heart thrilling to beat wildly, purely, free.

arms rejoice at their strength.

body laughs as it runs and rips and falls and runs again

mind and heart in gladness contemplate that in ages past at my age i would be elderly. and yet, now, in this day at the dawn of a much greater even if more terrible future, i am in the flush of youth.

and i breathe in great gulps. the air dry and old. my lungs, though, make it new.

all is fresh. clean. silent.

my laughter raucous.

Prayer is now far more 'powerful'--what other word is there? Because I do nothing. I close my eyes and i feel a large, hard presence, a me that i only dimly understand.

and he is clothed with my skin--a 3/8th inch of flesh over implacable metal/solidity, of which I have never seen. And his eyes are fire and arrows. and his hair is as the fire of the sun and his body the darkness of all being and all potential. and it is he now who rules. nearly! nearly! there is nothing I can do. and all is the other. finally, the oblivion and end that I have so long sought is coming. and, in its stead, this other. soon there shall be no action that is not he acting. i become only his illusion. his magic trick. his 'cover.' if i betray him not, we will stay together. now, if i try to work against him, i will only tear and die.

it is glorious to know that a step outside of this other, true self will mean incurable insanity for me. but the will of he who is not yet named will work regardless. it is up to me to make the shell what i want; what i deem the most effective and perfect vehicle. for now, as an offering to the most high at the end of all things, i have little to give, but the little should be as a precious jeweled box in which he can place what he will.

sunday was the feast of corpus christi.

until becoming a priest i never thought of the day at all. or, if at all, that it was a pious sentiment.

but as a priest, it is an entirely different event.

what is our purpose as priests? it is NOT to 'be kind' 'do good works' even 'clothe the naked' or 'visit those in prison'. Of course these things flow naturally out of our hearts, or rather the heart of the Divine One because His mark is indellibly on us and in us. But ANYONE can and must do these things.

what is our purpose but to make heaven and earth meet in the eucharist? all the other sacraments are but a distant second to this.

so, once a priest properly understands his place: WHICH IS BEFORE THE ALTAR OF GOD-and nowhere else. And a footnote: those who denigrate or misunderstand this central message are fools and in peril. Forgive me, but I have seen it so often it sickens me. at any rate, once understood that this is our place, this is our raison d'être , then, think:

this SOLEMNITY--equal in stature to Christmas, Easter, etc., this solemnity is the emphatic re-affirmation of our role and the centrality of the role of the eucharist in the life of the Christian. Then, this solemnity comes into true focus. And it may leave the priest speechless.

at any rate, i found it extremely moving to celebrate it and found myself taking my time. even more than usual. loving every word. the longing and yearning of my heart and all my love pouring forth. it was a wonderful Mass; I cannot think of words to describe it. But it was very . .. deepening . . . full of the primordial darkness that is the light for the contemplative . . . it was a star in the night of my soul, empty, waiting only for him. . . it was the divine power-over-the-elements. This is the true power that magick, sorcery and all manner of esoteric practices can only mimic, and poorly. this simple thing; this is the unfathomable power of the Divine in the world. It cannot help but open hearts, and open wider those that have let Him in.

But I digress. At any rate, my wife later asked me if I was alright. She could not understand why I kept slowing down, kept pausing. I assured her that all was well.

But I took my sweet time in 'concealing' the sanctuary (putting my mobile sanctuary away). It was the way for me to be able to bring my thin shroud of worldy consciousness back on. To cover what was fully uncovered.

I only know one person who knows what I mean. Perhaps there are others. If so, peace be with you. If not, peace be with you.

Even as I wrote this, my physical body was gripped with an uncontrollable spasm. Perhaps one day my physical body will be able to experience these things without resistance. Until then, perhaps, there is more 'unbeing' to realize.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

read these lyrics: a FAR better poem, and far more suggestive of divine truth, than anything I'VE ever written:

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say
and nothing else matters

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
but I know

Never opened myself this way
Life is ours, we live it our way
All these words I don't just say

Trust I seek and I find in you
Every day for us, something new
Open mind for a different view
and nothing else matters

never cared for what they say
never cared for games they play
never cared for what they do
never cared for what they know
and I know

So close, no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trusting who we are
No, nothing else matters

On pastor's leaves

in willow's dean

a spottl'd man

in shielded sun.

an arm atop a knarl-ed sheen

a hat, a cloak, and boots agleem

unruly white and white again

hairs like twigs and silver spun.

the shepherd lean

a face that teamed

with worries, sorrows, pleasures and

one smile nine hundred races won.

eyes blue then dun then mottled green

they pierce the forest and county mean

bright shore afar made this world bland

search'd richer heav'n he'd just begun.

i fear him not for i am keen

to hold his pearly hands between

my breast and face heart-heaving sad

exquisite frame youth's tender plunge.

for my face too ablaze alight

my footfalls ne'er by dullards seen

the god's compelling glorious brand

upon my heart, the fateful course I run, I run.

Whenever I put on my habit I pray: "Hodei, si vocem ejus audieritis, nolite obdurare corda vestra." I believe that prayer is a powerful one if prayed in sincerity: indeed it is my monastic motto.

Yesterday the voice was different that it has been for many, many months. I felt the dark, inexorably unrelenting of the pull down into darkness, into non-being, into undivided diversity, into the waters of black all-potential, all-life.

And I ran to my prayer-closet and put on my old, old chadri, one of white and the black on top of it. And I sat. And I was instantly transported to that heavenly court to which I had not been for so long. And my long absence was acknowledged with profesional, soldierly-like nods. And I was given an update on the world beyond seeing.

I was pulled into a trance deeper than I had ever felt, yet did not sleep to my knowledge. Many things i saw and many things were said, but not in a language I can recite to you. And I perceived much, spoken of in terms of battle. With millions working with me, and reports on the progress of contrary forces. And much is being done whether I look or not.

I still ponder this in my heart. And am left guessing as to what this all applies. I suppose it applies to itself and may or may not have anything to do with my current, mundane concerns.

i murmur my devotion to the Lady as I walk. And I look up, to see if yet the black folds of her garment fill the sky above me.

And they do. she does not look back, however, her face, white as alabaster, hair raven black, eyes blazing. she looks only forward, to the west.

but west is to the ocean and beyond, but first the Baghdad of the West.

she has not moved, although the billowing suggests flying at a great speed. still she is above me, huge, but not filling the entire horizon. but more perhaps than I can bear; no, i can bear it, but it is greater than all my plans together.

She tells me under her breathe, "yes! i hear your prayer. fret not! I am doing what I must do. What you must do will be revealed."

And so I trudge doggedly, climbing so slowly the staircase behind the mountain. no one sees my hands, callused, tired, or hears my breath short and gasping. my habit torn, mud and filth and my own excretions staining.

there is no time for stopping. although sometimes, i rest, my hands gripping the cold, sharp, black stone. my feet unsteady but sure for now. and after my wearying dreams of torment, i begin again up. to what destiny i know not.

or perhaps i do. but i dare not dream of ecstasy or rest.