2.25.18 White Overtone Mirror
Dragon guards the roads. Angels watch the labyrinth. Anahita in the heart. Springs everflowing. Springing up, these precious days passing rapidly. In the woods, St. Francis, who knew war and strife, bloodshed and brutality first hand, donned the robes monastic and came into at-one-ment.
We found him there when we moved here, sitting on a rock in the woods, a boulder of a rock, covered in moss.
He sat there and said, Welcome weary ones, come sit and be welcome.
We sat together then upon the mossy boulder and spoke no words, until he asked, Are you in need of a teacher?
I wasn’t sure, maybe so, maybe not, it depended on what was being taught, who the teacher was.
Would you like to learn, he asked, The language the bird speak, that of the wind, the bees, the flowers, the trees, the water?
Yes, I replied, I would.
Then here in the wood, I will be your teacher, said he, To learn you have to answer this question first, do you already know these things I asked?
I thought. I do not, I replied, Yet I’m I also do, only in the recesses of my heart, which stores all parts of everything within, so I do not yet I do. Only not like you and that is what I would like to learn, to pour it out as honey, as healing balm for souls, to earn the knowing, not for showing, but for the sake of serving have I been led here even though I came with fear. Yes to my shame I have known fear, but I learn to hold it by the neck and tame this fear, bring it into alliance that it remains near, newly purposed.
Well, said Saint Francis, we’ll see what you learn, we’ll see what you earn, but first sit and watch the ants for a year . . .
Water flowing, druid come, done the robes monastic some days bright and some days dull, watching ants toing and froing, watching golden kernels showing, squat atop the hull . . . years gone by and some wisdom has been earned, eating the colors of the world around, allies abound, Saint Francis teaches me the listening, some days I do, when I forget I remember to return to the heart. Anahita. Angels. Dragons. Here we be, here we are, some days close and some so far, above the twinkling stars sparkle, bouncing from the pond. And St. Francis sends his Canticle my way on a distant day.
Most High, all-powerful, all-good Lord, All praise is Yours, all glory, all honour and all blessings.
To you alone, Most High, do they belong, and no mortal lips are worthy to pronounce Your Name.
Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures, especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour,
Of You Most High, he bears the likeness.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
In the heavens you have made them bright, precious and fair.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all weather’s moods,
by which You cherish all that You have made.
Praised be You my Lord through Sister Water,
So useful, humble, precious and pure.
Praised be You my Lord through Brother Fire,
through whom You light the night and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.
Praised be You my Lord through our Sister,
Mother Earth who sustains and governs us,
producing varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
Praise be You my Lord through those who grant pardon for love of You and bear sickness and trial.
Blessed are those who endure in peace, By You Most High, they will be crowned.
Praised be You, my Lord through Sister Death,
from whom no-one living can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Blessed are they She finds doing Your Will.
No second death can do them harm.
Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks,
And serve Him with great humility.