Part Three : Diversions :The exiled pilgrim finds refuge in a safe harbor

"Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home "

- Basho

The geese that normally rest along the shoreline of the mist-coated lake of the new day’s early morning hour were absent today. No typical honks or to echoes of flapping loosened feathers were present to pierce the silence and solitude.

“ Have they heard the news of the potential storm heading this way and took their

chevron formation to some safe lake further inland? Or , did they begin their communal charted pre-Labor day trek south to their winter retreat?”

The anticipated consociation transformed, the solitude gingerly tiptoed it’s path between the rocks along the shoreline and desolation. Expectation of a forthcoming hurricane is not anomalous as storms are usually advance notices of a change in season. Leaves departing their branches and the transition from warm sea breezes to chilling winds that cause one to lift their collars should be enough to indicate change. However, it seems that nature prefers a dramatic entrance.

This observation conjures a recollection of when the exiled pilgrim had arrived circuitously at the place of hallowed ground that was coincidentally only a short distance from his own home port .Yet , it took finding shelter a thousand miles from this port to receive an invitation to this proximate hallowed ground.

While on a journey seeking legal tender for the selective apportionment of talents a new refuge was discovered overlooking the big muddy that once carried Tom, Huck and Jim into a new world. The prayer on the precipice sparked a consolation that evolved into an unexpected invitation from a recovering resident priest . He knew of a secret hidden hallowed ground along millionaires row not far from this adventurer’s Ithaca.

The sailor's loyal companion, Argos, welcomed the pilgrim on the return to his home and forgave him unconditionally for his meanderings and belief that self discovery was achieved through attachments to worldly things and victories. Both kept the secret of the probability that pilgrim’s journey was not over and that it had most likely just begun. Without discussion, a chart or a plan the pilgrim set out to find that sacred place the recovering priest had described.

In due course the holy ground , once the shelter for a famous former money trader who’s family gifted it for the greater glory, was found without much drama or consternation. This blessed place was now the home of the companions who were called to serve all pilgrims in need of rest on their journeys.

The first companion welcomed this pilgrim and queried:

“ Where have you been? We have always been here and we have been waiting for you”

The pilgrim retorted,

“No one had ever invited me before.”

The first companion ,

“You were invited when you started your journey. You were just too busy to listen to the voice calling you.”

The first companion introduced this self described wayward imperfect sailor to a second companion who then took it upon himself to be the pilgrim’s sherpa . They put the pilgrim’s baggage aside and the journey started anew. These newly found companions immediately loved this sinner and lowered his paralyzed heart into the presence of the wonder counselor. The journey and the man would then never be the same. This house of retreats and solitude had become the intermittent safe harbor from which this pilgrim would take respite to be consoled, illuminated and recharged as he kept retreating from the storms and the wrath of contemptuous world-wise demons . The abundance of blessings of the past became more obvious as grace bathed him while he was immersed into his own new season.

Suddenly the early morning’s meditation concerning the purpose of the little lake for the traveling geese made sense. All creatures need safe harbors and companions on their journey.

Post script: As the Next Season begins

Just a month ago I happened to visit my old friend and former spiritual director

Fr. Lou., who now lives three hours from my home We hadn’t seen each other in years. It took only a minute for us to rekindle the spark that connected us twenty years ago. Also, I ran into former retreat house director , Dick ,who now lives up north not far from Lou and has a new life and family. He and I met again at the retreat house. It was good to reconnect. But then Fr. Tom ,my Buddha, who has been showing wear and tear of a long-time dedicated shepra who had a stroke and has been taken to the society’s infirmary. He has taught me much and I pray for him constantly. Now I discover that that first companion, Fr. Bill, who would eventually guide me

through the 19^th Annotation of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius has been transferred with fellow companion Fr. Ed both near Dick and Lou. I will miss them both as I miss them all. Maybe I need to head north?

I wonder if the fond memories of grace will carry me through my next season and if their “house on holy ground” will continue as source of consolation and safe harbor .

Thank you for The Society of Jesus - especially Lou, Dick, Bill, Ed, Tom, Gerry, Kirk , all the companions who have welcomed me on my journey

into their safe harbors of White House , Loyola and Eastern Point .

