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 love you, gentlest of Ways, who ripened us as we wrestled with you. You, the great homesickness we could never shake off, you, the forest that always surrounded us, you, the song we sang in every silence, your dark net threading through us, on the day you made us you created yourself, and we grew sturdy in your sunlight.... Let your hand rest on the rim of Heaven now and mutely bear the darkness we bring over you. 

 Full of trust you left home, and soon learned to walk the Path- making yourself a friend to everyone and making everyone a friend. When the whole world is your friend, fear will find no place to call home. And when you make the mind a friend, you'll know what trust really means. Listen. I have followed this Path of friendship to its end. And I can say with absolute certainty- it will lead you home.

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

 I love Jesus, who said heaven and earth will pass away. When heaven and earth have passed away, my word will still remain. What was your word, Jesus? Love? Forgiveness? Affection? All your words were  one word: Wakeup.

 All tempest has, like a naval, a hole in its middle though which a gull can fly in silence.

The opposite of home is not distance- but forgetfulness

  Proper Effort is not the effort to           make something particular happen.           It is the effort to be aware             and awake in each moment. 

 When I drop my glasses in the airport and they're  crushed in the walkway, I get to meet the three kind souls who help me on my way, The I hear you crying after everyone has left. So I bring you water and hear your story. Ever since the lock on my door broke, I have more visitors. Now the road I always  take is detoured, which  I curse until I see the heron glide across the small pond I didn't know was there.

 This then is life. Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions. How Curious! How real! Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun.

 One summer day I visited, but the master had gone somewhere. Only a lotus blossom arranged in a vase guardian of the hermitage, its fragrance filling the room.

 Unmoved in midnight water, no waves, no wind, the empty boat is flooded with moonlight.

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

 Whatever it is, I cannot understand it, although gratitude stubbornly overcomes me until I am reduced to tears.

 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,

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

 Silence: the cicada's cry soaks into stone

 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.

Not seeing The room is white Until that red apple.