Terry Chapman's - Sabbath Journey

Canine Wisdom

While sitting in the Sabbath

stillness at Double Trouble

a honeysuckle bush

caught my eye but

not before its sweet perfume

seduced my heart.

 

“Consider the lilies”

I am told. So picking

one small bunch of

perfect white bells 

from the branch 

I began. . .

 

There were twelve 

tiny fragrant white cups 

on this particular twig,

one dangling off to the 

side perhaps injured 

by my intrusion.

 

I thought of the Twelve

connected to the 

True Vine, perfect too

in their completeness,

even the one whose

betrayal left him

injured and alone.

 

I wondered, 

does God love these

perfectly insignificant

honeysuckle buds as

much as the Twelve

or all would-be pilgrims

to come?

 

I thought, does 

God smell like this?

Does God put on

this erotic scent every

morning to please 

any lover who pauses

to notice?

 

I lowered the fragile

now wilting bouquet

so that Mocha could

smell too and 

relish in this 

synchronistic beauty.

 

She with one, Yoda like

gesture, in her innocent

canine wisdom, took

them whole into her

mouth before 

spitting then on the ground.

 

And so we continued our 

walk in the rain.

 

The Furnace of the Heart

Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves and gravity, we shall harness for God energies of love. Then for the second time in the history of the world we will have discovered fire. -Teilhard de Chardin

Seeking Equilibrium

Is it a quiet equilibrium
that I seek?

A kind of low pressure zone,
a balance in-between worlds:

fire and ice
here and there

prophet and priest
now and then.

It seems the valves of my
heart need constant adjustment

to regulate the pressure
so I can hold life.

But this heart regulation
is tricky business.

Turn the wrong valve
and I get burned.

Neglect the other and I
explode, harming too those I love.

But wait, in the Sabbath pause
I can let the pressure build

trusting the strength of my
heart to hold life’s fire

and so generating light in the darkness
and warmth for those left in the cold.

A story from the desert fathers: Abba Lot came to Abba Joseph and said: Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence; and, according as I am able, I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts: now what more should I do? The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said: Why not become fire?

Tweeting Grief

River Grief flow though me
take all resistance with your strong currents
until my heart's banks open wide again to love

Come home to love, rest is the shade of Sabbath

Today I heard from two dear friends who were feeling depleted by life. I thought I would share an amalgam of my responses to them and a constant invitation to my-Self.

Their very real and raw cry included a description of feelings and accusations, internal and external, that have just taken the wind out of their sails. Each sentence began with 'I feel. . . I am . . .' each followed by a list of difficult life sucking emotions.

Here is my response to them (and to my Self)

"This too. . .

Pause after each 'I' in the paragraph. Take another deep breath, inhaling inexhaustible love.... hold.

Now exhale releasing any judgement, cynicism and fear.

Again. Again.

Now consider, as you are able, without judgment, only with compassion and kindness: Who is the 'I' who is: angry, attacked, reaching out, needy, having a hard time, alone, getting shot down, not heard, going to crack, not comfortable, discontented, falsely accused, really hurt, afraid?

Can you touch an 'I' that is more than those separate and fleeting identifications (or even the sum of them all). . . the most authentic Self . . . only love?

Keep breathing. The deepest part of you is full of light and love and stronger than you have imagined.

Come home to that part dear one. Find healing there before returning to the 'world'.

Know you can come back, whenever you feel depleted, out of the hot sun of false identifications (as real as they seem!) into the shade of Sabbath and find rest and refreshment there."

And a poem:

Each New Day
“Blessing covers the dry land like a river, and drenches it like a flood.”
Ecclesiastes 39:22

Each new day
before setting out
on the sun scorched path
I pause by the well
fed by love’s stream
to fill my soul’s reservoir
with essential blessing
into a dry and weary land
I carry the canteen of intention
from which I shall draw
when faced with
long spells of rejection
and if by chance or
seduced by some mirage
I find myself lost
in a parched place
I will turn once more
to my canteen, now a grail
to be refreshed for the
journey home

The Storm

There’s a storm brewing!
I can feel the falling pressure
in my bones.