The Earth Turned to Bring Us Closer

The earth turned to bring us closer,
it spun on itself and within us,
and finally joined us together in this dream
as written in the Symposium.
Nights passed by, snowfalls and solstices;
time passed in minutes and millennia.
An ox cart that was on its way to Nineveh
arrived in Nebraska.
A rooster was singing some distance from the world,
in one of the thousand pre–lives of our fathers.
The earth was spinning with its music
carrying us on board;
it didn't stop turning a single moment
as if so much love, so much that's miraculous
was only an adagio written long ago
in the Symposium’s score.

(Eugenio Montejo, 1938)

amdg

Summer Bonus track - The gift

(Here is a reflection on what recently happened when my email was hijacked and a financial scam went out to my address book under my name . Suddenly dozens of companions, fellow travelers, associates , friends and some strangers reached out with compassion and concern and again I was humbled )

There is nothing like the melancholic peace-filling mood of a Van Morrison ballad to set the tone for a day or even a week . His up tempo ditties are actually poems that simply sooth the seeker’s heart.

Who would have ever thought that technology would become an instrument of constant communication? Also, who would have thought that the removal of the instrument might bring silence and loneliness to one’s existence ?

Imagine technology becoming your voice and ears and then suddenly some demonic thief grabs these senses from you and you are deaf and speechless. For a moment you are falling into a deep hole where you are disconnected from everyone and everything., or so it seemed . The threads that have kept you connected to spirits of the earth suddenly have evaporated and the wavelength that secured the source to receive the great messages has disappeared from the dial.

Disconnected, lost, voiceless, helpless, prayerful , wandering and desperately trying to unravel the web of self-pity a depressing realization overwhelms. There doesn’t seem to be any way to tap into self-reliance to deliver one from a morass of despair.

Hope magically arrives in the form of previous connections secured in relationships with fellow pilgrims , wandering family members and companions of the sacred heart . Without hesitation these fellow journeyists lift the sense-less paralytic up and lower him into the presence of the wonderful healer and consoler.

Realizing one is not created to be here alone and that the previous giving of one’s self was returned to ten fold with the awareness that connection was never lost.

They say that prayer is a form of seeking connection…but one doesn’t need wifi or 4G service on a cell phone to make connection…just an opened heart .

Days Like This

When it isn´t always raining there will be days like this
When theres no one complaining there will be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me there will be days like this

When you do not need to worry there will be days like this
When no one has in a hurry there will be days like this
When you do not get betrayed by that old Judas kiss
Oh my mama told me there will be days like this

When you do not need an answer there will be days like this
When you do not meet a chancer there will be days like this
When all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they fit
Then I must remember there will be days like this

When everyone is up front & they are not playing tricks
When you do not have no freeloaders out to get their kicks
When it is nobody´s business the way that you want to live
I just have to remember there will be days like this

When no one steps on my dreams there will be days like this
When people understand what I mean there will be days like this
When you ring out the changes of how everything´s
Well my mama told me there will be days like this

Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this
Oh my mama told me
There will be days like this

amdg

Van Morrison - Days Like This

Van Morrison - Days Like This

Jackson Browne - Time The Conqueror - New Album

Jackson Browne - Time The Conqueror - New Album

Ulysses at the safe harbor of Syracuse (soliciting martyred spirits while recovering from sinusitis.)

"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 19^th 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

Introibo ad altare Dei

“What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves?”

- Thomas Merton


The trusted “member of the band” recently recalled for me in an email correspondence the fist line of dialog in Ulysses by James Joyce, he wrote:

- Introibo ad altare Dei (“ I will go to the altar of God.)”

One of my initial reactions was to respond by using the church’s formal retort by the altar server to that celebrant’s proclamation at the beginning of mass, I responded:

- Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam (“To God who gives joy o my
Youth “)

Admittedly a little scholarly assistance was required to accurately recall the precise Latin verbiage and it’s translation. to the presider’s “Introit.” It is said that Biblically this prayer of the priest is requesting deliverance from oppression and affliction while the assistor expresses gratitude for the experience of innocence and trust in the unconditional love of God.

