We left behind the simple ways
—disconnecting ourselves from
what it is to be human—
only to drive ourselves mad,
unable to answer the question, Who am I?
Always demanding more of you we say, Speak!
You shout to us with all your might,
across the divide between
and your endurance,
coming to us only as a faint whisper.
Deaf within our modern din,
and dulled by our forgetfulness
we say, Not enough. Appear.
You come unto us in your shapeless form
—a being woven from the fibers of spirit—
and, only seeing a vague shadow,
we dismiss you as a figment of our own longing.
You dwell within those things
the Western world finds of no worth
and so we look, but seldom see you.
The river of your consciousness
flows through our very heart,
if we could only stop and listen.
Yet, in the blur of days,
we feel that we have been neglected,
and left to wander without tether or guide.
— “The Sacred” from Ruminations at Twilight
“Have you always been there?
Did you float with me
while I was in the womb.
Like twin souls
that would always live together
—one of flesh and one in spirit.
…One dwelling in each half of the world
—ever-beside each other—
yet divided by a veil.”
— “Anam Cara” from Oak Wise
The cure for our modern maladies
is dirt under the fingernails
and the feel of thick grass between the toes.
The cure for our listlessness
is to be out within the invigorating wind.
The cure for our uselessness
is to take back up our stewardship;
for it is not that there has been no work
to be done, we simply have not been attending to it.
–Excerpt from Ruminations at Twilight
I once called myself
a Christian, then a Jew,
then a Buddhist, then a Muslim,
but that was in the beginning
when I regarded my search for God
as a portion of my life
rather than life itself.
— “Sum of the Parts” from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver
The fruits of the years
are not shown
in the certainties gathered
but in the lengths we have gone
in our search for understanding.
When all faith has gone
and the lines of the self blur into gray
the journey is our testament.
— “Measures of Devotion” from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver
Years spent defining this self —carving out the edges of this mind—the channels of this spirit.
In my youth, I spoke with God during the confluence of night and dawn. He has since wandered off to tend to unknown matters; leaving me to mutter to myself.
When the day comes and I at last clear this dense wood, I shall meet you on the other side.
Delve into my soul find the place where I am most alone and dwell there.
by L.M. Browning for V. I have become Mrs. Dalloway, throwing parties to cover the silence. Come with me to the lighthouse. It is time to settle the unspoken. I’ll buy the flowers myself. Scattering the petals along the shore so I can find...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations Who are we without our influencers; without our addictions; without our media-induced hungers? So often the voices we hear echoing in our mind are not our own but that of our...
Over the Long Day, Over the Sacred Night —A Selection from Fleeting Moments of Fierce Clarity I lost myself somewhere between the dawn and dusk. Somewhere, in serving you I lost my self-worth. Somewhere, in trying to survive I sold what gave the...
An excerpt from Fleeting Moments of Fierce Clarity: Journal of a New England Poet Sparks from the fire were cast into the sky— for a moment able to live as red stars of the Milky Way. The balance tips and we pass into the darkness....
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations Since my curiosity concerning the great mystery first emerged, I have believed that we are meant to gather an understanding of the divine from firsthand experience. While I hold a reverence for...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations Life doesn’t have a singular purpose and yet we try to pigeonhole this infinite gift by searching for a single meaning behind our existence. We hunger for meaning the way a starving man...
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries My ghosts rattle through the house, The same now, as they did decades ago Upon the nights of their creation. Once tormenting me with the memories they carry, I have grown accustom to their presence, Tending them as if...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations There are so many things that distort our character. Fatigue, emptiness, anger, trauma, illness, addiction, the media... So many things are pulling on us—twisting us to become someone we...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations The cure for what ails is not to be found in a capsule. Our renewal must instead come from within. Synthetics are administered to the body yet they cannot reinforce the heart or re-weave...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations We all have those things that help us carry on through life. It is important that these things upon which we depend for daily strength are healthy for our character rather than harmful....
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations There are days when life is complex and I require some answer to the how’s and whys that surround the mysterious forces at work in my life. And still there are days when life is simple,...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations Do not hold a lazy faith. Miracles are not spontaneous events we must wait for helplessly. Miracles are an achievement—a breakthrough accomplished by those who pushed themselves beyond...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations Dreams are the gestation of a future reality. We do not come into being fully formed; rather, we gather, build, and grow. So too our matured identity—what we will be and do in this...
The honey resin varnish painted across the pine floorboards glowed in the dawn light.
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries My feast days come When the apples are ripe And the blueberries Hang heavy with juice. My communal wine Is the crisp salty liquor sipped From the oysters that grow Along the black rocks in the bays. On the afternoons when...
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries I sat for a time by the burning bush. A naked child among the harsh winds yet, while the flames were high, they gave no warmth. I sat for a time at the foot of the mountain waiting for the prophet to descend, in need of...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging The knife goes in up to the hilt twisted by a hand once taken in trust, and life must change. Do not fear what comes next. Let the attacker flee, betrayal heavy on his...
by L.M. Browning | Visit the Bookstore» Sweet songbird, vibrantly passing midst the drab and the silence of this small room of resignation sing for...
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries Within the muddle of influences I listen for my voice. Extracting myself from all that I was taught So to be free to remember what I knew. Do we ever see our own face? Wipe off the thick make-up of parody So to be free to...
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries I live in a house filled with ghosts. The cat sees them, waking from a dead sleep to stare out into the emptiness where the demons dance, disembodied. I used to see them, when I was a child, unaccustomed to being haunted. Their...
A selection from Vagabonds and Sundries And in that moment I saw The beginning, Middle And end And surrendered myself To the climb, The leap And the fall We all must...
Upon the Desert Wind A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging Photo by Adrian I want to make a pilgrimage back to our homeland of sand, blood, and ripened figs. To unearth the garden I planted in another life the...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging You must be a child to find the hiding places where the unseen ones dwell just beyond the veil. The logic of the adult cannot think beyond the four walls, —blind to the...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging Choose to be your own lover. Be gentle with yourself. do not pummel yourself or take a harsh tone. Encourage rather than discourage. Choose to be your own mother. Sit calmly...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging The questions have surmounted all certainties. Too many days are frittered away feigning wisdom, all the while knowing that, if I am to cover that distance between myself...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging Give me a shawl of homespun gauzy cotton. For I’ve had enough of walking bare-faced and bold-headed among all that is greater than I. Without announcement the Divine brushes...
A selection from In the Hands of the Immortal Weaver: Poems of Sacredness and Belonging At night the soul peeks out from under the hood of this body. Slinging ink about, desperate to leave a message for the one with heavy eyes and shaking bones, telling them to...
A Selection from Seasons of Contemplation: A Book of Midnight Meditations I find I suffer from sensory overload. The speed of the daylight world deafens and overwhelms. Night is more to my pace—the solemn simplicity and the space for rumination. Life still possesses a...