Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent  world in itself.

 I know this happiness is provisional: the looming presences- great suffering, great fear- withdraw only into peripheral vision: but ineluctable this shimmering of wind in the blue leaves: this flood of stillness widening the lake of sky: this need to dance, this need to kneel: this mystery

 We would rather be ruined than changed We would rather die in our dread than climb the cross of the moment and let our illusions die

When something's going on Something else is going on. Notice the something else too. 

 The temple bell stops but the sound keeps coming out of the flowers

 I love the mountain peak but I know also its roiling foothills half-invisible in mist and fog. The Seafarer gets up long before dawn to read. His soul is a whale feeding on the Holy Word. The soul who loves the peak also inhales the deep breath rising from the mountain buried in mist.

  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?