St. Gobnait and the Place of Her Resurrection

   

On the tiny limestone island

an angel buzzes to Gobnait
in a dream, disrupts her plans,
sends her in search of nine white deer.

She wanders for miles across
sea and land until at last
they appear and rather than
running toward them

she falls gently to wet ground,
sits in silence as light crawls across sky,
lets their long legs approach
and their soft, curious noses surround her.

Breathing slowly, she slides back
onto grass and clover and knows
nothing surpasses this moment,
a heaven of hooves and dew.

Is there a place for each of us,
where we no longer yearn to be elsewhere?
Where our work is to simply soften,
wait, and pay close attention?

She smiles as bees gather eagerly
around her too, wings humming softly
as they collect essence of wildflowers,
transmuting labor into gold.

-- Christine Valters Paintner, Benedictine oblate, teacher, spiritual director, poet, artist, and Abbess of the online Abbey of the Arts.

February 12 is the feast day of St. Gobnait of Ballyvourney, the Irish patron saint of beekeepers (along with St. Ambrose and St. Valentine).

Image: Stained glass window of St. Gobnait, Honan Chapel, Cork, by Harry Clarke, 1914.

From Crossings

On St. Brigid's Day the new life could be entered
By going through her girdle of straw rope
The proper way for men was right leg first
Then right arm and right shoulder, head, then left
Shoulder, arm and leg.
Women drew it down
Over the body and stepped out of it
The open they came into by these moves
Stood opener, hoops came off the world
They could feel the February air
Still soft above their heads and imagine
The limp rope fray and flare like wind-born gleanings
Or an unhindered goldfinch over ploughland.

--Seamus Heaney (1935-2013), Irish poet, translator, teacher, essayist and winner of the Noble Prize for Literature

St. Brigid's Day is February 2.

St Andrew’s Day under the Southern Cross

GOD bless our land, our Scotland,
Grey glen an’ misty brae,
The blue heights o’ the Coolins,
The green haughs yont the Spey,
The weary wastes on Solway,
Snell winds blaw owre them a’ —
But aye it’s Hame, lad,
Yours an’ mine, lad,
Shielin’ or ha’.

It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let good or ill betide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.

God bless our land; it’s yonder –
Far in the cold North Sea:
But ‘neath the old Saint’s glamour
It’s calling you an’ me:
Your feet tread Libyan deserts,
Mine press the wattle’s bloom,
But to-night we stand together
Among the broom.

It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let shore or sea divide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.

God bless our land. We dream o’t —
The days aye brakin’ fine
On the lang, lane glints o’ heather
In the glens we kent langsyne.

Ay, we are Reubens, rovers,
‘Neath mony an alien star,
But flaunt the blue flag o’er us,
Pipe up the ” Braes o’ Mar,”
And steppe and nullah vanish,
And pomp and pelf and fame —
It’s gloamin’ — on a lown hillside,
An’ lads, . . . We’re . . . Hame.

-- Mary Symon (1863-1938), Scots poet and translator who wrote in the Banffshire dialect. This poem is for all the Scots abroad.

Image of the Southern Cross from the New Zealand observatory.

St. Kevin and the Blackbird

And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so

One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.

Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,

Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.

*

And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
Self-forgetful or in agony all the time

From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth

Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love’s deep river,
‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,

A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird
And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.

--Seamus Heaney (1939-2013), Irish poet, professor, winner of the 1995 Novel prize in Literature.

St. Kevin of Glendalough's feast day is June 3.

Seamus Heaney reads the poem and explicates it below:

Tripping Over Joy

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?

The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God

And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move

That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, "I Surrender!"

Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think

You have a thousand serious moves.


-Hafiz (ca 1320-1389), Persian Sufi master and mystic poet, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

St. Martin's Summer

Though flowers have perished at the touch
Of Frost, the early comer,
I hail the season loved so much,
The good St. Martin's summer.

O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,
And thin moon curving o'er it!
The old year's darling, latest born,
More loved than all before it!

How flamed the sunrise through the pines!
How stretched the birchen shadows,
Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines
The westward sloping meadows!

The sweet day, opening as a flower
Unfolds its petals tender,
Renews for us at noontide's hour
The summer's tempered splendor.

The birds are hushed; alone the wind,
That through the woodland searches,
The red-oak's lingering leaves can find,
And yellow plumes of larches.

But still the balsam-breathing pine
Invites no thought of sorrow,
No hint of loss from air like wine
The earth's content can borrow.

The summer and the winter here
Midway a truce are holding,
A soft, consenting atmosphere
Their tents of peace enfolding.

