Ruah Bull - Spiritual Director

What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us  from Ourselves? 

 To say that I am made in the image of God is to say that  love is the reason for my existence, for God is love. Love is my true identity. Selflessness is my true self. Love is my true character. Love is my name.

 What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from Ourselves?

 We have what we seek.  It is there all the time. And if we give it time It will make itself known to us.

  What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from Ourselves?

Flocks feed by darkness with a noise of whispers, In the dry grass of pastures, And lull the solemn night with their weak bells. The little towns upon the rocky hills Look down as meek as children: Because They have seen come this holy time. God's glory, now, is kindled Gentler than low candlelight Under the rafters of a barn: Eternal Peace is sleeping in the hay, And Wisdom's born in Secret in a straw-roofed stable. And O! Make the holy music in the stars You happy angels. You shepherds, gather on the hill. Look up, you timid flocks, where the three kings Are coming through the wintry trees; While we unnumbered children  Of the wicked centuries Come after with our penances and prayers, And lay them down in the sweet-smelling hay Beside the wise men's golden jars.

What are we to gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from Ourselves?

Flocks feed by darkness with a noise of whispers, in the dry grass of pastures, and lull the solemn night with their weak bells. The little towns upon the rocky hills look down as meek as children because they have seen come this holy time. God's glory, now, is kindled gentler than the low candlelight under the rafters of a barn: eternal peace is sleeping in the hay, and wisdom's  born in secret in a straw-roofed stable. And O! make holy music in the stars, you happy angels, you shepherds,gather on the hill. Look up, you timid flocks, where three kings are coming through the wintry trees: While we unnumbered children of the wicked centuries come after with our penances and prayers, and lay then down in the sweet smelling hay beside the wise men's jars.

Follow my ways and I will lead you to golden-haired suns, Logos and music, blameless joys, Innocent of questions and beyond answers. For I, Solitude, am thine own Self: I, Nothingness, am thy All. I, Silence, am thy Amen.

When in the soul of the serene disciple with no more Fathers to imitate, poverty is a success. It is a small thing to say the roof is gone: he has not even a house. Stars, as well as friends, are angry with the noble ruin. Saints depart in several directions. Be still: there is no longer any need of comment. It was a lucky wind that blew away his halo with his cares, a lucky sea that drowned his reputation. Here you will find neither a proverb nor a memorandum. There are no ways, no methods to admire, where your poverty is no achievement. His God lives in his emptiness like an affliction. What choice remains? Well, to be ordinary is not a choice: it is the usual freedom of men without visions.

This is a country whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere. You do not find it by travelling but by standing still. Yet it is in this loneliness that the deepest activities begin. It is here that you discover act without motion, labor that is profound repose, vision in obscurity, and, beyond all desire, a fulfillment whose limits extend to infinity.