokesperson for disability rights groups, maybe Marca Bristo from Access Living of Metropolitan Chicago, or any other person representing disability rights groups (ADAPT). Maybe they could have contacted Mike Ervin, from ADAPT? He is a fantastic writer who happens to have a disability. There are countless other people with disabilities who would probably be glad to refute that Virginia lawmaker's comment.


Maybe they would have pointed out that if the lawmaker referred to children with disabilities as "punishment," he must have no friends with disabilities, and by now that lawmaker surely will get no votes from people with disabilities.


I wonder if the parents and friends of Andrea Boccelli, Itzhak Perlman, Marilee Matlyn, Stevie Wonder and the friends of all the writers, teachers, moms, dads, and other Americans who also happen to have a disability consider them a "punishment?


What if that lawmaker had referred to African Americans as "punishment," or Gays and Lesbians as "punishment?" I understand that his issue was planned parenthood and Rachel's response was to that issue. However, I find it extremely offensive to use people with disabilities in that manner and I'm surprised that Rachel didn't have a disability rights advocate on her show for a response.

Writer's Block

My writer's block began when I decided to search for Grace. I was able to find her last apartment and several leads. However, I haven't been able to find any friends or relatives. A janitor from her building had no good words to say.  I can't seem to continue the search. Perhaps it's best.

Now the search for Grace seems so small and insignificant in comparison to the devastation in Haiti.

The Haitian President Rene Preval says the number of people who died in the earthquake could reach 300,000.  He told a meeting of Latin American and Caribbean leaders that 200,000 were collected on the streets and that doesn't include the bodies pulled from the rubble.

So what can anyone say? What can one person do? No words............

Looking for Grace-to Dignify a Life

The only way that I can get rid of my writer's block is to move forward and try to search for Grace. I need to figure out how it is that a person in America can live the last years of a life alone, "warehoused" in a nursing home, with no apparent history or connections, with no possessions and no family or lifelong friends. Here's the background on the little bit that I do know about Grace Lee.

Born November 14, 1947 - Died August 9, 2009

I first met Grace in July of 2007. I can't remember exactly what it was that drew me to her. Maybe it was simply because she was the first face I saw when I got off the elevator each time I visited a friend's parents at the Lakeshore Nursing home. Grace always positioned herself right outside the door of her room, directly across from the elevator. I always greeted her with a polite "hello" as I hurried by. She always responded with a slightly crooked smile and lonesome eyes.

The first time that I stopped and knelt down next to her wheelchair to talk face-to-face, tears streamed down her face, as she made sounds that only resembled words. When I said "goodbye" she hugged me like a long lost friend. After that I felt compelled to include her in my visits. Over time my friend's parents died but I had become so attached to Grace that I felt the need to continue my regular trips to the Lakeshore.

Grace could answer yes or no. Sentences that sometimes started out with real words ended up as gobbledegook by the end of the sentence. But somehow we got to know each other and Grace even learned to pronounce my name. I also learned that Grace loved to eat. Fresh blueberries and strawberries made her really happy.

Grace must have been a religious person because listening to Psalms that I read from the bible I found next to her bed always brought her to tears. And she always wanted more. When my daughter played Christmas music on the violin Grace tried to sing along. Grace did succeed in singing "Happy Birthday" with us when we lit the candles on her birthday cake. That was unusual, because we were told that it was a stroke that had totally stolen her ability to speak. I guess singing is different.

By bringing Grace to our house for Christmas day we were able to learn much more about her life. She was able to point to her favorite foods and answer questions so much that we determined that perhaps she had two sons and eight sisters. There was no way we could know for sure because the social worker had told us that Grace had no known next of kin and her roommate said that in the two years before we started visiting, no one had ever visited Grace.

Eventually Grace became too sick and too weak to take out of the nursing home. She stopped getting dressed or leaving her bed, she even turned down strawberries. Grace was 61 years old and was dying of cancer.

By July of 2009, I felt like Grace needed visitors more than ever, so I recruited a handful of people to stop in and see her when I couldn't make it.

On August 9, 2009 I got "the call." The social worker told me to come right away, he wasn't sure how long Grace would last.

When my daughter and I arrived, Grace reached out for us with a half-hearted smile. For the next 12 hours we would sing Taize chants to comfort her. We would moisten her mouth, and unsuccessfully try to get her to allow the nurses to give her drops of pain medication. We felt like we needed to be strong for Grace, but watching her disappear before our eyes was almost unbearable. Yet at the same time, the hours felt somehow sacred. And at one point it felt almost like a birth.

