"At the Day of Judgment we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done."
- The Imitation of Christ, Book I, ch. 3
(“Sometimes when the winds and sea are becalmed itinerant sailors take a moment to reflect about - how far and what for. ”)
July 31,2010
- Solemnity of St Ignatius of Loyola, priest, founder of the Society of Jesus
Seven thousand three hundred sunrises and sunsets, or around 735 million beats of the heart, give or take one or two, a ring of the chimes of freedom mark the celebration of the repaired sacred heart. It was just a short 7515 hard and soft covered pages consumed and scoured that filled the space between twenty – three attempts at discovering and producing the appropriate collections of words that would best represent what had been churning deep within.
More than one hundred and ten new faces with sponge-like minds presented themselves to soak in the barrels of unwonted accumulated flotsam called knowledge that would be poured into their yet to be filled experience. New names and places were recorded just in case they needed to be recalled at some distant event. Some of the faces and voices left indelible marks where no memory was needed as they have become one on the journey. Gratitude grew for the spirits who were of the pilgrim, the one’s who never left, the one’s who would hold him up and lower him through the roof into the presence of the great healer, the one’s who reflected parts of his own being became closer in their own journey of individuation.
It is not hard to conjure the physical and spiritual impact of 1,584,000 paces around the pond in the Norwegian woods. The steps were accompanied by 4,350 iTouch sorted musical collections from Beatles to Bocelli to recent reminisces by Cohen. Digital downloads preselected prayers and reflections would also augmented the 6700 breaths filling in the scenery of gaggled geese gliding gleefully down from heaven onto the glassy waters of the lake as the sum peaked pouring her pure glowing warmth over the guardian trees.
Forty minutes of pre-dawn examens preceded by thirty minutes or so of reflections on the current experience and the liturgically based scriptural passage are all usually concluded with no words or thoughts meditations attempting to be completely present. Approximately one hundred and eighty of these events have been journaled to take place outside in the witness of the night sky fading and color gradually making her appearance. Sometimes the silence and solitude seeps secretly surrendering into the soul waking the humbled spirit to gratitude. Though the countless dawns regardless of clouds or clarity of crisp blue heavens maintain one constancy, the welcoming song of the morning bird. The occasions of her absence can be counted on one hand and realized that she was protecting herself from an intermittent storm so she could sing again on a new day. Then there were the other hundred and eighty mornings where living rooms, dens and hotel rooms became the official prayer closets. A rare occurrence was watching the majesty of the sea gently kissing the sand at sunrise and the silent dew resting on the surface of a lonely lake. This seeking soul slowly begins to be filled with graces pouring from within and without.
It is easy to get angry at the ineptitude of the countless meteorologists who most often completely miss the prediction of storms that will impact a specific region. Sixty-one and a half inches of snow over a 120 day period. Adding that amount to the previous year’s total brings the grand amount to not even 90 inches. Hawk Hill girls became “snowed in” and a city of “Brotherly Love” cut off affection and shut down for three days on two occasions. Blessed by a good neighbor more than eleven events of motorized blowing snow and sharing fresh brewed java filled the space between the wet winds blown flakes.
Nashville cats, Haitians, Peruvians, Chinese and thousands of other spirits departed their vessels as a result of Mother Nature telling us that something’s wrong. And, if that were not enough corporate greed decides to unleash the remnants of million years fossil fuels gifted us by once grand and great extinct creatures, choking God’s current creatures of the air and sea leaving us to stand on black coated beaches.
One hundred and four Sundays, twenty or so additional holy days, intermittent days
where reverence and adoration consumed the spirit. Body and blood blessing the being bringing the holiness that fills the universe fueling the depths of the pilgrim vessel. The end of work as we knew it and desired sets with the last sun of winter. The new flowers proclaims spring making a calm and deliberate entrance . Hours of spiritual direction then prevailed deciphering and discerning spirits under the umbrella of a 19th annotation, opening the heart once more.
Bookmarked, dog-eared pages of life included a short record of being two and one at Fenway since the year of the second chance dance. Eagles soared and Bruce pleaded in protest the prospect of the wrecking ball bringing down the cathedral of giants. Philadelphia blue eyed soul brothers temporarily provided relief and on another Browne’s laments consoled the night away. Companions depart along the way , one responds to a larger voice and the Buddha of Christ Chapel now awaits at heaven’s gate. Reconnections to companions once thought lost sing of salvation. Bout markers remind the helmsman’s “red on right return” as the vessel slowly wakes herself through the long channel home.
Knots measure the time it takes a vessel to traverse one nautical mile. 9-3 Saab convertible goes from 0 to 60 in 6.7 seconds. The recent baccalaureated Hawk Hill girl purports that the vehicle represents a symbol of an “old life” crisis.” The motion wound watch and electronic clocks alike seem to repeat themselves over and over again. The amount of time it takes to consume an Irish Black and Tan varies as bartenders know that a “Guinness pint” is not a standard measurement as the days of savoring sip by sip increase and the days of chugging are bid a fond farewell.
How many words have been spoken?
How many words and thoughts have been heard?
How many laughs were shouted out? How many gentle smiles shared?
What is the number of tears shed and for whom?
How many songs and been sung and poems read where the spirit was raised up and comforted?
How many empty hearts were consoled and wandering souls comforted?
Was love given freely?
Was there real authentic presence to the living God in all things all ways?
It is the eve of the second anniversary of the Second Chance Dance where the pilgrim’s heart, the core of an aging vessel was given new hope with a new wind, the breath of God filling the sails. Unfortunately it is taking so long for the initial illumination to take root …that for the ever-wandering ever-wondering pilgrim sailor it is not a matter of how far, how much , how many or how often , but isn’t it is all about just “how” one lives loves and serves that makes the journey a worthwhile endeavor?
Seasons Of Love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love? How about love?
How about love? Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
It's time now to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
(Oh you got to, got to)
Remember the love
(Remember the love)
Seasons of love
(Measure measure you life in love)
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Time The Conqueror
- J. Browne
Time on my side, a stowaway in the slipstream
A time I could glide the shifting currents of my dream
In my dream the sunlight was falling from one side
And every blade of grass was casting its own shadow
And every little bird was singing its own song
Time in my mind, the past of least resistance
The future almost blind, both in need of assistance
In my mind the question: Sunrise or sunset?
In my mind I'm certain: Nothing's certain yet
With every grain of sand casting its own shadow
And every ray of the sun flashing on the sea
Time may heal all wounds
But time will steal you blind
Time the wheel, time the conqueror
Time to decide what kind of world I believe in
The world open wide,
Or the world about to stop breathing
In my world I'm standing just inside the door
In my world I'm speaking into the ocean's roar
And every thought of you casts its own little shadow
And everything I wanted, subject to review
Time may heal all wounds
But time will steal you blind
Time the wheel, time the conqueror
Time will heal all wounds but time...
amdg
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