Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 But it's the cave I want to know. Not how He left, rose, became a something again. But what happens in the cave. Not blood, not body, not wine stamped with the memory of blood, but the space between breath and breath where we are nowhere to be found. Someone weeps outside. Someone tugs at the boulder. Someone clings to a torn lock of hair. And inside, in the still, lightless air the turning back into everything.

Not the high mountain monastery I had hoped for, the real face of my spiritual practice is this: the sweat that pearls on my cheek when I tell you the truth, my silent cry in the night when I think I'm alone, the trembling in my own hand as I reach out to touch what I had hoped I would never need again.