Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 You can grieve the leaves stripped from the maple, all that empty space between the bare branches, or you can bless the abundance of light shining through, buffing the pine boards of the floor until they turn the color of clover honey. You can mourn the coneflowers now shriveled and brown, say the whole world's going to ruin, or you can stand at the window watching the lively yellow blossom of a goldfinch feasting on each crown of seeds, sending more than a few back home, down into the open ground, which knows how to receive them.

 I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, and clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don't cut that one. I don't cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.

What we want and what we're given often serve two different Gods. How we respond to their meeting determines our path.

I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, a clear view to snow on the mountains. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don't cut that one. I don't cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.

I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, to clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don't cut that one. I don't cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.