a buzz
it happens every time this year…
some form of mystical madness
that seeps through …
lingers,
even raptures the atmosphere…
something waiting,
anticipating, announcing …
I often go off the grid, around the corner, deep down in the layers of my life…and sit there, pray there, waltz with God…
and then I review the pages of the calendar
heading back to Dec. 24th and leaving the main stream,
while never able to remove myself from the
Road to Damascus
and falling off horses,
falling off logs,
awakening to the fire in my cells…
the interruption of human and divine
blind radiance that makes the unknown, Known.
I could flip to October and the birthing of babies,
or back to January and the beginning of the end with mom;
or June 7th and Ordination
Whether it be babies or bumblebees,
or prayer walking in the trees,
kayaking on Lake Cunningham,
no one has the same God
or just the right story,
But…
the journey through all of eternity
now that is truly yours,
given freely for you. Forever and ever,
kind of like fairy tales
or the mystics and giants.
You find the Light when it’s time,
when the messages click,
and sometimes there is that horse
or the conversation with Hildegard
– the twirling with Rumi
the sunset that opens the inner eye
the cool morning breath as you walk around the block…
the prayer that seeped through to the other side…
the baby you rock to sleep every night…
finally you can say,
we are dancing in paradise
God’s rumba is ALIVE…
Beauty,
Rev. Donna Knutson
Only calmness will reassure
the bees to let you rob their hoard.
Any sweat of fear provokes them.
Approach with confidence, and from
the side, not shading their entrance.
And hush smoke gently from the spout
of the pot of rags, for sparks will
anger them. If you go near bees
every day they will know you.
And never jerk or turn so quick
you excite them. If weeds are trimmed
around the hive they have access
and feel free. When they taste your smoke
they fill themselves with honey and
are laden and lazy as you
lift the lid to let in daylight.
No bee full of sweetness wants to
sting. Resist greed. With the top off
you touch the fat gold frames, each cell
a hex perfect as a snowflake,
a sealed relic of sun and time
and roots of many acres fixed
in crystal-tight arrays, in rows
and lattices of sweeter latin
from scattered prose of meadow, woods.
Honey by Richard Morgan
There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18
When love’s got hold of you, there isn’t a lie in the universe that can hold you, or pull you apart.
Let the broken say: when you’re bruised by lies, believe truth and whisper it louder: I am my beloved’s.
– Ann Voskamp
There are bees all over
making love to the lavender
I, the daughter of Eve,
think about my bad choices.
revel in grace abundant,
that gently saves me from my self.
shy sunflowers
remind me of forgiveness.
the garden gnome and the smiling turtles
remind me of when I used to try so hard.
nothing was easy.
I worked for two.
carrying a load made to share.
Love…is a holy experience
Yes and Amen!
so is life!
the sparkling red bird feeder
keeps reminding me
to stop and just relax.
The birds come,
when it’s full they eat;
when it’s empty they fly
to find provision
at the next place.
always
there is provision.
they never whine or complain –
they just fly!
knowing,
trusting.
the cool breeze makes me smile.
I think about sharing the empty chair
with someone
who prays for me.
who prays with me.
who could sit in silent company
with me.
breathing it all in.
loving it all out.
sharing.
open.
transparent.
speaking these miracles
in new ways, to open me
to more wonder,
while sharing
the same heart,
the same thirst.
There’s intimacy in the air tonight
God is walking with me
in the cool of the evening
Eden is ch-ch-changing
Welcoming me home.
Well done, my child
Amy Lloyd
Bee Blessing
The night
the bees came
was a cold one,
moonless,
sharp and
frost tipped.
They arrived
still
swaddled in
smoky slumber,
lost in the deep humming
dreamtime
of the hive.
The signs had been
observed,
the Beeman told us,
and a dark night
before the new moon
was perfect.
Tomorrow,
they would
wake to a
new world,
like toddlers
unremembering
their journey
home,
knowing only the
sweet
soporific
rhythm of the
car engine
beneath.
Scouting ahead,
like a faithful
servant,
the Beeman
had checked the
ground
and pronounced it
good;
“They will like the
old ivy and
the heather”,
he said,
“It will make
the honey sweeter
even,
perhaps,
medicinal.”
Locked up in the
old orchard,
high walled,
and
open skyed,
they will work
their ancient
alchemy
and turn pollen
into
liquid gold.
Leaving their
wax worked
cells
at dawn’s daily
summons
to gather goods,
their wings
a droning
chant
upon the wind,
they will
bee-bless
blooms and blossom,
alighting with
a touch
that dusts them
with the yellow
gift of
new life,
as they seek
the hidden
sweetness
of the
flower.
So these,
our new
sisters,
stalled in choir
combs now,
upon this
whole and holy
land of
Ards,
will make,
with us poor
Friars,
one great
monastery of
praise,
for
bees and brothers
both,
seek the
sweet nectar
of the now,
and are in our
very
seeking,
blessed
and become
blessing.
(Written to celebrate the arrival this month of the new Beehives to the Ards Friary Walled Garden)
By Richard Hendrick
life: acoustic & amplified 