Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 In a quiet corner of the supermarket parking lot an employee in red t-shirt kneels on a piece of cardboard, bows, then rises to speak the holy words, his view of Mecca unimpeded by the dumpster and wooden fence.

 The silence of a mystic is the space between words of a poem no space   no meaning no meaning   no mystery no mystery   no music no music   no poem

 Not a single soul lacks a pathway to you. There's no stone, no flower- not a single piece of straw- lacking your existence. In every particle of the world, the moon of your love causes the heart of each atom to glow.

  The air sweet and tangy reaches deep into lungs as leaves shuffle  like dancers waiting for the opening curtain Squirrels scoot for one last sunflower seed the birds not so courageous  or foolish There is movement in this kind of waiting not just the rushed grab- firewood, bread, gin- but a restless poise  as Spirit rushes across the roiling waters All waiting for the cleanse that will flood, often shatter, and we pray renew The land breathes Nothing else smells like this

 My eyes already touch the sunny hill going far ahead of the road I have begun. So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; it has inner light, even from a distance- and changes us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which, hardly sensing it, we already are; a gesture waves us on, answering our own wave,,, but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

 I do not ask to see. I do not ask to know. I ask only to be used.