My religion (by J Clement Wall)
doesn’t involve a church or a minister or a pulpit;
it’s practiced under a roof of sky,
whispered by the wind,
preached by birds and crickets and rivers and toads.
isn’t written in scripture;
it’s written in the hearts of lovers
and everyone who,
broken from the weight of too many endings,
gets back up to love again.
lies at the point of contact,
where feet meet earth,
where inhale meets exhale,
where your infinitely breakable heart meets mine.
isn’t big on words like sin and wrong and perfect;
it’s big on honesty, vulnerability, messiness… awe.
The followers of my religion
are badass, open-hearted, hippie warriors of love,
who know that you don’t dance to get somewhere
or sing to reach the end of the song.
We sing and dance to reach what is
divine in all of us.
we are each other’s salvation.
Oh, sweet Spring, welcome.
She brings her volatile mix of winds, snow, rain, gropple, melt, growth, buds, fawns, raven babies, and the bright greens of new grass in the meadow, aspens and larch.
Rebirth and sprouting and earth’s bounty are bubbling with heated passionate energy to be expressed.
Bring it! Bring it all!
“It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.”
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Spring’s sweetness is so close! We awaken again to this glorious season of rebirth.
Time again to nourish our true self.
This poem by John O’Donohue eloquently expresses the longings that come with the unfolding of Spring.
Now, I am Impatient….!
Once you start to awaken, no one can ever
claim you again for the old patterns.
Now you realize how precious your time here is.
You are no longer willing to squander your essence on undertakings that do not nourish your true self; your patience grows thin with tired talk and dead language.
You see through the rosters of expectation which promise you safety and the confirmation of your outer identity.
Now you are impatient for growth,
willing to put yourself in the way of change.
You want your work to become an expression of your gift.
You want your relationship to voyage beyond the pallid frontiers to where the danger of transformation dwells.
You want your God to be wild
and to call you to where your destiny awaits.
“My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.”