Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

 "Hope" is the thing with feathers -  That perches in the soul - And sings a tune without the words - And never stops- at all - And sweetest - in the Gale is heard - And sore must be the storm- That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I've heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

Not a single soul lacks a pathway to you. There's no stone, no flower- not a single piece of straw- lacking your existence. In every particle of the world, the moon of your love causes the heart  of each atom to glow.

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing. For no reason, you accept the way of being lost, cutting loose from all else and electing a world where you go where you want to. Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder that a steady center is holding all else. If you listen, that sound will tell you where it is and you can slide your way past trouble. Certain twisted monsters always bar the path - but that's when you get going best, glad to be lost, learning how real it is here on earth, again and again.  

 I am returning to kindness a place where I am strong in my softness I will start by kissing all of my scars and washing them in rain collecting dust from long journeys off my feet. The way they carry weariness from crossing rivers that should have had bridges. I will return to build crossing\paths over waters that remind me to be kind.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers- That perches in the soul- And sings the tune without the words- And never stops- -at all- And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard- And sore must be the storm- That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm- I've heard it in the chillest land- And on the strangest Sea- Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was duty. I worked - and behold, duty was joy.

One day people will touch and talk perhaps easily, And loving be natural as breathing and warm as sunlight, And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted, Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers, And work will be simple and swift as a seagull flying, And play will be casual and quiet as a seagull settling, And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder or care or take notice, And people will smile without reason, even in winter, even in the rain.

May the blessing of light be on you, light without and light within. May the blessed sunshine shine on you and warm your heart til it glows like a great peat fire, so that the stranger may come and warm himself at it, and also a friend.

I was still standing on a northern corner. Moonlit winter clouds the color of the desperation of wolves. Proof of your Existence? There is nothing but.

Early morning darkness beckons. Wrapped in robe and last-quarter moonlight, I stand, pulled by a cold simplicity toward the threshold of myself - edge of starlight, edge of stable - where resounds the ancient Gloria.

You can prepare but still it will come to you by surprise crossing through your doorway, calling your name in greeting, turning like a child which quickens suddenly within you. It will astonish you how wide your heart will open in welcome for the joy that finds you so ready and still so unprepared.

I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, a clear view to snow on the mountains. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don't cut that one. I don't cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.

Let's remake the world with words. Not frivolously, now To hide from what we fear, But with a purpose. Let's, As Wordsworth said, remove "The dust of custom" so things Shine again, and each object arrayed In its robe of original light. And then we'll see the world As if for the first time. As once we gazed at the beloved Who was gazing at us.

I walk, I fall down, I get up. Meanwhile, I keep dancing.

I go to the mountain side of the house to cut saplings, to clear a view to snow on the mountain. But when I look up, saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in the uppermost branches. I don't cut that one. I don't cut the others either. Suddenly, in every tree, an unseen nest where a mountain would be.

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

Let yourself be silently drawn to the strong pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.

I thank you, deep power That works me more ever more lightly In ways I can't make out. The days labor grows simple now, And like a holy face Held in my dark hands.

To be alive! not just the carcass     but the spark. That's crudely put, but.... If we're not supposed to dance, Why all this music?

This morning, at waterside, a sparrow flew to a water rock and landed, by error, on the back of an elder duck; lightly it fluttered off, amused. The duck, too, was not provoked, but, you might say, was laughing. This afternoon a gull sailing over our house was casually scratching its stomach of white feathers with one pink foot as it flew.  Oh Lord, how shining and festive is your gift to us,  if we only look, and see.