Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 only this matters: this ecstatic  baptism this standing on stick- thin legs where the singing creek pools at the lip of the waterfall only this ruby-feathered chest diving to meet its reflection this beak piercing again and again that quivering  surface, these wings half- unfolding, a ruffle of joy guiding rivers of light a tumble of droplets dressed in rainbows along your hidden spine shattering all  decorum beneath blue branches in quiet assent...

 A strong wind wrenched the great Madrone from her hold on the hillside, and when she fell her roots, hanging in mid-air, gave us handholds to lean on and safely swing through her body and back onto the trail.

 Birds mistook St. Francis for a tree. May I be so free  of nervous haste, ambition and regret so in the extirpation of thought innocence and improvisation may tell the dawn each day afresh that fresh is what it is. The nickname of God is NOW.