An agent of God in unusual form, he came with intent and sailed into the storm. He adorned those he chose with ineffable traits, true kindness and patience, from good into great. Slow movements could not veil the bright fire inside as he gifted humility, freedom from pride. While his wings were concealed from most human eyes, for those who drew near we saw through the disguise.
- With eternal gratitude to N.H. & love for his family
I did not know that I could feel real joy from unseen cause - I had not let my mind be still with clever thought on pause. I could not hear beyond my wants, my fantasies and fears - I did not sense the present peace for striving, strain and tears. I had not touched the heart of faith for I lacked humble poise - I could not take the emptiness below self’s faulty noise. I had not held the offered hope of imager, our role, but then the good news force of truth was poured into my soul. And now I taste true gratitude the more I cease to steer - in yielding up the reigns to God it's alright to be here.
A ditty from Wiltshire, England, 2.2.22
Turn in, turn in, the leaves dance and sway
like terminal lovers beguiled by decay.
In ochre and amber the autumnal edge
with coloured collapse keeps its annual pledge.
The now lonely branches, stripped down, unadorned,
hail heaven with bare limbs, green garments yet mourned.
Their stilled presence marks time to rest and repair,
to lean into winter’s quiet swathe and prepare
our cloistered hands, hushed minds and poor yielding hearts,
- in silent surrender to be set apart.
11th November 2021, Wiltshire, England.
You are my servants, vassals to, the earthly feudal lords who revel in the power of their temporal rewards. With streams of sacrificial blood their meal time and their play, my bloodlines will persist in this deception and decay. You slaves cleave to your comfort and your shallow, sensual days - a somnambulant collective I make changeless in its ways. Dear fools you carved my fiefdom, smothered truth and so obscured the fact of God’s One Kingdom and your victory assured. You chose the perfect master for you do not wish to know the pain of transformation that must come to those who grow. I’ll keep you safe, bound as I am, and help you to evade the word of truth, the way, the light, the reason you were made. With thanks to Screwtape. 10th May 2021, Wiltshire, England.
To know reality, I must feel it
To know depravity, I must drown in it
To know flesh, I must touch it
To know grief, we meet.
To know humility, I must bow to it
To know fear, I must be it
To know sorrow, I must be lost in it
To know violence, we embrace.
To know weakness, I am broken
To know loneliness, I am born
To know futility, I am faithless
To know freedom, I submit.
To know a language, I speak it
To know falsehoods, I lie
To know truth, I am silent
To love, I forgive.
23rd January 2020, Somerset, England.
Forgive my blindness Forgive my deafness Forgive my lies and pretence. Forgive my ignorance Forgive my coldness Forgive my scorn and disdain. Forgive my deceptions Forgive my incompetence Forgive my turning away. Forgive my ugliness Forgive my vanity Forgive my arrogance and blame. Forgive my depravity Forgive my ingratitude Forgive my weakness and guilt. Forgive my squandering Forgive my impatience Forgive my wounding and shame. Forgive my weariness Forgive my misery Forgive my fear and control. Forgive my faithlessness Forgive my doubting Forgive this poor, futile game.
Leaves fall into dark soil like heavenly desires unfulfilled. Bare branches reach for the softening light, exposed in austere form. Bruised gatherings of clouds press in as the autumnal release yields. Every withered blossom accepts its place.
The quiet mind dissolves, the stilled heart holds - the expanse of faith envelops now and not yet. There is no yearning, and no imagined future - the silence of God moves closer.
The thatched cottage, the dappled meadow, the ancient spire -
the rural contours of this museum isle
yield ample beauty and refinement.
Decency is sustained by a simple frame
of good manners, banter and tea.
But is this today an abode for the living,
as the land lies dormant and its inhabitants forget?
This island has been made a mausoleum.
The weight of disavowal has obscured the light.
Here, the English pilgrim walks,
with an aching heart and the company of ghosts,
a witness to the unraveling of a Godless land.
I made an idol of my life - my expression, my activity, my achievement. I polished, perfected and worshipped my creations, failing to notice that my gifts were a gift. I rightly shored up my fortress from attack, with acts of independence and power. But with such armaments, my heart was incarcerated - all forms became hollow and dry. So my folly was exposed in a thousand myriad ways, as a choreographed play of counterfeit control. As the last in line of the daughters of Eve, it was strange relief to submit and accept: my weakness, my fragility, my dependence. I am now as I always was - helpless unless carried by the stream of the living Spirit. 6th September 2020, Somerset, England With thanks to the exhortation of A.Ha.
Being a walking question mark 