It is no surprise that this correspondence facilitated a diversity of personal explorations into my own spirit, which is a little deeper and more frightening than Cyclops’ cave. It would probably take volumes to decipher and articulate the intricacies of contemplations and obscure images that churned throughout this pilgrim’s interior. It would also be erroneous to misconstrue that any recorded log of this cursory journey would in any way be comparable to that of Homer’s Odysseus and Joyce’s Bloom. Though, what was discovered in the recording of this chartless journey does provide some insight into the salvation history indicated by selective footprints marking modest progress of the pilgrim, or lack thereof.


Telemachiad Phase One (“in which Doris gets her Oats”) - Summary

Twelve years of age has been selected for centuries as the benchmark identifying a person’s passage from youth into adolescence and adulthood. It is expected that intellectual, emotional and spiritual maturity are to be in complete sync with that of the maturing of hormones for the transition to be considered somewhat successful. But then again boys never really seem to “grow up” but that’s another subject for another entry isn’t it? As this pilgrim turned that page that marked the twelfth birthday everything seemed to be falling into place for the transition into adulthood. Hopefulness reigned and great dreams were beginning to be translated into defined plans. However, in retrospect most of these were more dreams and fantasies than constructive strategies.

One of a multitude of cultural celebrations and symbols that recognize successful passage into the next chapter or life’s phase was found in the pilgrim’s involvement with The Boy Scouts. This organization provided an environment where one could be his authentic self and explore new worlds within and without. As a matter of fact on the very first night of becoming a scout this newbie pilgrim gained the attention of the older ones as he tested out of being a Tender Foot to the next level of being Second Class. By the end of the first twelve months as a scout he had achieved the levels and classifications of First Class, Star and Life and earned multiple Merit Badges while being appointed as a Patrol Leader in charge of twelve scouts. These achievements and progress were reported as quite rare and unusual.This phase marked off "successful!"

While rapidly moving forward in the Boy Scout world this accidental pilgrim had also become the “altar boy of choice” by the new pastor in the local church. The pilgrim only lived a block away from the church and it was quite convenient for him to be the one selected to serve most of the early morning masses. Besides, he knew the Latin responses without referring to the cards placed on the stairs of the altar. It was also coincidental that this newly assigned pastor had come from same old hometown of Bayonne, New Jersey as the pilgrim. The pastor often spoke about how he knew many of the family members of this young server including the uncles and grandfather. The pastor fondly referred to this family as “Polish Mafia.” When the pastor realized that this young adventurer was in the parish scout troop he encouraged the pilgrim to work towards a special award reserved for Catholic scouts , “The Ad Altare Dei Award.” Catholic Boy Scouts could work towards and receive a special award in recognition of their Christian journey by living and acting on their values of faith and service. The young pilgrim’s father was pleased with the boy’s progress as a scout and faith-filled believer.

Working hard to complete everything that was required to receive this award diverted commitment from studies and other social activities. Fortunately it was wintertime and baseball playing did not suffer from this diligence. Then came the scheduling of the big interview with the local Bishop, the pastor and the scout troop leader. Filled with abundant confidence it was obvious that the “it (the award) was in the bag.” and “nothing could stop this train now.” The scout-altar boy overflowed with confidence. A note was sent to each candidate’s home. In the note was the schedule for the interviews and an explanation … “It is important to please reserve this time…etc and so on.”

Just twenty-four hours away from this interview the boy’s family received word that the pilgrim’s paternal grandfather had died. Though the boy’s father was the youngest of seven children, the baby of the family, he took control of organizing all the funeral arrangements. He expected that his family members would be present and available at all times, at the wake and funeral. Emotions ran rampant throughout as the youthful searcher attempted to sort out a newly found dilemma. The grandfather’s wake was in conflict with the scheduled interview for this perceived prestigious award. The father insisted on presence of each of his family member but he did make an effort to intervene by speaking with this pastor, who knew the father’s father, for some understanding and hopefully a rescheduling his son's interview. The pastor was uncompromising and said that the young altar server scout could reapply the next year. That dream of achieving the award along with the exuberant youthful innocence was buried along with the grandfather.

