Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 You can grieve the leaves stripped from the maple, all that empty space between the bare branches, or you can bless the abundance of light shining through, buffing the pine boards of the floor until they turn the color of clover honey. You can mourn the coneflowers now shriveled and brown, say the whole world's going to ruin, or you can stand at the window watching the lively yellow blossom of a goldfinch feasting on each crown of seeds, sending more than a few back home, down into the open ground, which knows how to receive them.

 This a fast, to keep the larder lean? And clean  from veals and sheep? Is it to quit the dish of flesh, yet still to fill the platter high with fish? Is it to fast an hour, or ragg'd to go, or show a downcast look and sour? No; 'tis a fast to dole thy sheaf of wheat and meat unto the hungry soul. It is to fast from strife, from old debate  and hate; to circumcise thy life, To show a heart grief-rent; to starve thy sin, not bin; and that's to keep thy Lent.

 To live in this world you must be able to  to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it  against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

 the leaves believe such letting go is love such love is faith such faith is grace such grace is God I agree with the leaves

 Sometimes, when it is all, finally, too much, I climb into my car, roll the windows up, and somewhere between backing out of the driveway and rounding the first corner, I let out a yell that would topple Manhattan. How do you pray?

 Let my edges that cut be stroked by sand and salt let my slick surface coarsen til it's crushed to bits let my colors soften as they scrape the bottom let the waves love me in their rough way let me be changed by that love let me not forget I held another yet fully inhabit my particularity let me be smooth enough to be rubbed by small fingers and slipped inside a pocket or bowl let me prove that beauty is born when something breaks.