a new (to me) marian devotion: the seven sorrows

• The prophecy of Simeon
• The Flight to Egypt
• Loss of Child Jesus for 3 days, later found in His Father's House
• Witnessing Jesus carry his Cross
• The Crucifixion of Jesus
• Taking Jesus Down from the Cross
• The Burial of Jesus

beardless

i had hoped that g-d might really still wear a great beard.
that he would be as kindly as my grampa could have been.
that he would be as venerable as a naked saint in a tree.
that he would be as masterful as Jehovah of old.
that he would be as giving as the rivers.
that he would be as constant as the ocean.
that he would be, in short, a proper, decent sort of g-d that did the right things when prayed to.

i've found, however, that g-d is far too young, good looking, devil-may-care, disinterested in this world, and, frankly, far too hip, for my taste. but he is, at the least, very, very beautiful. and he makes good coffee. and he never gets 5 o'clock shadow.
and he is exceedingly patient.

Define Faith?

Faith is the function that happens when logic and reason are no longer applicable.

wilmshurst - anima naturae

Swirl of the river aflow to the sea,
Aspen a-quiver all tremulously,
Skylark that shivereth song o’er the lea,
Shaft of the sun;
Snowflakes that sprinkle the wind-bitten wold,
Fireflies that twinkle with shimmer of gold,
Wavelets that wrinkle the sands where ye rolled,
Rivulet’s ripple and run; myst.
Lone mountain-meres that are silently dreaming
Of far-flashing spheres that enmirrored are beaming,
Clouds’ crystal tears when the rainbow is gleaming,
I, also a son
Of the Mother, inherit the soul of her infinite throng,
See it and hear it my paths all about and among,
Throb with your spirit and sing with the manifold song
Of the infinite, manifold One.

if you take my hand, i will release my grip on your throat.

Rising up. As a leaf floating up to its mother-branch.
Like a stag leaping.
Like the g-d rising up over his creation.
A lover stands glorious to his beloved.
I stand. I am all.

Wet earth between toes.
Upraised arms and rain, silver, shiny, sinuous slides down from my firmament onto my plain.
I have rolled back the skies.
Now verdant, verdant roll the hills and rich blacky loamy earth my command.

A waste has given way to my fertile fields and milk and honey flow gorge my eyes.
I rise puissant and all obey. I have righted the orbs by night and day and set their course.
I have crumbled the mighty hills and laid them lowly. And valleys I have filled with grace.
The four corners of my realm I establish firmly.
None shall pass. None pass.

Sealed. My lips so terrible.
My side has poured out and all is holy. None profane my secret.
Words have I unspoke’ by ones, tens and thousands.
All glorious. I suffer not a blade to be trampled.
My fortress mighty, walls of spirit to the uttermost stand.

bless us

faery sky.

angel wind.

satan's fork.

mother's lap.

father's hand.

and bless us, Thou Omnipotent, with thy fearless ruthless smiling ways.

honey. gold. myrrh.

Many years of barrenness have I notched into my belt. And I nearly became a waif and a wight.

Indeed I had built a stone crypt and altar hideous beneath the ground and thought perhaps to feed on wayfarers and entrap them and indeed I had entrapped some and others merely feasted upon and let them go.

And now I have crushed that terrible crypt, hill, stone, altar and knives too all beneath a single step of my mighty glorious foot. For I have been raised upon high, higher than I had ever known the gods to soar.

And my days are filled with loving and sweetness untold. For I have had to store honeycomb in caskets rich with gold and jewels. Each of 1,224 caskets of pure gold overlaid upon silver bars thick and weighty—emeralds encrust them. Each cake I wrap in linens dipped in myrrh and linen fit for a god. And even these I am filling faster than I could imagine and soon I will move my hand and create greater caskets and barrels and soon I shall store my honeycomb—each sweeter and heavier and darker and richer and wilder than the purest honey of queen bees—richer than the food of queens and the desire of kings—each so pure that for a commoner to think on it would merit death—quick death and an unremembered death.

