a story lived, now story told
we, early young, now later, old
see stranger things than daytime held
but not without our sorrows quelled
____________________________________
we fluff and tuck and yawn and brush
pray God remove all sinning blush
the air now cool in silver glow
what dreams may come we do not know
_____________________________________
divested now of time and chance
we bid adieu and leave the dance
till thricely woven round with grace
the nighttime songs our fears erase
On October 11th I will celebrate 11 years sober. A particularly difficult challenge was posting my struggle online for everyone to see. That said, I know I am not alone here. Since it was the most popular series I’ve shared so far and to commemorate my 11th on the 11th, I begin a process of reblogging these pieces. If you find yourself somewhere in this sordid tale, you are not alone and you are loved.
He stumbled back to his office barely remembering the way, a path oft trod in the past three years. The hallway narrowed ominously with each fumbling step. The lights seemed more like taunting stars in some unknown sky. This familiar heaviness in his soul was peppered with liberal amounts of fear and doubt and pestered a conscience, dulled and thin. His life had become one big bungee jump of risk versus survival into which joy, let alone hope, was not allowed. At least that had been his inner narrative for more years than he could remember.
He managed to sprawl himself into his spinning office chair with a careless groan. An even more insidious narrative played within, tapes well-worn that had become his fair-weather companions. “I’m fine”, he said to himself, “if I stay here just a while longer, this will wear off and no one will be the wiser.”…
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Ineffable One,
there is a haze of wanton disregard fogging the window to my soul;
a fog of discontent that swirls around my deepest knowing;
an arrogant knowing where, in it’s place, I need unknowing.
Holy One,
relieve me of foolish trust in my ability to live in perfection.
Let loose the hounds of irreducible chaos if by their baying
I learn to shut out the noise of my voice for the Voice.
Glorious One,
teach me that, to look directly into the sun, is death.
But, to gaze into your face through grace filtered and raw,
is to see you as you truly are – horrifying in beauty.
Little One,
it once was said that the One who flung stars into space
fits securely in the tiny confines of the human heart.
Similarly, make me tiny, so that your reach through me is great.
Unseen One,
I have convinced myself that you make yourself invisible.
Remind me that I see you every time someone cries in pain
or, at the risk of their own wellness, becomes pain for another.
Elusive One,
forgive me for when I boast of my growing knowledge of God,
only to discover that it’s all been a ruse, a play on words,
your playful, cryptic way of introducing me to myself.
Unending One,
shake me loose from the need to place parameters, provisos,
gates on that which only ever bursts them asunder.
Help me to stop trying to find your endings and look for beginnings.
Loving One,
I am at a loss to understand, let alone experience,
such self-forgetful yearning for the good of another
that you would watch yourself disappear into the abyss,
only to return as the One.
Friends, I am grateful and humbled to be a part of a quickly growing organization…organism really, called Center Quest. 
It is defined as “an ecumenical hub for the study and practice of Christian spirituality.” It’s focus is on identifying, training, encouraging and unleashing spiritual directors into a world badly in need of this ministry. In that effort, it has attracted top practitioners of this ancient art together in one remarkable place. The brainchild of international Nouwen scholar, spiritual director, retreat leader and friend, Dr. Wil Hernandez (pictured here), 
it is truly precedent setting in that it also seeks to be a “center” around which many other schools of spiritual formation and direction around the globe receive equal press; kind of a “one stop shop” for those seeking advancement in their spiritual journey and needing resources – lots and lots of resources. They call CenterQuest “home” without ever really leaving their own “home” carved out through their own unique calling and vocation as leaders in these areas. Please be sure to check out their website to discover the vast possibilities for personal and community growth. (Val Dodge Head)
Speaker, writer, retreat leader, spiritual director, and friend, Val Dodge Head, acts in an administrative and supportive role to Wil in helping to establish a most impressive list of companions, consultants, board members, partners, mentors, and friends. The cool website has been made possible through her tireless efforts along with web designers. Her gentle spirit, enthusiasm and joy will be invaluable to Wil and team in the days to come as the dust continues to settle and the sun rises on this new and exciting venture.
As a proud member of the CenterQuest blog team, my own submission and that of friend and fellow blogger, Christianne Squires 
(find her at www.stillforming.com) can be found here.