The shutters rattle.
The dog is restless.
My heart constricts.

Sitting in my chair
staring at the front door
my teachers with me.

Rumi says: Welcome
and entertain all guests.
“a joy, a depression, a meanness”.

“Better said than done,” I say.

Paul says: Beware
“your enemy the devil is
like a roaring lion seeking to devour.”

“I will not live in fear,” I say.

The Budha says: Illusion
“There is no door, or house
or self for that matter.”

“Sounds good, but I’m not there,” I say.

Jesus says, Behold
“I stand at the door and knock
let me in.”

“I’m a bit weary of an invitation that begins with ‘behold,’” I say.

In spite of my ponderings
the storm is still a comin.
It’s time to take shelter in the bath tub.

Some how all my teachers
are with me there whispering
comfort until the storm passes.

There is wisdom in Sabbath.
Here, in the most unlikely place
We wait, watch and pray.

DOUBLE TROUBLE ON A STILL MORNING

I miss the wind's choir rustling in the long grass.
Oar Pond, dead calm.
Mallards float motionless.
The sky, stone cold and gray.

Is this the holding of divine breath,
a silent invitation into grief's heart?
Be still too my soul.
The Lord is on thy side.

Bear patiently love's
deep sigh and join
angelic choirs in a

sweet soulful silent song.

Lament for dad

I remembering reading about dust in Anne Dillard's, For The Time Being:
"Earth sifts over things. If you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.The debris on the tops of your feet or shoes thickens, windblown dirt piles around it, and pretty soon your feet are underground..Micrometeorite dust can bury you, too, if you wait: a ton falls on earth every hour.

Quick: Why aren’t you dusting? On every continent, we sweep floors and wipe tabletops not only to shine the place, but to forestall burial."

DUST

Through the tears and
Raspy breath and the 
Letting go, not in the 
Metaphorical sense,
It all seems like dust.

ALL DUST

The words and the 
Freight they carry; 
The plans and aspirations; 
Accumulated wisdom, or that
Which you counted as such;
Someone else's faith that
Never quite fit the contours 
Of your heart;  prayers too.

DUST

Yet there is a memory
Or was it a dream or
Premonition of
When dust rises from
The earth and meets
Creator's breath 
And begins to dance.

Is all this dust the same
Being reshaped over
And over through eternity 
into a father or son,
A star or a rose
Which lives and dies
Until the next resurrection?   

ocean of love

My heart is broken
open and life is
pouring in from the
ocean of love
in which it swims . . .

That boat you thought
would keep you
high and dry is
not only sinking,
it never existed.

That life jacket your
well meaning friends
keep tossing your
way vanishes into vapor
before your grasp.

That buoy that
everyone said marked
the safe channel through
dangerous waters -
simply a mirage.

All those words
deeply etched in stone
on the monuments of
your heart have
succumbed to time’s erosion.

It is time to let
the waves
hold you and
draw you to love’s depths.
Be still dear one

and take into
your heart lungs
the waters of love
that gave you birth
and will carry you

and
the
whole
creation
home.

Roger

After the "crossing" this morning I learned that my dear brother Roger had passed.  Roger was 61.  His courage in the face of many challanges was an inspiration to many.  I feel like it was his "spirit" that spoke to me on the path this morning.  

I love you Rog.  

Rest in God.

The Crossing

What was it

that caused me

to pause by

the bridge

whose boards

were covered with 

virgin snow?

 

Where did the

reverence and

humility rise 

from on this 

ordinary

walk in 

the woods?

 

Whose whisper

rose above the 

sound of the stream

inviting me to

open to the

untrodden space

before crossing over?

 

Why did my lips

open in grateful

praise for the saints 

who built the 

bridge and went 

before on the 

courageous journey?

 

What gladdened my

heart when 

I too stepped

over to make 

my imprint in 

the moment that 

opened to eternity?

 

How did my

heart ascend

in answer

to the gentle 

inquiry while

still beating in

my chest?