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
our disbelief
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

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The Cure

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The Nature of Our Relief

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Work to be Done

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The Seed

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