Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our feet, and learn to be at home.  

I part out the thrusting branches and come in beneath  the blessed and blessing trees. Though I am silent there is singing around me. Though I am heavy, there is flight around me.

  Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you have the quiet.

 O Thou, far off and here, whole and broken, Who in necessity and in bounty wait, Whose truth is both light and dark, mute though spoken, By thy wide Grace show me Thy narrow gate.

 We travelers, walking to the sun, can't see Ahead, but looking back the very light That blinded us shows us the way we came, Along which blessings now appear, risen As if from sightlessness to sight, and we, By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward That blessing light that yet to us is dark.

 We travelers walking Toward the sun can't see Ahead, but looking back the very light That blinded us shows us The way we came. Along which blessings now appear, risen As if from sightlessness to sight, And we, By blessing brightly lit, Keep going toward That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

 Again I resume the long lesson: how small a thing can be pleasing, how little in this hard world it takes to satisfy the mind and bring it to rest.

 It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded spring is the one that sings.

 Again I resume the long lesson: how small a thing can be pleasing, how little in this hard world it takes to satisfy the mind and bring it to rest.

 Though the air is full of singing my head is loud with the labor of words. Though the season is rich with fruit, my tongue hungers for the sweet of speech. Though the beech is golden I cannot stand beside it mute, but must say "It is golden," while the leaves stir and fall with a sound that is not a name. It is in the silence that my help is, my aim. A song whose line I cannot make or sing sounds men's silence like a root. Let me say and not mourn: the world lives in the death of speech and sings there.

We travellers, walking toward the sun can't see Ahead, but looking back the very light That blinded us shows us the way we came, Along which blessings now appear, risen As if from sightlessness to sight, and we, By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

                                                                  Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you hear the quiet.

Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you have the quiet.

Even in a country you know by heart it's hard to go the same way twice. The life of the going changes. The chances change and make a new way. Any tree of stone or bird can be the bud of a new direction. The natural; correction is the make intent of accident. To get back before dark is the art of going.

Our understandable wish to preserve the planet must somehow be reduced to the scale of our competence. Love is never abstract. It does not adhere to the universe to the planet or the nation or the institution or the profession, but to the singular sparrows of the street, the lilies of the field, "the least of these my brethren." Love this miraculous world that we did not make, that is a gift to us.

It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear in the ancient faith: what we need is here. And we pray, not for new earth or heaven, but to be quiet in heart and in eye, clear, what we need is here.

O Thou, far off and here,whole and broken, Who in necessity and bounty wait, Whose truth is light and dark, mute though spoken, By Thy wide grace show me Thy narrow gate.