Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 It's not magic;it isn't a trick. Every breath is a resurrection. And when we hear the poem  Which is the world, when our eyes Gaze at the beloved's body, We're reborn in all the sacred parts Of our own bodies: The heart Contracts, the brain Releases its shower  Of sparks, And the tear Embarks on its pilgrimage Down the cheek to meet The smiling mouth,

  Has the moon been up there All these nights And I haven't noticed? A whole week with my nose to the ground, to the grind. And the beloved faithfully Returning each evening As the moon. Where have I been? Who has abandoned whom?

Let's remake the world with words. Not frivolously, now To hide from what we fear, But with a purpose. Let's, As Wordsworth said, remove "The dust of custom" so things Shine again, and each object arrayed In its robe of original light. And then we'll see the world As if for the first time. As once we gazed at the beloved Who was gazing at us.

Let's remake the world with words. Not frivolously, nor To hide from what we fear, But with a purpose. Let's, As Wordsworth said, remove "The dust of custom" so things Shine again, each object arrayed In it's robe of original light. And then we'll see the world As if for the first time. As once we gazed at the beloved Who was gazing at us.