Tuesday, March 22, 2022



This morning I awoke. I awoke to just how profoundly embedded human physicality is sacredly tied to the rhythm of Mother Earth. In Mother Earth is all essence, all essential lessons of living (and dying.) The repeated cycling through of the seasons- seasons of the soul; the soul that is the very deep internal unbreakable linkage to all that is: light/darkness, winter/spring, frozen/thawed/blooming/fruiting/bearing/dying back/resurrecting. As we see in nature, so we see taking place in ourselves. Over and over again. The dark night of the soul, lying in the cold dark frozen ground- the valley of the shadow of death- psalms of lament, “Why? My God, have you forsaken me?” Then the faint pulse, the surge of a new possibility of… is that hope? Is that what I think it is? A stirring deep within me of a sprout? A bud? A tentative finger reaching out, wiggling its way out of the ground? Cold blustery wind blasts back the first courageous wakening. Retreat. Regathering. More lament. More waiting and wailing. More nurturing of soul to bust past- past the uncertainty of trying again. Regrouping to make a Camus-like bursting forth from the Abyss that attempts to poison our life with futility and always to hold us back. Frustrated with trying. Impatient for spring, for a life fulfilled.

There is something built deep into the DNA of all things that forgets, ignores, wallows, doubts, and yet responds once more to an unshakable belief in the Eternal Cycle of things. The biggest human trait over which we all struggle most is our impatience. Our mistaken, fanciful, thinking that we can will ourselves an exception, a way-out/around/beyond the time(s) of being forced into the dark ground. The uncomfortable, but special, times where we are pushed to cozy up to the smallest bit of compost for the tiniest measure of warmth that will get us through until our moment, the right moment as set by stars and planetary travels for our sprouting once more. Such is the way of love. Love Divine all loves excelling.

There is great human mythology that human beings can “do things our way.” Indeed, we’re given just enough latitude of heart, will, and strength to foolishly believe we can control— nay should be controlling— our destiny. But one wonders, in moments of deep pondering, whether the seed ever aspires to have this power and authority over the raw power of life within itself? The worst advice comes from these power wishers, who like Job’s friends, press us to self-blame or side-step “and cheer up” and self-determine how and when we bust forth, thrive, and prosper feverishly- usually by their definition and according to their mini-god plans.

The certainty of faith, the assurance we have of the heavenly workings of Love, is that everywhere we look around us- if we give ourselves the mind’s eye, the James Webb telescope of perspective- where we see death, there is new life sprouting out of it. Nothing is more eternal in Love than the rebirths we despaired were gone for good. Even in death, even in suicide, there is no prospect that does not involve life sprouting again, taking hold again, and coming around again. After each and every time of being a seed, something new arises, usually unexpected and of at least partial surprise. In the 23rd Psalm observe that the part about the banquet with head anointed with oil falls after the valley of the shadow of death, where we are admonished to “fear no evil.”

So, if you are in a seed phase, be grateful and exercise patience. Especially, be kind to yourself in your processing and waiting. If you are blooming, be grateful and full of joy. If you are in your harvest, be grateful and enjoy your fulfillment. If you are in your decline, be grateful and step back to see the larger scene laid out in all glory of what will be again. Again, Amen.

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