The hospice nurse would check vital signs and time the "apnias," the breathless times between breaths. As the breathless times grew longer and longer, the look on Grace's face became more blank, and her eyes began to dry up because she was no longer blinking. The nurse showed us how to blink her eyes for her to keep them moist. The breathless times continued to lengthen. And as he checked his stopwatch the nurse would give us updates.

"That one was three minutes," he whispered. "These things take time. Everyone does it differently."

As it got later and later, Grace's roommate became agitated and we felt that it would be best if we headed home for a few hours of sleep. Just as I was dozing off, the phone rang. It was the hospice nurse calling to let us know that Grace had passed. I wondered why there wasn't someone, anyone, a son or a daughter, a sister or a brother who could take this heavy desolation away from me. I felt sad for Grace and perplexed by the fear that perhaps nursing homes are filled with "throw away" or "forgotten" people.

It was nearly impossible to find a way to give Grace an appropriate send off. The public gaurdian would not answer my calls and at first no one seemed to know where her body was taken. After locating the funeral home where Grace had been taken, the funeral director informed me that a memorial service would cost more than 1 thousand dollars. I explained to him that I couldn't afford that much money but was concerned that the residents and nurse assistants who had become attached to Grace wouldn't have a way to say goodbye. He agreed to give us a two hour window in which to hold a memorial service, for free, if I would go buy her a dress.

Next thing I knew, I found myself wandering around Target looking for a pretty dress for Grace to wear for the rest of eternity. I couldn't see because tears were clouding up my contact lenses. I couldn't think because I somehow felt guilty.

I wondered, "Who am I to grieve for Grace when there must have been so much more that I could have done for her."

I felt confused. "Do I buy pantyhose?" "Does she need shoes?" "What size bra and panties does she wear?"

This seemed surreal and somehow so wrong.

Somehow I managed to purchase a beautiful white sheath dress that looked like something Audrey Hepburn used to wear, simple yet elegant. Yes, I bought shoes and underwear too. When I dropped them off at the funeral home, the director warned me not to expect anyone to come to pay last respects.

My friend Paul and I put together the readings, had the time and date posted at the Lakeshore nursing home, and when the day of the funeral came, we were pleasantly surprised to find a dozen people attending.

Grace looked terrific! They had fixed her hair and make-up and, except for the fact that she was emaciated, she looked perfect and peaceful. Gone was the vacuous stare that had erased any hope of Grace dying romantically with a smile on her face gazing on a chorus of angels. In it's place was a stately, delicate, STRANGER.

We left Grace in that funeral home. The director told us that he had to wait for a place to open up for her in a cemetery. We would have to call back later to find out the plot number and location of her unmarked grave.

Recently as I rode my bike along the lake, I had a strange vision or feeling of Grace riding on the back like kids used to do before helmets and safety were such an issue. And she was riding no hands! Maybe a free spirit at last! Maybe my imagination. Who knows?

My daughter wants you to know that we miss you Grace, and we love you. Because we love you, we are determined to find out who you were and how you were connected.

I plan to visit Grace's last known address, the hospital, the police station, the nursing home, I'll search records and maybe, just maybe, there will be someone who will help me find Grace.

Extreme Kindness Virus Strikes Again

You've heard about "extreme sports" right? I like to participate in "extreme kindness" instead. In fact, about a year ago, I wrote about how contagious "extreme kindness" can become and how my neighborhood has been looking a lot better because of all the kind people who have been picking up litter and going that extra mile for each other.

The other day the Obama administration called for a day of action for health care. So I figured that would be the perfect opportunity to spread the kindness virus a bit. Guess what? It worked.

I posted an opportunity for just 5 people to join me in visiting elders in our local nursing home. There were already 4 of us who visit the nursing home regularly, and we had discovered that there are plenty of elders who love to have visitors on a regular basis. We had already made friends with Grace, Evelyn, Eileen, and many others and we enjoy birthdays, holidays, and ordinary days with them.

Anyway, the plan was to show up at the nursing home and just talk to anyone who happens to be sitting in the hallway or sitting outside the rooms of the people whom we regularly visit. I made it clear that this was not going to be a one-day activity where a group of volunteers shows up to play bingo so that we could feel good about ourselves.

The idea was to make a real connection as a friend with one or two people and then let them know that each of us would be back to visit. It worked beautifully! All 9 of us connected.

Afterwards, all the volunteers told me that they had a lot of fun learning about the lives of their new "friends" and also that for sure they would visit regularly.

That was about a week ago. Yesterday, my daughter and I showed up with a pizza for Evelyn's birthday. Evelyn told us that one of the new volunteers had already stopped by with non alcoholic champagne to celebrate and that she had been waiting for the pizza to go along with it.