(Christianne Squires)
There, now I have a week of evening Examens on this blog. Now, to continue the discipline!
Scattered across lonely seas
dwell the lilies of desire.
Dotted between the balancing
green are other frondish delights
with fingers extended on palms
upraised, deterred by nothing
but the gentle floating away of
newly made ripples, starting
from a center and pushing out
to the edges where the shoreline
awaits to receive what waves may come.
They have made big what once
was small, white-capped wonder
from still and never-sunken petals.
The end exhumes the beginning
but little beginnings brought
such proud endings, humbled
by endless sandy sleep. Here
God is waiting.
God is watching.
God is cooking fish.
Lily: www.parentdish.com
Crashing waves: www.123rf.com
I’m taking a 10 week course at the moment. Reblogging really isn’t that lazy is it?
There is no way to distinguish
the place where the radiance of evening
touches the face of God.
Just fingers of grace-soaked light
long, drawling and sure,
that pull at the last, dark places
and weed them out of the heated ground
to die quietly in the burning
breath of love, and then
to live again.
Lord, like you, I am sweeping leaves,
as the trees eschew their fingers,
and turn their heads on part of themselves.
I looked and saw too many leaves
from too many long winters
heaped up on top of each other,
becoming the worm-infested mulch
of a wayward heart.
But, Lord, you also created worms.
They loosen what would otherwise
pack itself down into a deadening tightness,
choking out what life is yet to come.
You seem to prefer it this way, Lord.
New stuff grows from old,
good from bad,
fresh from foul.
So be it.
So it is to be, latent but translucent
that weavings and partings both,
secured in their places best suited
to their emergence or demise,
are laid out on God’s table of cards.
The goodbyes of days that turn to nights
that turn to days that turn to timeless
wonders, the crevices where only God’s
fingers fit. They’re too small for me
because I’m too big in me to see
my own smallness in him.
Wreck all chances for shoddy self-repair
and lay the table for a banquet instead,
where bread on my tongue and
the clinking glasses serve to remind me
of a better meal yet to come.
Image: www.annapolitanbride.com
Given the raw materials from which come my best advances
into grace-filled days and hope-tinted nights,
there remain the questions – the queries in restless sleep,
the mystifications of workday afternoons when
sorting through memories is more haunting than charming.
Exchanging token cautions smeared with crooked remembrances
that laugh their way to a poorer destiny,
the torn and sad reaches for glad that tips a hat to
the best of what’s behind but incomplete.
Shards of broken passage return their wounds,
still ripe and weeping, for any chance at a future,
not sequined, brash or over-confident but light, fresh and pale
with songs not new but revitalized, like Lazarus,
his face paler still but beautiful, because all that was barren or ugly
is forgotten in the grave.
In the right hands, days in a dank cell of nothing turn even the
deepest pain into something beautiful.
Painting: “The Raising of Lazarus” by Vincent Van Gogh
Forgot that I’ve been posting these to this blog.
The light was thinner today, unplagued by summer arrogance.
The aging, iron-grey sky cooperates fully with the falling day,
pouring out one particle at a time onto the browning green.
I watched it pool in elegance, gathering
in the playful dance of moths and paupers.
Lower down, close to the roots of things,
my feet can touch the back of this place, falling simply
as eyes preparing for a blanched horizon are caressed
by the autumnal bounty of God’s spare time.
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
From liquid courage to Sober Courage
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Blog for poet and singer-songwriter Malcolm Guite
…in the thick of things
REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS
Seeking that which is life giving.
… hope is oxygen
Homepage of Seymour Jacklin: Writer - Narrator - Facilitator
If we are made in God’s image and God sings, then we should be singing, too.
Ancient Wisdom for Modern Seekers
Spiritual Direction for Integrated Living
From liquid courage to Sober Courage
an anamcara exploring those close encounters of the liminal kind
Collaborating with the Muses to inspire, create, and illuminate
...in such kind ways...
"That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works." Psalm 26:7
Blog for poet and singer-songwriter Malcolm Guite
…in the thick of things
REFLECTIONS & REVIEWS
Seeking that which is life giving.
… hope is oxygen
Homepage of Seymour Jacklin: Writer - Narrator - Facilitator
innerwoven 