Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

     I d o dimly perceive that whilst everything  around me is ever changing, ever dying,  there is underlying all that change a living power that is changeless, that holds all together, that creates, dissolves and recreates...for I can see that in the midst of death, life persists, in the midst of untruth, truth persists, in the midst of darkness, light persists.

 Like that moment before time when silence falls pregnant with sound when stillness dreams of movement and brain and tongue  seek the first creating word a flicker/ snowdrops an encouragement of light It is right to hope and wise to trust for in every once again beginning the promised pronouncement  It is good

 Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

 How -in this dim parade of brutality- might all be well? - But if we trouble it with light, train our sights on the rebellious good, and work  to make it truer.

 Not all of us can do great things but we can do small things with great love

 I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight  of racism and war that the daylight of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that  unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.

 somewhere between  terror and trust runs the deeper river  of resolve, and there we will reside, there the sun outshines the fires of grief a prayer rises up in a yet unspoken language of light

 Hope has holes in its pockets. It leaves little crumb trails so that we, when anxious, can follow it. Hope's secret: it doesn't know the destination- it knows only  that all roads begin with one foot in front of the other.

 The green of Jesus  is breaking the ground and the sweet  smell of delicious Jesus is opening the house and the dance of Jesus music has hold of the air and the world is turning in the body of Jesus and the future is possible.

 Help us to be the always hopeful Gardeners of the Spirit Who know that without darkness 'Nothing comes to birth As without light Nothing flowers.

    Old Spirit, in and beyond me,     Keep and extend me. Amid strangers,   Friends, great trees and big seas breaking, Let love move me. Let me hear the whole music, See clear, reach deep, Open me to find due words, That I may shape them to the ploughshares of my own making. After such luck, however late, give me to give to the oldest dance....then to good sleep, and - if it happens - good waking.                  

  Hope stains my heart with the very face of Love tending to this world

  This is no time for a child to be born, With the earth betrayed by war & hate And a comet slashing the sky to warn That time runs out & the sun burns late. That was no time for a child to be born, In a land in the crushing grip of Rome; Honour & truth were trampled by scorn- Yet here did the Saviour make his home. When is the time for love to be born? The inn is full on the planet earth, And by a comet the sky is torn- Yet Love still takes the risk of birth.

Help me, love poem, rise up from the broken glass,    The time to sing has come. Help me, love poem, to reestablish integrity,    And to sing again about pain. The world isn't free of war, it's true,    It isn't washed of the blood, hate still exists,    It's true. But it's also certain that we're closer to a truth.    Violence sees itself in the mirror of the world    And it's face is not even attractive to itself. And I continue believing in the possibility of love.    I'm certain of that understanding among    Human beings, achieved over pain,    Over the broken glass.

 I abandon myself to You, O Living Presence, my strength. You are my stronghold, my freedom, Almighty One, the rock and foundation of my life, Just One, tower of strength, the source of truth and light, I call upon You, Heart of my heart, singing praises to your Name, and fear no longer holds me.

 "Hope" is the thing with feathers -  That perches in the soul - And sings a tune without the words - And never stops- at all - And sweetest - in the Gale is heard - And sore must be the storm- That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I've heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops- -at all- And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard- And sore must be the storm- That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm- I've heard it in the chillest land- And on the strangest Sea- Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

One day people will touch and talk perhaps easily, And loving be natural as breathing and warm as sunlight, And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted, Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers, And work will be simple and swift as a seagull flying, And play will be casual and quiet as a seagull settling, And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder or care or take notice, And people will smile without reason, even in winter, even in the rain.

I have a small grain of hope- one small crystal that gleams clear colors out of transparency. I need more. I break off a fragment to send you. Please take this grain of a grain of hope so that mine won't shrink. Please share your fragment so that grass will grow. Only so, by division, will hope increase, like a clump of irises, which will cease to flower unless you distribute the clustered roots, unlikely source - clumsy and earth - covered - of grace.

Old Spirit, in and beyond me, keep and extend me. Amid strangers, friends, great trees and big seas breaking, let love move me. Let me hear the whole music, see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words, that I may shape them to the plowshares of my own making. After such luck, however late, give me to give to the oldest dance....Then to good sleep, and - if it happens - glad waking.