Another one of the new volunteers emailed me to let me know that she was on her way to sit with Grace, who has been living there for more than 2 years with no known friends or family.

So now 9 of us have caught the "virus." But instead of making us sick like real viruses, we have all discovered, one by one, that this "kindness virus" actually brings us joy.

We experience joy, because we realize that "others" who may need us, actually have much to offer us, and that we have much to offer them, the gift of our presence.

As I grieve over last week's death of Marjory, who I had been visiting for two years. I celebrate her gifts to me. At 87 years old she played piano for me almost every week. She played hymns from memory while she talked at the same time. She played Christmas songs even in the summer. We didn't care. She constantly reminded me to "love in many ways." And best of all, even up until the end she recited the Beatitudes from memory.

So as we pass the virus on one person at a time, I pass my gift from Marjory to you.

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.

Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.

Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Pretty soon if the "Extreme Kindness Virus" keeps spreading, it won't be "extreme" any more at all, it will just be "normal life."

The Gift of Time

I can't believe that it's almost Father's Day.  I just finished celebrating Mother's Day! For my Mother's Day gift, my daughter had bought us tickets to see the Emerson String Quartet play Dvorak at Chicago's Symphony Center and the concert was yesterday. 

What a fantastic time we had! I realize that not everyone likes classical music but for me it was almost a spiritual experience.

Dvorak is known for using folk melodies as a basis for more complicated pieces. At times those melodies bathed me in a stream of warm comforting honey. Later, as the pace of the music picked up, notes galloped and chirped their way into my consciousness and lifted me to a sunrise in the Sangre De Cristo mountains. The violinists, violas, cellist, and pianist (for one of the pieces) enchanted us for more than 2 hours. To me time stood still and I wanted it never to end. 

There was no place I would have rather been than listening to my favorite music with one of my best friends, my daughter. And when she draped her arms around my shoulders and rested her head on mine I took a snapshot of the moment in my memory. Now that she's an adult, such displays of affection are less common than they used to be.

I'm no music critic and I don't know all the ins and outs of classical music, but I'm sharing this moment, just so that when you think about what to get your dad for Father's Day, perhaps you might consider spending time with him doing something that he loves.

The time is so much more valuable than the stuff! It really is!

Obama at Notre Dame

Rather than protest at a speech, I prefer to support life by looking to the life of Dorothy Day for my guidance.  She was a devout catholic journalist who became a social activist and worked to create a better world by using the corporal works of mercy as a basis for her life.

The corporal works of mercy:

• feeding the hungry
  
• giving drink to the thirsty 
  
• clothing the naked 

  
• offering hospitality to the homeless 

  
• caring for the sick 

  
• visiting the imprisoned 
  
• burying the dead 
  

Dorothy Day did have an abortion as a young woman, just like many young women today. She later regretted it and spent the rest of her life supporting life by helping those who were poor, homeless, and hungry. She founded the Catholic Worker movement and opened a "house of hospitality" in the slums of New York City in 1933. To this day similar "houses of hospitality" exist all over the United States.

Do we work to find common ground among those with whom we disagree? Do we reach out in love to those who make us uncomfortable? 

"What we would like to do is change the world. And by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, the poor....we can to a certain extent change the world. We can throw our pebble in the pond and be confident that is ever widening circle will reach around the world. We repeat, "there is nothing that we can do but love, and, dear God, please enlarge our herarts to love each other, to love our neighbor, to love our enemy as well as our friend."

The above picture is part of an online exhibit on Dorothy Day at Marquette University. 

 

A Buddhist Prayer

Evoking the presence of the great compassion,

let us fill our hearts with our own compassion -
towards ourselves and towards all living beings.

Let us pray that all living beings realize
that they are all brothers and sisters, 
all nourished from the same source of life.

Holy Week and Passover

Blessings to people of all faiths. Listen and watch here.

Below are the words from the chant

Veni Creator Spiritus - Come Holy Spirit

Or here

Below are the words from the chant

In God alone my soul can find rest and peace

In God my peace and joy

Only in God my soul can find it's rest

Find it's rest and peace

My Day of Hope

Hope crept in on the dreariest day of the week. Even though it had been raining all morning and the temperature was planning to hover only around freezing, I shoved my sunglasses in my pocket and headed out to the lake on my bicycle. That small flicker of hope kept nudging me to wish for just a bit of sunshine. I'll tell you about my "day of hope" after I tell you why I needed it so much.

Getting through February, the shortest month of the year, had dragged on endlessly. February pretended to be the longest month of the year. The bleak weather had been holding me hostage for way too long. Many of the times when I did get out, the bleak lives of my neighbors at the halfway house for people with mental illness had been haunting me.