That particular event marked the launching of the pilgrim’s vessel away from the church and possible religious and spiritual considerations. Anything and everything Catholic or even religious seemed unimportant and naturally unreliable. The great unplanned odyssey then began that would last almost twenty-two years. There was no consideration of the possible influence of any great protector and grace provider during the storms encountered along this series of passages. However, the action of that pastor and his insensitivity did spark a fire that would fuel a burning light illuminating the journey. Without this pastor initiated incident the great adventure would not have occurred and the lessons would not have been learned and nor the discoveries made. He thought that through his departure he had left God but God had never left him. As the accidental pilgrim's salvation history indicates grace was present all ways and carefully gradually guided this pilgrim back home to the altar of God. When the spirit was ready - the real metanoia commenced


amdg


'Til I Die

I'm a cork on the ocean
Floating over the raging sea
How deep is the ocean?
How deep is the ocean?
I lost my way
Hey hey hey

I'm a rock in a landslide
Rolling over the mountainside
How deep is the valley?
How deep is the valley?
It kills my soul
Hey hey hey

I'm a leaf on a windy day
Pretty soon I'll be blown away
How long will the wind blow?
How long will the wind blow?
Ohhhh

Until I die
Until I die
These things I'll be untill I die
These things I'll be untill I die
These things I'll be untill I die

- Brian Wilson

These are The Days

"...These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there's only future
There's only here, there's only now..."

- These Are The Days, Van Morrison




It seems as if it were just a few short weeks ago that I was wondering if winter would ever end. We had more snow than ever recorded in this part of the country. Philadelphia, where Leigh was living at college, had three blizzards back to back. She was literally “snowed in.” I was unsure if we would ever see the green grass of the earth again as our property had been covered with snow from the week after Thanksgiving until early March.

But the peculiar answer to my prayers was found in three to four days of rain, which caused some serious flooding problems to a number of homes not too far away from where I now sit. “Be careful of what you ask for,” I have been advised.

It seemed that the media prone meteorologists were trying their best to be optimistic about the future. Everyday there seemed to be a report about how it would be five degrees warmer than the previous day. But then these highly paid prognosticators were punished for their false hope and their worldly optimism, as the weather would not cooperate. And we would experience another day of gray, damp and cold winds.
Turning to ground hogs and almanacs also became last resort resources to try and anticipate a sun drenched warm dry blessing of a day. “Just one” the prayers requested!

The pages on the wall calendar flipped and days were marked off. The pictures on the month’s page illustrated a memory of what once was and what could be. The days were crossed off and without great fanfare as they would secretly and gradually grew warmer .The sun would last a little longer in the heavens. Then a sudden burst of unusual brightness would come as if it got off course and would tease us with a bright warming day and for a moment everything looked as though it would be ok. But it was an anomaly and the clouds and cold re-entered the scene driving the wandering pilgrims to prayers of despair.

We all know that there are seasons to the year and that nature slowly and sometimes dramatically moves through time transforming itself and our experience. Yet even with this awareness hope had waned and frustration grew.

But now here I am sitting on my deck at dawn at the end of May listening to the welcoming and celebratory chorus of the morning birds while the watching the “wedge of freedom” flying geese honk their way across the horizon .The hours that were marked and remembered as being yesterday were filled with immense brightness and summer like warmth. The birth of the new day indicates the same. The voices on the car radio proclaimed that this weekend once reserved for remembering the great sacrifice of men and women has been transformed into a celebration in to the first week of summer. (Though the calendar says we have seventeen days before that officially happens.)

It takes a while but I think I am beginning to get it.

During the dark gray cold barren winter I was compelled to stay in the shelter of my home on those lonely mornings. Yet, it wasn’t really that impossible for me to be present to the moment but at times it was a bit of a struggle. The warm aroma of the freshly brewed coffee served as incense blessing the prayers of gratitude for the chance at living another day. Now this pilgrim sits witnessing the dawn amidst the silent strong standing trees accompanied by the bird and cricket chorale. The breath of God breezing across his face as the heaven’s great canopy evolves from black to crystal blue filling him again with humbled gratitude. Admittedly, the great warmth and gradual grand entrance of the sun amongst the freshly blossomed flowers provides a great grace that fuels a welcomed hope-filed spirit.

