How it Has Always Been

The vicar general, shying away from ‘paganism’ hangs back and sits under a tree reading the guidebook.  I am able to approach the Buddhas barefoot and undisturbed, my feet in wet grass, wet sand. – Thomas Merton describing his visit to the sleeping Budhas in the Asian Journal

My son comes walking to me, barefoot, 

across the wet summer grass.
The morning light lays soft around him  

and in that moment I see how it is,

how every child is a contemplative, 

exposed in every way to the Now.  

“This is what you must become,” Jesus whispers 

and I see now how it has always been, God 

and his children, barefoot, the morning grass 

cool and wet beneath their feet.

 

This post is linked with Unforced Rhythms.

God Sleeps (a poem)

 (Storm Sleeper by Glen Strock)

God sleeps, yes,

but not like we do. 

God sleeps

like the rich, dark,

patient earth

surrounding the

yearning seed.

God sleeps, yes,

but not like we do.

God sleeps

like a mountain

tall, majestic,

home to streams

that run, rushing

down his face,

home to the

deer that wander,

gently nibbling and

to the hiker who stops

on the trail midway

between valley and peak.

God sleeps, yes,

but not like we do.

God tosses and turns

like an old man dreaming

a tangled mass

of what was,

what is,

what will be. 

God sleeps and is silent,

while the storm rises

and with it panic.

God sleeps like the ocean

depths unruffled by the wind.

‘Wake up!’ we cry, ‘Wake up!’

and the earth shudders,

the mountain quakes,

the old man sighs and turns in his sleep

while the ocean grows calm around us. 

(a reflection on the calming of the storm in Mark 4:35-41)

Photo credit Here.

John the Baptist (a poem)

He didn’t see it, but felt it

through the darkness

of his mother’s womb,

the flame that baptized

drawn close enough

to singe his foot,

which caused him to leap.

The wild fire caught

and grew, ruining him

for a life of conformity. 

So he moved to the wilderness

somewhere near the river’s edge

where others were drawn

by the smoldering flame.     

He doused them each with water,

warning them one-by-one

of the fire to come. 

Later, when he leapt

from this world to the next,

leaving his head behind,

he was greeted by the fellowship

of the flame – Isaiah

with his charred black lips,

Miriam who danced

like a flickering wick,

and the others, too many now to name

together they glowed like

so many embers,

lighting the long, dark night.

This post is linked with Playdates with God and Unforced Rhythms.