I had been having a lot of trouble trying to process the sadness that stuck to me after my weekly visits. I'm talking about a place where the smell of cigarettes, and stifling heat make you want to throw open every window despite the freezing temperature outdoors.

Each week I cram myself into a tiny little elevator, virtually nose to nose with four or five of the residents, and try to make small talk with "the Pope" or "Princess Diana's relative." I visit a woman who is so paranoid that for 4 weeks in a row, she could not get out of her bed. She would lie there, flat on her back, telling me how scared and how sick she felt. Her husband told me that he couldn't get her to drink water because she was too afraid to go into the bathroom. The tiny cluttered room has barely enough space for the twin beds that she and her husband sleep on. There are no locks on the door and people wander through the halls mumbling and arguing.

I have been struggling with so many questions. Are my short weekly visits really making any difference? Why does anyone have to live that way? How can anyone get better without fresh plants, pets, sunshine, space, and fresh air?

The biggest question that haunts me is this. Why do we warehouse people?

Now, back to the day hope replenished my spirit. 

Two days before "my day of hope" when I had walked along the lake, deadly silence had muffled the shoreline. The entire lake all the way to the horizon had looked like it was frozen solid. I have lived near this lake for many years and have never seen it like this. No waves lapped against the rocks, no sun even dared to peak out from behind the clouds. The cold stony ice produced nothing but cold dead silence.

The next time I ventured out, was my "hope day." Yes, it was raining like crazy. Yes, it was freezing cold. No, I didn't need my sunglasses. But yes, hope began to sneak back in on the songs of the birds who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The huge lump of ice slowly melting and floating away was somehow carrying off that huge lump of despair that had been lodged in my throat.

Then I realized it. My hope is in you! Maybe you can help me to carry hope to others. Hope is not heavy like despair. It is light and can be easy to carry if we do it together.

Could you take a look around where you live? Take fifteen minutes, a half an hour, or an hour each week to visit someone who lives in an isolated or unhealthy environment? It could be a nursing home, a prison, or a neighbor's home that needs a friendly face.

You don't really need to belong to a volunteer organization. You can walk in, talk to a social worker, or the activities director, and ask to visit someone. Or maybe when you meet someone on the street who needs a friend, make a plan to visit that person, or take her to lunch. Maybe..... just maybe....it would break up the day or help that person to understand that he or she deserves to be loved.

By the way, after my "day of hope" at the lake. My neighbor who couldn't get out of bed, got up and sat in a chair, smiled at me and asked me to bring strawberries the next time I visit. You bet I will!

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime,
Therefore, we are saved by hope.


Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history;


Therefore, we are saved by faith.


Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone.
Therefore, we are saved by love.

No virtuous act is quite a virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own;


Therefore, we are saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness.

Reinhold Niebuhr

Longing

The mundanities of life seem to be taking me further and further away from my center. Rumi's love poems to God help me to remember why I am here. How can words that were written more than 700 years ago resonate so deeply with me today?

I loaned out my "Essential Rumi" book, but fortunately found an extraordinary reading by the author Coleman Banks on you tube.

It's worth the time it takes to watch and listen here.

Below are the words.

Like This

Rumi, translated by Coleman Banks

If anyone asks you

how the perfect satisfaction

of all our sexual wanting

will look, lift your face

and say, 

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness

of the night sky, climb up on the roof

and dance and say,

Like this?

If anyone wants to know what "spirit"

or what "God's fragrance" means,

lean your head toward him or her.

Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image

about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,

slowly loosen knot by knot the strings

of your robe.

Like this?

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,

don't try to explain the miracle.

Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means 

to "die for love," point

here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown

and measure with your fingers the space

between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.

When someone doesn't believe that,

walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,

they're telling our story.

Like this.

I am sky where spirits live.

Stare into this deepening blue,

while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do, 

light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob?

Huuuu.

How did Jacob's sight return?

Huuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

Let the Beauty We Love 

Rumi, translated by Coleman Banks

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty


and frightened. 

Don’t open the door to the study 

and begin reading.  Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground’

Soul Friendship

In honor of Valentine's Day I offer this poem by John O'Donohue

May the light of your soul guide you.

May the light of your soul bless the work you do with the secret love and warmth of your heart.

May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.

May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light and renewal to those who work with you and to those who see and receive your work.

May your work never weary you.

May it release within you wellsprings of refreshment, inspiration and excitement.

May you be present in what you do.

May you never become lost in the bland absences.

May the day never burden you.

May dawn find you awake and alert, approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises.

May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.

May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected.

May your soul calm, console and renew you

Listen here to the Inner Landscape of Beauty, an interview with the late John O'Donohue on NPR's Speaking of Faith program.