A little drop of the sky, a little drop of the land, a little drop of the sea, on your forehead, beloved one. To protect, to shield and to surround you. The little drop of the Three, to fill you with the graces.
– Traditional Celtic Prayer
Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.
– Ryunosuke Satoro
photos by Fisherman Dan @ Branford, CT
The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding
then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall, and the way forward
always in the end the way that you came,
the way that you followed, the way that carried
you into your future, that brought you
to this place, no matter that it sometimes took
your promise from you, no matter that it always had to break
your heart along the way, the sense of having walked
from far inside yourself out into the revelation,
to have risked yourself for something that seemed
to stand both inside you and far beyond you,
that called you back in the end to the only road
you could follow, walking as you did, in your
rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night, became a prayer for safe arrival…
Excerpt from “SANTIAGO”
From PILGRIM: Poems by David Whyte
Nature will bear the closest inspection. She
Invites us to lay our eyes level with her
Smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its
Plain.
—Thoreau
The raspberries
in my driveway
have always
been here
(for the whole eleven years
I have owned
but have not owned
this house),
yet
I have never
tasted them
before.
Always on a plane.
Always in the arms
of man, not God,
always too busy,
too fretful,
too worried
to see
that all along
my
driveway
are red, red raspberries
for me to taste.
Shiny and red,
without hairs—
unlike the berries
from the market.
Little jewels—
I share them
with the birds!
On one perches
a tiny green insect.
I blow her off.
She flies!
I burst the raspberry
upon my tongue.
In my solitude
I commune
with raspberries,
with grasses,
with the world.
The world was always
there before,
but where
was I?
Ah raspberry—
if you are so beautiful
upon my ready tongue,
imagine
what wonders
lie in store
for me!
“Raspberries in my Driveway” by Erica Jong
Although I watched and waited for it every day,
somehow I missed it, the moment when everything reached
the peak of ripeness. It wasn’t at the solstice; that was only
the time of the longest light. It was sometime after that, when
the plants had absorbed all that sun, had taken it into themselves
for food and swelled to the height of fullness. It was in July,
in a dizzy blaze of heat and fog, when on some nights
it was too hot to sleep, and the restaurants set half their tables
on the sidewalks; outside the city, down the coast,
the Milky Way floated overhead, and shooting stars
fell from the sky over the ocean. One day the garden
was almost overwhelmed with fruition:
My sweet peas struggled out of the raised bed onto the mulch
of laurel leaves and bark and pods, their brilliantly colored
sunbonnets of rose and stippled pink, magenta and deep purple
pouring out a perfume that was almost oriental. Black-eyed Susans
stared from the flower borders, the orange cherry tomatoes
were sweet as candy, the corn fattened in its swaths of silk,
hummingbirds spiraled by in pairs, the bees gave up
and decided to live in the lavender. At the market,
surrounded by black plums and rosy plums and sugar prunes
and white-fleshed peaches and nectarines, perfumey melons
and mangos, purple figs in green plastic baskets,
clusters of tiny Champagne grapes and piles of red-black cherries
and apricots freckled and streaked with rose, I felt tears
come into my eyes, absurdly, because I knew
that summer had peaked and was already passing
away. I felt very close then to understanding
the mystery; it seemed to me that I almost knew
what it meant to be alive, as if my life had swelled
to some high moment of response, as if I could
reach out and touch the season, as if I were inside
its body, surrounded by sweet pulp and juice,
shimmering veins and ripened skin.
“A Warm Summer in San Francisco” by Carolyn Miller
This face is all I have, worn and lived in
And lines below my eyes are like old friends
And this old hearts’ been beaten up
And my ragged soul has had things rough
And this face is all I have, worn and lived in
The fairest they can fall bored in believing
Something to achieve, this peaceful feeling
After all these tears are only true
And your silver spoons can’t dig up my roots
And this face is all I have, worn and lived in
Worn and lived in
Through the tides of time
Worn and lived in
This face of mine
And I kept believing, the reflection on the wall
Who needs to be the fairest of them all
I never looked like you, cool and streamlined
I have this honesty that grows with time
And when cracks appear they suit me fine
Like a good old dog you won’t hear me whine
And this face is all I have, worn and lived in
Worn and lived in
Through the tides of time
Worn and lived in
This face of mine
And I kept believing the reflection on the wall
Who needs to be the fairest of them all
Sins and lies, they take the place of truth and answers
You can trade a glance and call it second sight
You cannot buy sympathetic mirrors
And honesty is an answer you cannot find
And I kept believing the reflection on the wall
Who needs to be the fairest of them all
This face is all I have, worn and lived in
And lines below my eyes are like old friends
And this old hearts’ been beaten up
And my ragged soul has had things rough
This face is all I have, worn and lived in
And this face is all I have, worn and lived in
– Willie Nelson
Matt 9 – 13
9 This, then, is how you should pray:
“‘Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
10 your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
11 Give us today our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from the evil one”.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness. Galatians 5:22
Lord, thank you
for setting me free.
Free to blow bubbles,
fly kites,
listen to seashells,
cuddle kittens,
build castles in the sand,
wish on stars.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to hunt for four-leaf clovers,
explore oak trees with inviting branches,
run laughing in the rain,
walk barefoot,
jump puddles,
wave at trains.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to yellow my nose in buttercups,
catch a firefly to see his light,
pick the first wild strawberry,
count the stars,
talk to ladybugs,
chase a thistle.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to see you in
sunlight dancing on the water,
dogwood smiling at the sky,
willows curtseying to the river,
azaleas flaming across the land,
rainbowed cobwebs,
drifting leaves.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to play with,
wonder at
and love
all that you have given me.
And free, as well,
to give it back
to you.
Lord, do archangels
need you
as much as I do?
Father, thank you
for setting me free.
Free to be
poor,
little,
weak.
Thank you for setting me free.
Free to be
misunderstood,
rejected,
forgotten.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to be
unsatisfied,
empty,
stripped.
Thank you
for setting me free.
Free to
break through,
let go,
enter the flame.
Father, thank you
for setting me free
by binding me
more closely
to yourself.
– Sue Garmen
in Souvenirs of Solitude by Brennan Manning
life: acoustic & amplified 