The silent woods, the lonely hills,
Rise solemn in their gladness;
The quiet that the valley fills
Is scarcely joy or sadness.

How strange! The autumn yesterday
In winter's grasp seemed dying;
On whirling winds from skies of gray
The early snow was flying.

And now, while over Nature's mood
There steals a soft relenting,
I will not mar the present good,
Forecasting or lamenting.

My autumn time and Nature's hold
A dreamy tryst together,
And, both grown old, about us fold
The golden-tissued weather.

I lean my heart against the day
To feel its bland caressing;
I will not let it pass away
Before it leaves its blessing.

God's angels come not as of old
The Syrian shepherds knew them;
In reddening dawns, in sunset gold,
And warm noon lights I view them.

Nor need there is, in times like this
When heaven to earth draws nearer,
Of wing or song as witnesses
To make their presence clearer.

O stream of life, whose swifter flow
Is of the end forewarning,
Methinks thy sundown afterglow
Seems less of night than morning!

Old cares grow light; aside I lay
The doubts and fears that troubled;
The quiet of the happy day
Within my soul is doubled.

That clouds must veil this fair sunshine
Not less a joy I find it;
Nor less yon warm horizon line
That winter lurks behind it.

The mystery of the untried days
I close my eyes from reading;
His will be done whose darkest ways
To light and life are leading!

Less drear the winter night shall be,
If memory cheer and hearten
Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee,
Sweet summer of St. Martin!

-- John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892), American Quaker poet

For the Asking

“You would not seek Me if you did not already possess Me.”- Pascal

Augustine said his soul
was a house so cramped
God could barely squeeze in.
Knock down the mean partitions,
he prayed, so You may enter!
Raise the oppressive ceilings!
                    Augustine’s soul
didn’t become a mansion large enough
to welcome, along with God, the women he’d loved,
except for his mother (though one, perhaps,
his son’s mother, did remain to inhabit
a small dark room). God, therefore,
would never have felt
fully at home as his guest.
                        Nevertheless,
it’s clear desire
fulfilled itself in the asking, revealing prayer’s
dynamic action, that scoops out channels
like water on stone, or builds like layers
of grainy sediment steadily
forming sandstone. The walls with each thought,
each feeling, each word he set down,
expanded, unnoticed; the roof
rose, and a skylight opened.

—Denise Levertov (1923-1997), Anglo-American poet, from This Great Unknowing: Last Poems. This is the feast day of St. Monica, mother of St. Augustine.

Magdalene-- The Seven Devils

“Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven devils had been cast out”
                                                                                          --Luke 8:2.



The first was that I was very busy.

The second—I was different from you: whatever happened to you could
not happen to me, not like that.

The third—I worried.

The fourth—envy, disguised as compassion.

The fifth was that I refused to consider the quality of life of the aphid,
The aphid disgusted me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The mosquito too—its face. And the ant—its bifurcated body.

Ok the first was that I was so busy.

The second that I might make the wrong choice,
because I had decided to take that plane that day,
that flight, before noon, so as to arrive early
and, I shouldn’t have wanted that.
The third was that if I walked past the certain place on the street
the house would blow up.

The fourth was that I was made of guts and blood with a thin layer
of skin lightly thrown over the whole thing.

The fifth was that the dead seemed more alive to me than the living

The sixth—if I touched my right arm I had to touch my left arm, and if I
touched the left arm a little harder than I’d first touched the right then I had
to retouch the left and then touch the right again so it would be even.

The seventh—I knew I was breathing the expelled breath of everything that
was alive, and I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted a sieve, a mask, a, I hate this word—cheesecloth—
to breath through that would trap it—whatever was inside everyone else that
entered me when I breathed in.

No. That was the first one.

The second was that I was so busy. I had no time. How had this happened?
How had our lives gotten like this?

The third was that I couldn’t eat food if I really saw it—distinct, separate
from me in a bowl or on a plate.

Ok. The first was that. I could never get to the end of the list.
The second was that the laundry was never finally done.

The third was that no one knew me, although they thought they did.
And that if people thought of me as little as I thought of them then what was
love?

The fourth was I didn’t belong to anyone. I wouldn’t allow myself to belong
to anyone.

The fifth was that I knew none of us could ever know what we didn’t know.

The sixth was that I projected onto others what I myself was feeling.

The seventh was the way my mother looked when she was dying,
the sound she made—her mouth wrenched to the right and cupped open
so as to take in as much air… the gurgling sound, so loud
we had to speak louder to hear each other over it.

