No words tonight...or only a few... and gratitude.
And a poem by Mary Oliver. These lines have been going through my head this week: "If the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead."
Can there be any other meaning than this for spiritual community-- to help each other to keep those doors open?
I don't care about growth, or about programs, or about getting spiritual 'needs' met. There might be just one essential question to measure the pulse of a congregation: How is your church doing at keeping the doors of your heart open?
Because this is what we are all in dire need of in a world that is doing everything possible in its power to close them.
So tonight, my gratitude is for spiritual friends- soul mates- far and near:
Who walk with me through autumn woods and when I declare: I am burying my soul for the time being- get tough and challenge me to bare it instead... as I learn to walk the journey again over fallen leaves and stone altars...
Who send heartfelt stories of their own lives and blessings over email with wonderful surprises that delight!
Who even walk with me in their dreams-- and perhaps, dream my new life in the Spirit into being?
Who inspire me with reminders in Sunday sermons, prayer circles, and one-on-one conversations- calling me out as a teacher of Spirit... And in hearing my name, reminding me that to be true to others, I must also be true to myself.
And for nature paths, deer step like quiet thunder, cricket song, and even ticks-- a reminder to remove what can possibly destroy.
And for sleep and all its dreams-- violent and epic, but cleansing of toxins- and from which I wake up purified, renewed, all anxiety fallen away.
And for the excitement of activities I thought I despised. That even work holds soft surprises in its folds...
And for poems.
And a poem by Mary Oliver. These lines have been going through my head this week: "If the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead."
Can there be any other meaning than this for spiritual community-- to help each other to keep those doors open?
I don't care about growth, or about programs, or about getting spiritual 'needs' met. There might be just one essential question to measure the pulse of a congregation: How is your church doing at keeping the doors of your heart open?
Because this is what we are all in dire need of in a world that is doing everything possible in its power to close them.
So tonight, my gratitude is for spiritual friends- soul mates- far and near:
Who walk with me through autumn woods and when I declare: I am burying my soul for the time being- get tough and challenge me to bare it instead... as I learn to walk the journey again over fallen leaves and stone altars...
Who send heartfelt stories of their own lives and blessings over email with wonderful surprises that delight!
Who even walk with me in their dreams-- and perhaps, dream my new life in the Spirit into being?
Who inspire me with reminders in Sunday sermons, prayer circles, and one-on-one conversations- calling me out as a teacher of Spirit... And in hearing my name, reminding me that to be true to others, I must also be true to myself.
And for nature paths, deer step like quiet thunder, cricket song, and even ticks-- a reminder to remove what can possibly destroy.
And for sleep and all its dreams-- violent and epic, but cleansing of toxins- and from which I wake up purified, renewed, all anxiety fallen away.
And for the excitement of activities I thought I despised. That even work holds soft surprises in its folds...
And for poems.
Landscape
Poem: "Landscape" by Mary Oliver, from Dream Work. © The Atlantic Monthly Press. Reprinted with permission.
Landscape
Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky—as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.
Landscape
Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about
spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?
Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.
Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky—as though
all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.
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