Dear Friends, most of us would agree that this past year has been extremely challenging if not tragic. Many of you have documented your pain and grief in poetry, fiction, and essays. St. Patrick’s Day is on Wednesday and Easter is coming up, so it’s a good time for us to transmute our sorrow and fear into blessings. It’s spring, a time of rebirth as we see the daffodils blooming. Although daffodils are sometimes pelted by one last snowfall, they are resilient. Indeed, spring is full of promise as four-leaf clovers await our search for good health and fortune. The fourth leaf, luck, adds to the trinity, so even if we fail to find the four-leaf clover, we are truly never alone. With love, I offer this blessing.
Mother-Father God,
We gather here to bless
The birthing of a sacred place
As it grows from soil to sky.
We embrace Your Light
In each brick and wall,
As mortar for the soul
Of this blessed place.
May the foundation, erected on
Crystalline ground hold up
The solid frame of each floor
And cradle the heart of the home, and
May it be the cauldron of Joy
Sustaining all.
May each floor hold wonder
For life as it unfolds.
May each window open to awe
As each season passes through time
In its own glory.
May each wall protect and guard
As a mother’s arms would her babe.
May the roof shield from rain and storm,
Clothing the hearth.
May each residing soul find
Sanctuary in this temple.
May all who visit find healing
In heart of this hallowed dwelling.
May mercy and forgiveness
Grow a garden here
To nourish each spirit
And adorn the grounds.
And so it is,
And so let it be.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
To You, the One Most High,
I send this prayer.
It is not with words,
But with the light from my heart.
Words may tarnish
What I truly feel.
I am of Light, am I not?
Light speaks my truth.
You know me as I truly shine,
And even I am still studying
All the facets of my light
To discover my soul mind.
But You know Me,
My dimensional glow,
My powers and also
Each crack in my face
Shattering my facade.
I cannot lie to the One Most High.
Let me open my heart to You so
That You might read my truth.
May I say, I am hurting.
It shows in my light, does it not?
Is this the death of self,
Or new growth of soul?
Which is it?
All the suffering I see,
All the pain I feel,
It is in my light.
It is dimming my light
Into shadows of fear and remorse.
So I kneel in prayer
To the One Most High.
May I release it to You to be
Transformed into dust for
New stars,
Rather than building a taller wall
Around my heart?
I feel those dense walls of
Heavy stone and mortar
Slowly building up over time,
And the bramble of weeds
Stretching to my throat,
My truth succumbing to the drought
Of tears,
Feeling caught up in surviving
A battle of wills.
May I receive healing
And assistance?
Guidance?
May I be blessed? Saved? Anointed?
When I rise up with my arms
To touch You,
I feel Your Light always
As it flows into my veins,
I know. I know.
Yet I battle Your Grace
All too often,
Thinking I can save Myself.
I can do it.
I will do it.
Only I can make this way.
I work so hard for You.
I am enough, am I not?
Am I not Your vase of seeds
For new gardens?
Am I not Your sword
Battling all to carry Your Word
As I rage in this messy confrontation
Of powers and forces all around me?
Humbly, I come to know that
You are never apart from me;
I am You.
I Am You,
A spark of Source Light.
This light in my heart is You.
How can I dismiss it?
How can I taint it with fear?
How can I wall it off,
Resisting gratitude?
How can I address You but
On my own mundane terms?
This pain is illusory,
This way of mine is illusory,
As is ‘I’ and ‘My’.
As is ‘You’ and ‘Your’.
So there are no words
That can express truth.
All that is
Is the Light,
Emanating into and from the heart
As cosmic breath.
Just being in this Light
Without petitioning,
Without crying out,
Without withstanding,
Without beseeching,
Without condemning,
Without apologizing,
Without negotiating,
Without grieving,
Without fearing a fate,
Without playing the drama,…
Just being in this Light,
Just being,
This is enough,
Is it not?
That is the prayer,
Is it not?
Martha said to credit the butterfly to Andrew Lumish. He is the guy who cleans the centuries worth of dirt off the old gravestones of mostly fallen heroes and/or their families.
