Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

It can feel foolish to marvel at the stars when the world is burning or to find the world beautiful  when you've known it to betray you. But wonder is a liberation practice a reminder that we contain more than tragedy. Beauty is our origin and our anchor.

 An awe so quiet     I don't know when it began.   A gratitude had begun to sing in me. Was there  some moment dividing song from no song? When does dewfall begin? When does night fold its arms over our hearts to cherish them?  When is daybreak?  

 I didn't read the news. I raked a rainbow of pungent autumn leaves, played abroad with happy dogs, held my granddaughter in my arms, and sat beneath an amiable maple, attentive to current events.

 My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open, sees far - off things, and listens at the shore of the great silence.

 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.

 the spirit, the truth of silent prayer - just the moon on the road

A quiet night behind my grass hut. Alone, I play a stringless lute. Its melody drifts to the wind-blown clouds and fades. Its sound deepens with the running stream, expanding till it fills a deep ravine, and echoes through the vast woods. Who, other than a deaf person, can hear this faint song?  

It can take time and practice to know the  heart of a thing- A sometimes difficult and always simple presence. Then  -if you are lucky - or blessed - the deep down in drops its veil  shyly or with a shout. You are changed forever  

 As the plump squirrel scampers Across the roof of the corncrib, The moon suddenly stands up in the darkness, And I see that it is impossible to die. Each moment of time is a mountain. An eagle rejoices in the oak trees of heaven Crying THIS IS WHAT I WANTED

 Leafless aspens groom the iced breeze, while below a brook descends the mountain with its musical story, remembering the serenity of sky, and lightening's clear passion. Water knows what is far will be near. Water says choose that which closes distance, choose touch. When snow falls, and a green mystery is carried by all that moves, choose love.

 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,

 Silence: the cicada's cry soaks into stone

 There are simply no answers to some of  the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light.

 I felt in need of a great pilgrimage so I sat still for three days

 We have what we seek.  It is there all the time. And if we give it time It will make itself known to us.

 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.

 In our souls everything moves guided by a mysterious hand. We know nothing of our souls that are ununderstandable and say nothing. The deepest words of the wise man teach us the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows or the sound of the water when it is flowing.

 How many nights must it take one such as me to learn that we aren't, after all, made from that bird that flies out of its ashes, that for us as we go up in flames, our one work is to open ourselves, to be the flame?

 It is our quiet time. We do not speak, because the voices are within us. It is our quiet time. We do not walk, because the earth is all within us. It is our quiet time. We do not dance, because the music has lifted us to a place Where the Spirit is, It is our quiet time. We rest with all of nature. We wake when the Seven Sisters wake We greet them in the sky over the opening of the Kiva.

 There is no controlling life. Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado. Dam a stream and it will create a new channel. Resist, and the tide will sweep you off your feet. Allow, and grace will carry you to higher ground, The only  safety lies in letting it all in- the wild and the weak; fear, fantasies, failures and success. When loss rips off the doors of the heart, or sadness veils your  vision with despair, practice becomes simply bearing the truth. In the choice to let go of your known way of being, the whole world is revealed to your new eyes.