Posted on by Glenn Mower

City sirens and seagull cries

‘Oh,

who gives me the wings like the dove when I would fly away and be at rest?’ (Meister Eckhart, Discourse on Eternal Birth)

‘I shall lead my friend into the wilderness and shall speak to her heart. I will return her vineyards and transform the Valley of Trouble into a gateway of hope.’ (Hosea 2 14 & 15)

and so:

Breathe deep I do, this dove grey breeze

ingest the wail and warp and weave

of city sirens and seagull cries

and hurt filled sweat in salt sore eyes.

And pray I do, that You may quell this thirsting woe

this cling to things I think I know

this bursting urge that grips the reins

that tourniquets Your blood in veins

fat furred and hard from my control

of withering heart, and yet and yet

this distanced soul cannot forget

to Breathe out and inwardly once again

trust Love to light the twisted turns through

joy and rage and hope and pain.

‘When we set our intention on love and humility, then, by the power of mercy and grace, we are cleansed and made whole.’ (Julian of Norwich, Showings, chapter 40)

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Condensing Ruusbroec

 

Our essence, our being, our existence, our essential unity

‘hangs’ in God

for, ‘we possess this unity in ourselves, and in-fact, above ourselves.’

 

My goodness, try as I do, I cannot progress in my reading today. I feel thick and condensed within a translation, well not even that, within an introduction to a translation of Jan van Ruusbroec’s Spiritual Espousals.  Crammed full, as it is, with an amazing density I cannot fully get, a condensation of Spiritual non-steps and steps that seem to act as a mesmeric: To whit

My essence ‘hangs’ in God!  apparently. It seems to hang always and all ways, never given or actively wrought by good deed or sin, but indeed, is somehow ever present within and above floating lights of unity and love.

And how peculiarly happy I am to drift to this English translation of genuine mystic Brussel-Dutch wisdom. For these words fizz my tongue with intangible taste,  ungrasp my mind in conundrums of sense (less earned than set deep upon and within distant joyful thumping gulps that call towards my unravelling heart).

To gleam free the eyes behind my struggling eyes, to move sense to essence, to ungrip this wrestling ego, to welcome in the noticer that always rests in the Breath within my warming breath, I resolve to go back to my cushion and in contemplation to gather again around the plainly blank fractures of silent still light.

 

 

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Wishing well

May foot steps lay light upon this precious earth

May meadows sprout sweetly within wakeful ease

May worries be welcomed with the warmest of smile

To join lip upon lip upon this evening breeze.

May quiet souls save us from amplified stress

May sharp words find stillness and suffering stall

May thoughts upon thoughts upon feelings and sense

Release, to float freely like leaves in the fall.

May conflict disperse upon in-flowing breath

May out-flows of love bathe tired worn torn flesh

May waves of abundance soothe and replete

While rays of vast darkness shine bright in our deep .

Posted on by Glenn Mower

Disconnecting love

My dearest step dad sleeps and barely speaks.

My tired mother has shrunken further into the role of carer.

It is indeed a painful joy to visit them this week.

Only four months ago I was shaken by a decline, that now seems like a time of erudite conversation.

After that visit I wrote the following:

 

Edward and Mrs Jones

He gently asks his wife of 31 years

‘excuse me

but do I have a bed for tonight?’

No longer sharing evening TV

dinner soaps

picking at his food with bare fingers

he smiles at her or

un-certainly launches a friendly face in

that direction.

‘Do you remember who I am?’ asks

my mother

that she, that other sitting

and eating there

all by herself in the distance.

‘Yes, I think I do’

and they return smiles within a

pause of concerned and bemused

eternity.

Looking above his half rim specs

‘I think,’ he says

‘a long time ago

we probably

had sex

together?’

‘Oh good God’

silently with pierced heart my

mother tries to start, to start,

to restart them both.

Showing him a recent

anniversary card upon the table

‘there, there,

there,’ she says

‘look at it then,

it says grandma and dad, step-dad,

father and mum,

see,

31 years gone by,

see, that’s you and

that’s me.’

 

‘Oh yes,’ he says

‘um yes

very nice indeed

um

very pleasant.’

And brushing the embossed lettering

he says,

‘hard with things on it.’

 

‘Yes my love it’s our anniversary

card,’ she says, ‘remember?’

‘Hmmm.’

And after staring into the far

cornicing for another split second of

for ever, he adds

‘excuse me’

placing the card to one side

‘but I must go now,

just

looking for a bed

alright?’

 

‘Yes, ok Ed let’s go do that’

and Mrs Jones stands taller than she

has been all day.

 

‘Come along then my soldier,’

he hears that other person say

‘let’s go wash your face and brush

your teeth hmmm?

before I have to send you on your

way?’

 

‘Yes,’ he says, beaming within her

sing song voice

‘I used to put happy on my…

here,’ he says rubbing bristles and

chin

‘yes put happy

happy, and go out, out’

Eds points to a place beyond joint

pain and yellowed teeth.

‘Are you talking about aftershave my

love?’

‘Yes, happy,’ and reach, reach

reaching to stroke her face

‘happy, on here.’

‘Yes, yes my dear,

I remember that too, but

your breath stinks, so

it’s off to the bathroom

and then beddy-byes for you

hmmm?’

‘hmmm.’