Someone thinks truth is good for the soul

Egg Nog is back. So is daylight savings time -- or are we returning to standard? Either way, light and dark take a peculiar turn.

Who has taken the light?

 The Arrowhead 

The arrowhead,
which I found beside the river,
was glittering and pointed.
I picked it up, and said,
“Now, it’s mine.”
I thought of showing it to friends.
I thought of putting it—such an imposing trinket—
in a little box, on my desk.
Halfway home, past the cut fields,
the old ghost
stood under the hickories.
“I would rather drink the wind,” he said,
“I would rather eat mud and die
than steal as you steal,
than lie as you lie.”       

Poem by Mary Oliver

I confess.

I am a liar. (Or is it 'lier' -- waiting in ambush for a necessary discovery?)

The light is not mine.

I've hidden it within me.

See me through; please!

Moonlight before dawn

The difficulty many have is bland generalization or peculiar particularity.

Here is my current koan:

This is this,
That is that,
Thus is so!

Don't make two,
Don't make one,
Be thus and such --

See each as each
Feel all as all
Do what is to be done --

and go!

In prison today, remembering to apologize, to forgive, & to love

All hearts want peace. And rest.

Saints and souls wish for holiness to be wholeness.

You do. I do. We do.

Eternal rest.

Infinite compassion.

It is November.

There was (nor is there) no answer.

Feel anything yet? It's November. Saints and souls, spooks and sprites, along with desperate polling for presidential candidates.

Four Birds 

“Wake to the sun,” the rooster croaked,
First bird of the day. The world, light-flecked,
Chiselled its lineaments into form.
Where was all that fine light coming from? 

“Trance at the wonder,” the second sang.
Whose five dry notes urged the ongoing
Afternoon on. “Why wake and stir?”
It asked. And asked. There was no answer. 

“Live through the muddle.” That from the next one.
Not very helpful. It looked like rain,
Or fog in the offing. Twilight. Then
It sang again from an oak or pine. 

Silence. How I waited for the fourth!
Time was a negative dipped into its bath,
The dark a fixative that slowly made
For every windowpane its window shade. 

No messages arrived. No music bared
The soul for its penitence. Up the stairs
No hint of a footfall. The night passed.
“Croak by your hand,” said the crow at last. 

(Howard Moss, poem, “Four Birds” from New Selected Poems)

Someone thought no one would notice the absence of hope for the country.

I did.

And do.

No hope. Only faith. In what cannot be seen.

Mirror molecules feel not much more

There are not too many words left.

You can't imagine how useless words are in the possession of someone with nothing to say.

They won't stay.

They're going.

Apophatically.

With what once was called

God.

Rain

Rain.

Ra

i

n

As weather, ever-changing, comes to us...

May all find shelter from the storm

Meetingbrook's re-rendering of the Jesus prayer

Christ stillness of god
Emerge within us
Wisdom, kindness, and truth

...

Christ wisdom of god
Emerge within us
Stillness mercy and knowledge
...

Christ silence of god
Emerge within us
Mercy vision and service
...

Christ kindness of god
Emerge within us
Knowledge mercy and love
...

Christ vision of god
Emerge within us
Clarity kindness and sight

...

For we have forgotten our way...