Well, it is said the “Truth will set you free.” So I feel compelled to say that it is obvious that I have a preference for summer. One of my colleagues once suggested that “summer” to me is a verb. That might have to do with my wearing top-siders (boat shoes) year round, golf shirts and at every chance slipping on shorts! The only thing missing for me as I sit out on my deck facing a pristine forest is water, a lake or ocean. After my quiet reflective time I make sure I take my daily walk around the small neighborhood lake. I make no apologies, as I am a Pisces! But back to the complete truth.

There is a unique serenity to the fresh fallen snow that purifies the barren wintered landscape with its virgin white blanket. Listening to the soft blessings of the flakes as they fall and witnessing the Currier and Ives type landscape is a grace that can fill the spirit to last a lifetime. There have been hours of delight and laughter with the girls being free spirited in the freshly fallen snow. Sledding, snowballing and some shoveling provide fuel for the reflective spirit. And yes I love pulling up my collar in autumn as I walk through the orange-yellow – red browned adorned neighborhood. And, yes spring with the view of the first leaf and flower engenders a spark of grateful optimism.

Even though I know I will probably worry about the weather again I realize there is “a time (and reason) for every season.” Maybe all of this sensitivity about all of this has to do with the change of season in my personal life… you know…the career, spiritual, personal and physical components of the journey.

The plans that I have been cautiously carefully crafting concerning how I could coordinate and manage the next season seem to be constantly sidetracked by some offstage director. I can’t deny that there exists a place in my heart for all the memories both fond and dark and what brought me to this second chance. I can’t deny dreaming about an idealistic future of perfect days…perfect experiences on perfect days all being unwarranted perfect blessings for an imperfect pilgrim.

But if this moment is filling this spirit with anything it is the blessing of being present to the now. I wish I could say I am a Zen practitioner or a faithful subscriber to St. Ignatius’ Suscipe . I remind myself of a cartoon character Popeye who says about himself , "I 'yams whats I ams, and dats all that I 'yams." But I am trying…in being who I am I am trying to be present, trying to be open and trying to do what ever it is I need to do. I am grateful …for my family and to have this moment!



These are the Days

These are the days of the endless summer
These are the days, the time is now
There is no past, there's only future
There's only here, there's only now

Oh your smiling face, your gracious presence
The fires of spring are kindling bright
Oh the radiant heart and the song of glory
Crying freedom in the night

These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one magician
Turned the water into wine

These are days of the endless dancing and the
Long walks on the summer night
These are the days of the true romancing
When I'm holding you oh, so tight

These are the days by the sparkling river
His timely grace and our treasured find
This is the love of the one great magician
Turned water into wine

These are the days now that we must savor
And we must enjoy as we can
These are the days that will last forever
and you've got to hold them, in your heart

--- Van Morrison



Suscipe

Take Lord, and receive
all my liberty,
my memory,
my understanding,
and my entire will --
all that I have and call my own.
You have given it
all to me.
To you, Lord,
I return it.
Everything is yours;
do with it
what you will.
Give me only your love
and your grace.
That is enough
for me.


--- Ignatius of Loyola


The song of the second chance dance

Mary’s melancholic mockingbird metanoied me
The soul sanctified solo song sweet sentiments.
By the hour the sun shed a final fiery flash
In her horizon departure.
Not forgotten was the robin’s baptismal melody
At the advent of another consecrated dawn.
Immersion , Redemption, confirmation, actualization,
Almost twenty two thousand days to discover
The name I was given before I was born.
The spark surprisingly fading quickly
Yet the chimes sang gently shaken by the breath of God ,
Thoreau’s morning wind, the spark transformed burst to flame.
Waves of tears flowing from your hallowed eyes.
blessed your flushed cheeks with smiles.
Answered prayers caressed your hearts.
My holy trinity had lowered this paralytic
into the presence of great consoling healer.
New gift, original gift revisited
Humbled and undeserved
whispering “yes” to your invitation
Softly singing the song of the second chance dance.

- John Sobecki


Picture - Leigh Sobecki

amdg