I assume it would be safe to say that if you pressed your open hand into the dirt, whatever stuck to your palm at that moment would be rightfully yours. And I assume that if the creak of an old door suddenly awoke something deep within the historical memory of your ancestral DNA, it would be wise to listen. Wise to enter that moment where the past intersects the spiritual vortex that leads to the crystal clear absolute now.
If we could, for that fleeting moment, be so deeply "in our shoes" that our socks were squishy with the sweat of God Himself, then we would see with our own two eyes that the Bush still burns - that our lives are changed - how different we are!
This is the secret of life. To fully live in the present moment. To drink in the Truth that all of life is sacred down to the last crumb of bread in an ant's grasp . . . if we are there and truly awake to it.
© 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Holy of Holies
If You would be so kind, my God,
to meet me in this quiet place,
and hold me in the Light of light
and love and hope and grace.
Where Face to face we reconcile,
the only distance that exists,
a veil as thin as dewy mist,
within the mind of man forgot.
In Truth, there is no distance here,
and never was if tale be told,
it only was because of fear,
instilled by those who sought control.
But now their places are mere dust,
and ashes left to blow away,
for all are priests and free to come,
into the House that holds the soul.
Which has no walls or floor nor roof,
and yet is better Home than hearth,
for weary traveled souls as ours,
and all who come to seek the Light.
to meet me in this quiet place,
and hold me in the Light of light
and love and hope and grace.
Where Face to face we reconcile,
the only distance that exists,
a veil as thin as dewy mist,
within the mind of man forgot.
In Truth, there is no distance here,
and never was if tale be told,
it only was because of fear,
instilled by those who sought control.
But now their places are mere dust,
and ashes left to blow away,
for all are priests and free to come,
into the House that holds the soul.
Which has no walls or floor nor roof,
and yet is better Home than hearth,
for weary traveled souls as ours,
and all who come to seek the Light.
© 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Flying
This is a true story.
Years ago I worked for TJ Maxx in the corporate office in Framingham, Massachusetts.
Leo Beaudette was a young man in his mid-twenties. The son of an American GI and a Samoan mother, he was a slim built and handsome young man who looked like he stepped out of GQ magazine. He had long jet black hair, which he pulled back during business hours.
I had the privilege of being his Supervisor.
One morning before work I saw Leo sitting by himself in the cafeteria. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went over to sit with him.
“Mind if I sit with you?” I asked.
“Sure,” he answered. “You know Kris, when I was a kid I actually believed if I tried hard enough I could fly.”
I joked with him and said that’s why a lot of kids jump off their garages and break their legs.
“I know,” he said, “But yesterday on my way home I got that feeling again. I pulled off the highway, got out of my car, and ran down the breakdown lane as fast as I could.”
I knew the route Leo took home. The Mass Turnpike is a busy six lane highway. I pictured him running down the breakdown lane; tie flipping over his shoulder, hair streaming behind him. I could only imagine what the other commuters speeding by on their way home must have thought of this crazy young man.
“And you know what?” he said looking me deep in the eye. “For a second I thought I almost did it!”
Implausible as it seemed there was something in his spirit that was certain of the possibility.
“Leo,” I said as I looked back into his dark chocolate eyes, “I need more people like you working for me.”
Years ago I worked for TJ Maxx in the corporate office in Framingham, Massachusetts.
Leo Beaudette was a young man in his mid-twenties. The son of an American GI and a Samoan mother, he was a slim built and handsome young man who looked like he stepped out of GQ magazine. He had long jet black hair, which he pulled back during business hours.
I had the privilege of being his Supervisor.
One morning before work I saw Leo sitting by himself in the cafeteria. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went over to sit with him.
“Mind if I sit with you?” I asked.
“Sure,” he answered. “You know Kris, when I was a kid I actually believed if I tried hard enough I could fly.”
I joked with him and said that’s why a lot of kids jump off their garages and break their legs.
“I know,” he said, “But yesterday on my way home I got that feeling again. I pulled off the highway, got out of my car, and ran down the breakdown lane as fast as I could.”
I knew the route Leo took home. The Mass Turnpike is a busy six lane highway. I pictured him running down the breakdown lane; tie flipping over his shoulder, hair streaming behind him. I could only imagine what the other commuters speeding by on their way home must have thought of this crazy young man.
“And you know what?” he said looking me deep in the eye. “For a second I thought I almost did it!”
Implausible as it seemed there was something in his spirit that was certain of the possibility.
“Leo,” I said as I looked back into his dark chocolate eyes, “I need more people like you working for me.”
© 2009
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