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 & love for his family
With every power for good to stay and guide me, comforted and inspired beyond all fear, I’ll live these days with you in thought beside me, and pass, with you, into the coming year. While all the powers of Good aid and attend us, boldly we’ll face the future, be it what may. At even, and at morn, God will befriend us, and oh, most surely on each new year’s day The old year still torments our hearts, unhastening: the long days of our sorrow still endure. Father, grant to the soul thou hast been chastening that Thou hast promised—the healing and the cure. Should it be ours to drain the cup of grieving even to the dregs of pain, at thy command, we will not falter, thankfully receiving all that is given by thy loving hand. But, should it be thy will once more to release us to life’s enjoyment and its good sunshine, that we’ve learned from sorrow shall increase us and all our life be dedicate as thine. To-day, let candles shed their radiant greeting: lo, on our darkness are they not thy light, leading us haply to our longed-for meeting? Thou canst illumine e’en our darkest night. When now the silence deepens for our harkening, grant we may hear thy children’s voices raise from all the unseen world around us darkening their universal paean, in thy praise. While all the powers of Good aid and attend us, boldly we’ll face the future, be it what way. At even, and at morn, God will befriend us, And oh, most surely on each new year’s day! - Dietrich Bonhoeffer, his final poem, written for new year 1945
Through her eyes a welcome glimpse
of that pristine garden long past.
A vision, a signal of purity -
all is not lost.
We open together in contour,
shade, curve and light.
Rising in boundless movement,
at rest in perfect stillness.
Where words are small,
she becomes vast,
holding and quietly healing.
The ancient ground and I await,
a moment joined in longing.
Wiltshire, England, September 2022.
"Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage."
Excerpt from Sir Walter Raleigh's 'His Pilgrimage' to mark the unfolding of decade number five on the ever narrowing path of NS. With love and gratitude.
We never know how high we are Til we are called to rise; And then if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.
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
A small matter Whether I hope To be blessed, or despair With the lost, on the last Or any day. Enough to be Part and particle Of the whole Wonder and scope Of this glory. Cannot even The condemned rejoice That the Presence Is, and is just?
EXULTATION is the going Of an inland soul to sea, - Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
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 silence of wholeness to be set apart.
11th November 2021, Wiltshire, England.
Being a walking question mark 