For this is the sweetness that I carry each day. I shall open my storehouses and crypts and they shall be filled.

all is laid waste

all is laid waste.
not a stone stands upon another.
smokes rise from fires dark.
reeks cling to the hills about the walls' remains.

and god in a yellow sun dress, pressed and stiff,
her girlish sun-specked shoulders bared and browning,
picks sweet pimpernels to keep.
clover sweet and wild she winds into a wreath.

laughing, she drops it at the gates.

lunatics among us

there is a reason why you don't get much when looking for 'mystical' literature. that's because most of it isn't so described.

there's a reason for that, too. that's because mystic tend to get stoned, burned, etc. whenever they open their silly mouths and try to put in to words what they actually see and actually live and actually hear and actually feel, they are antichrists. so they must use allusion on top of illusion on top of hints on top of poetry. that's the only way they are entitled to live and make their way.

the only other course is quiet, persistent madness. although, perhaps that's what mystics get regardless. but there is madness and madness, as they say.

i think.

save us from 'mystics'

when i set up this blog (um, 25 minutes ago), a couple of the names i wanted were taken. so, i figured, there must be folks out there identifying as 'catholic' and 'mystic' and who blog to boot! apparently not.

at any rate, i 'googled' "catholic" and "mystic" and came up with stories of monks (ok, just one) who advocate freelove and 'shrooms' and a 'born-again' catholic who decries the mass as cannibalism. the rest were even worse.

folks: newsflash: 'mysticism' is not synonymous with 'nutball', 'heretic' or 'woolly-headed, faux-zen, pope-hating monk'. mysticism does not mean 'speaking in tongues', 'faith-healer' or 'psychopath'.

i'm afraid 'mystic' means something rather other. and i'm hoping that ignorant catholic lay-people and even more ignorant atheists that who are looking for the next big non-fiction book topic will stop ascribing every tom, dick and lunatic harry the label of 'mystic.'

mon dieu!!! read a book!!! a 'mystic' is one who experiences g-d through images in a direct, personal, emotive and (yes) innovative way. it is intensely personal, idiosyncratic and strange. but it is not necessarily heretical, unorthodox or even progressive. it simply means that some folks think about god, the world and life in a story-book way that uses a highly-developed set of symbols and images that others don't (readily) understand.

normal people. married people. suburban people. they can and are mystics. mystics don't wear signs that say 'mystic'. they don't wear habits (necessarily). they aren't cloistered religious (necessarily). they don't even 'believe' in 'god' (in the normal sense of the phrase) (necessarily).

and i sure wish folks who don't know anything about religion, spirituality, and haven't ever read any books on mysticism, or don't know who St. John of the Cross is, would SHUT. UP. NOW. At least, if folks would stop buying their books. I'd be EVER so grateful.

i have a feeling this hasn't cleared anything up. but i sure do feel better.

Ode to my brother

in lushy marshy fern-strown glen

I wait with basket brim-full

And light so tranquil ‘pon each leaf

Of green and mossy black

And heat perspiring steams return

To heaven the whole a shimmered tower

To Thee that men may follow.

See thee not the blanket spread and oil

Provided wine and bread

Stay awhile! And sup with me for hunger

Is of two types.

Thy lips a morsel brush a drop of wine bestow

Enough for me. Thy body ivory turns away

And thy light fades but slowly.

Return then after battles won and I shall weep into thy wounds.

o g-d.

i hate it when you give me those days when i rejoice at the happy songs.
i always regret those mornings at mass when i can sing lustily.
i want to hide away when you give me simple happiness.
i'm not cut out for that.

you are easier to deal with when blackness covers the solar orb.
you are more honest when you leave us to our miseries.
you leave not off in your desire to pry under the skin.
you just can't leave well enough alone.

come live in my dreams.

the "good" part

i was thinking of calling this 'the 21st-century catholic mystic', but the URL would be too long--just plain 'catholic mystic' has already been taken.

but i'm thinking i might jot down the sermons that i habitually write in my head, plus throw in some of my religious poetry, and in general throw up lots of what is running around in my head, or otherwise hidden in a secret folder on my company laptop, and share it with anyone who might happen along.

it is my fervent wish that my thoughts might be of some use to someone out there: under the cynicism, the saint.