Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 Sometimes the mountain is hidden from me in veils of cloud, sometimes I am hidden from the mountain in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue, when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm that witnessing presence.

  Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy. memory. everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

 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

 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 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.

  As swimmers dare to lie face to the sky and water bears them, as hawks rest upon air and air sustains them, so would I learn to attain free fall, and float into Creator Spirit's deep embrace, knowing no effort earns that all-surrounding grace.

  Sometimes the mountain is hidden from me in veils of cloud, sometimes I am hidden from the mountain in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue, when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm that witnessing presence.

Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes: caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

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.

Sometimes the mountains are hidden from me in veils of cloud, sometimes I am hidden from the mountain in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue, when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm that witnessing presence.

I know this happiness is provisional: the looming presences - great suffering, great fear - withdrawing 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

Sometimes the mountain is hidden from me in veils of cloud, sometimes I am hidden from the mountain in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue, when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm that witnessing presence.

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 leave: This flood of stillness Widening the lake of sky: This need to dance, This need to kneel: This mystery.

Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its' antechamber along with a lot of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes, cap and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, O Lord, Creator, Hallowed One, You Still hour by hour sustain it.

"Hail, space for the uncontained God" From the Agathistos Hymn, Greece, 6th Century We know the scene: the room,variously furnished, almost always a lectern, a book; always the tall lily. Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings, the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering, whom she acknowledges, a guest. But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions courage. The engendering Spirit did not enter without consent. God waited. She was free to accept or refuse, choice integral to humanness. Aren't there annunciations of one sort or another in most lives?

When the white fog burns off, the abyss of everlasting light is revealed. The last cobwebs of fog in the black fir trees are flakes of white ash in the world’s hearth. Cold of the sea is counterpart to this great fire. Plunging out of the burning cold of ocean we enter and ocean of intense noon. Sacred Salt sparkles on our bodies. After mist has wrapped us again in fine wool, may the taste of salt recall us to the great depths around us.