And that I couldn’t stop hearing it—years later—grocery shopping, crossing the street—

No, not the sound—it was her body’s hunger
finally evident—what our mother had hidden all her life.

For months I dreamt of knucklebones and roots,
the slabs of sidewalk pushed up like crooked teeth by what grew underneath.

The underneath. That was the first devil. It was always with me
And that I didn’t think you—if I told you—would understand any of this—

--Marie Howe (1960- ) American poet and Chancellor of the American Academy of Poets, 2008. Today is the Feast Day of Mary Magdalene, the Apostle to the Apostles.

The Love and Affection of the Angels

The love and affection of the angels be to you, 
The love and affection of the saints be to you, 
The love and affection of heaven be to you, 
To guard you and to cherish you.

-- From the Carmina Gadelica III, collected by Alexander Carmichael and his family from the Outer Hebrides and the Scots Highlands

Blessing (Be each saint in heaven)

Be each saint in heaven,
Each sainted woman in heaven,
Each angel in heaven
Stretching their arms for you,
Smoothing the way for you,
When you go thither
Over the river hard to see;
Oh when you go thither home
Over the river hard to see. 

-- from the Carmina Gadelica III

Angels in the Air

The whole air about us is filled with angels. 

-- St. John Chrysostom (349-407), Church Father, Archbishop of Constantinople, preacher, and saint, speaking of what happens during the Eucharist.

His Divine Liturgy can be found here.

Prayer of Thanksgiving for Columba

Columba of

the rocks and roots and rolling waves,

of rain-drenched earth, changing skies and empty horizons,

of coming home and moving on.

Columba of

the music of wind and seabird cries,

the poetry of wild geese and lowing cattle,

the vision of sharing bread and stories.

Columba

man of solitude and simplicity,

community and compassion,

soul friend.

We celebrate with gratitude and hope

your being and openness

to the blessedness of all things.

Columba who saw the blessing of beauty

and Iona as a light for all times,

with you

we weep

for depths of poverty

and pinnacles of wealth;

for hostility, impersonality,

suffering, indifference,

and all that harms people

and all living things.

With you

we laugh

for humaity's raucous energy

and generosity of spirit;

for angels, smiling faces

and all that heals people.

We celebrate with gratitude and hope

your being and your openness

to the blessedness of all things.

Because of imagination, legend and prayer,

because of love and grace,

no act is inconsequential

and no story without significance.

In our knowing and unknowing;

in the quiet held within

that is Columba's vision and forever Iona,

we hold memories, remembrance,

and the whisperings

of a people's pride.

We hold out for others

the poet's bread

and the people's poetry.

We celebrate with gratitude and hope

the holiness of being

and the blessedness of all things.

--Joy Mead, from In The Gift of This New Day: Praying With the Iona Community, edited by Neil Paynter, 2015

Image: Stained glass window from Iona Abbey

The Journey Prayer

God, bless to me this day,
God bless to me this night;
Bless, O bless, Thou God of grace,
Each day and hour of my life;
   Bless, O bless, Thou God of grace,
   Each day and hour of my life.

God, bless the pathway on which I go;
God, bless the earth that is beneath my sole;
Bless, O God, and give to me Thy love,
O God of gods, bless my rest and my repose;
   Bless, O God, and give to me Thy love,
   And bless, O God of gods, my repose.

-- St. Brendan the Voyager (484-577) Irish monk, whose feast day is May 16.

Lost, All in Wonder

Godhead here in hiding, whom I do adore,
Masked by these bare shadows, shape and nothing more,
See, Lord, at thy service low lies here a heart
Lost, all lost in wonder at the God thou art.

Seeing, touching, tasting are in thee deceived:
How says trusty hearing? that shall be believed;
What God's Son has told me, take for truth I do;
Truth himself speaks truly or there's nothing true.

On the cross thy godhead made no sign to men,
Here thy very manhood steals from human ken:
Both are my confession, both are my belief,
And I pray the prayer of the dying thief.

I am not like Thomas, wounds I cannot see,
But can plainly call thee Lord and God as he;
Let me to a deeper faith daily nearer move,
Daily make me harder hope and dearer love.

O thou our reminder of Christ crucified,
Living Bread, the life of us for whom he died,
Lend this life to me then: feed and feast my mind,
There be thou the sweetness man was meant to find.

Bring the tender tale true of the Pelican;
Bathe me, Jesu Lord, in what thy bosom ran —
Blood whereof a single drop has power to win
All the world forgiveness of its world of sin.

Jesu, whom I look at shrouded here below,
I beseech thee send me what I thirst for so,
Some day to gaze on thee face to face in light
And be blest forever with thy glory's sight.

-- Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274), theologian and poet

Epiphany Hymn

Most High God!
Thou that enkindlest
the fires of the shining stars!
O Jesus! Thou that art peace and life and light and truth,
hear and grant our prayers.

This present day has been made holy
by thy mystic baptism,
whereby thou didst sanctify
those waters of the Jordan,
which of old were thrice turned back.

It is holy by the star shining in the heavens,
whereby thou didst announce
thy Virginal Mother's delivery
and didst, on the same day,
lead the Magi to adore thee in thy crib.

It is holy too,
by thy changing the water
of the pitchers into wine;
which the steward of the feast, 
knowing that he had not so filled them,
drew forth for the guests.

Glory be to thee, O Lord Jesus,
that didst appear on this Day!
And to the Father and to the Holy Spirit,
for everlasting ages.
Amen.

--Hymn of St. Ambrose (338-397), bishop of Milan

All Saints' Prayer

Heaven is here, and earth,
and the space is thin between them.
Distance may divide,
but Christ's promise unites those bounded by time,
those blessed by eternity.
Let heaven be glad, let the whole earth cry glory.
Heaven is here, and earth,
and we are encompassed all around by the communion of saints.

For all the saints who live beyond us,
who challenge us to change the world with them --
we give thanks.
Christ be with them, Christ within them,
Christ behind them, Christ before them.
Especially we give thanks for
those members of our Community far away:
encircle, embrace, and encompass those we name now.


For all the saints who live beside us,
whose weaknesses and strengths
are woven with our own --
we give thanks.
Christ beneath them, Christ above them,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger.
Encircle, embrace, ecompass all members of our Community,
and all the members of staff 
who offer hospitality and share the common life
with all who come.


For all the saints who went before us,
who have spoken to our hearts
and touched us with your fire --
we give thanks.
For the great company,
for Martin and Columba and Ninian
and Bridget and Hilda,
and for all the unnamed ones who are not forgotten
but held for all time in the memory of God,
and for our own most dearly beloved:
in the mystery of your love,
we are one with them now --
we give thanks....

(name the departed we are remembering)


-- adapted from the Iona Community, from In The Gift Of This New Day: Praying With the Iona Community, edited by Neil Paynter, 2015

Collect for the Feast of Teresa of Avila

Merciful God,
who by your Spirit raised up your servant Teresa of Avila
to reveal to your Church the way of perfection:
grant that her teaching
may awaken in us a longing for holiness,
until we attain to the perfect union of love
in Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.

Amen.

-- Church of England Collect

O eternal light

O eternal light, shine into our hearts;
eternal goodness, deliver us from evil;
eternal power, be our support;
eternal wisdom, scatter our ignorance;
eternal pity, have mercy upon us.

Grant that with all our heart and mind and strength
we may evermore seek your face;
and finally bring us,
by Your infinite mercy,
to Your holy presence,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.


-- Alcuin (735-804), English priest, abbot, and scholar, in Evelyn Underhill's Prayer Book, ed. by Evelyn Underhill, English mystic and spiritual teacher

Ave Generosa

I behold you,
noble, glorious and whole woman,
the pupil of purity.
You are the sacred matrix
in which God takes great pleasure.
The essences of Heaven flooded into you,
and the Great Word of God dressed itself in flesh.
You appeared as a shining white lily,
as God looked upon you before all of Creation.

O lovely and tender one,
how greatly has God delighted in you.
For He has placed His passionate embrace within you,
so that His Son might nurse at your breast.

Your womb held joy,
with all the celestial symphony sounding through you,
Virgin, who bore the Son of God,
when your purity became luminous in God.

Your flesh held joy,
like grass upon which dew falls,
pouring its life-green into it,
and so it is true in you also,
o Mother of all delight.

Now let all Ecclesia shine in joy
and sound in symphony
praising the most tender woman,
Mary, the bequeather/seed-source of God.

Amen.

--Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179), German Benedictine abbess, religious philosopher, poet, composer, musician, playwright, and visionary. Her feast day is today.


Image: Icon of Hildegard von Bingen, from Our Lady of the Mountains Roman Catholic parish in Jasper, GA.

With my mouth, God says

'With my mouth,'

God says,

'I kiss my own chosen creation.

I uniquely,

lovingly,

embrace every image

I have made

out of the earth’s clay.

With a fiery spirit

I transform it

into a body

to serve all the world.'

-- Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179), German Benedictine abbess, mystic, compose, poet, saint, Doctor of the Church, scientist, playwright, and visionary