we must not be afraid of the truth......

I am a coward.I cannot bear to think of a lion shot with an arrow, stumbling bleeding through the jungle.Did this magnificent animal with his thick black mane know what was happening ?In his spirit, did he contemplate why he had enemies that he had never seen?

I once had a dream about a black lion that was so real I awoke in relief.My old dog, Cooper, and I were sitting on the rocks in the brook and to our left came this huge black lion.I whispered to my dog to hold still and not move but even in the dream I smiled inwardly because my beloved Coopie was quite deaf at 16 years old.The lion passed us without a glance.The spirit world used this unusual animal dream to tell me that I have a guardian angel and that her name is Ariel.It's a long story but since then lions have been a special mystical symbol to me.

What is lacking in a human being that they should have to kill this creature?I pray that self reflection might be happening as a result of the near universal outrage.

I am a coward.I have not watched one of the undercover videos filmed in Planned Parenthood facilities.I cannot.

I am a coward.I could not have survived the childhood described by Moira Greyland at the hands of her parents, one who raped her and the other who sexually molested her.Her parents.

She is a now a harpist of Celtic music and the founder of two opera companies in the United States.Her mother wrote "The Mists of Avalon," a novel of the Arthurian legends told from a feminine perspective.I got the book from the library at the recommendation of a friend.I thought the strong feminist strain would resonate, but my spirit, which is pretty tuned, felt unease.I knew nothing of the small child and her horrendous life.She describes her parents as avowed pagans and they probably didn't believe in hell but their daughter lived it.Her pain has seeped into her poetry and I have to think that at one time she wanted her life to be private.Now, however, she is speaking out and people are listening.She has much to say about the sexual revolution and where it is going.I rarely feel tears when I write but I just cannot believe this life.Her father finally molested the wrong child and died in prison. Her mother? Deceased as well.

I do not need to see pictures of the dead lion whose  head is missing to know the truth.I do not need to see the videos nor do I need to meet Moira.I know the truth, you know the truth and we must not be afraid.We must do the work that God has given us.For now, for me, it is prayers for Moira, the dentist and the workers in the videos.I do not know what is next.These things hurt and and make me angry but I am glad that my heart has been softened by Love so that it does.When I think of these three stories, I feel like I am standing over an abyss, a canyon so deep that light will never reach the floor; a place where love never enters.

Holy, holy is the Lord.
Holy, holy is the Lord
Rain, down, rain down
Rain down your love on us.Rain down your Love.....David Crowder

Mary in the mountains...

Each July, the Episcopal Church of St.James has a craft/antique fair on the
grounds in the town of Delhi in the Catskills.The church is lovely on the outside, grey stone and very solid; the grounds are shaded by old maples. The crowd and vendors are friendly sorts and we always have a lovely time.

I decided on this trip that I would look for Mary.The last time I did that I found her in an antique shop in Newnan,Georgia.What I discovered was a beautiful blue and gold triptych.Mary is holding her Son and two angels stand watch on the other two panels.It is the look on His face as He gazes at her that is so arresting.His little hand is on her neck and it is as if He wishes he could get closer.The angel on the left is dressed in red and is blowing a horn as if to say:"Pay attention, this is what matters."The angel on the right is in blue and is holding something that may be a red cross.

You don't often find Mary in Georgia.

We were on our way out of the fair when my husband said:"There she is."I stopped and saw that a woman had picked up what he pointed to and was asking the price.This carved Mary is about 3 feet tall and is made of mahogany.Her eyes are closed and she is bent in prayer.I whispered to my husband:"If she puts it down, grab it."She must have felt my yearning through her back because she turned and asked if I wanted her.I nodded and she gave the carving to me.I was so touched by her kindness that I told her I would always remember her and now her kindness was part of this Mary.She smiled and said just pray for me.I have and I do as I type.

I don't have Mary yet,since we flew on Delta and had no room for her but part of her story will be the kindness of my very busy niece who offered to bubble wrap and tape her up and mail her to us.She may be over Virginia right now.Wherever she is, when she arrives she will come with two blessings. That is just the beginning.

holding your mother's hand

Those who read my blog know how much I love my adopted state; that Georgia suits me.Moonlight through the pines, the history and warm people have made our forty years here contented ones.We fit here.But then there is July and it's torrid cousin August."Run inside" heat that makes one weary and languid.So, last week we rented a small cabin in the Catskills, those mountains of memory in New York.Across from the cabin is the West Kill, a sweet stream that changes with the seasons but is always beautiful to me.

Each morning, I got up at 7 A. M. and with coffee, rosary and my journal,  I crossed the country road.Sitting on a knoll above the brook, I wasted time.The water was flint colored and musical as I settled into solitude .A green plant the size of a tumbleweed was to my left and honey bees hung from each small white flower in their constant searching.A blue and grey Belted Kingfisher flew on a straight line over the water and then crashed into the brook in a violent dive.I turned to my right and about 60 yards upstream, a bear cub meandered across the stream.So much life.

The rosary was the starting point.Each mystery, each prayer was a step toward the interior still point.It felt like holding your Mother's hand on a bright spring morning.Her warm hand stayed in yours without thought of chores or things to do.All there, all for you, until you are ready to let go.Perfect presence.Eternal sun.

As a child, I can remember putting my head in my mother's lap and knowing, without words, that she wished I would move away.She loved me but was uncomfortable.I feel the beads in my hand as I go around the circle  and I settle into a calm place.

Recently, a friend was dying and my husband and I visited her.I wanted to take her something that she could hold as a machine nearby filled her lungs with air.I wanted to bring her Christ.So, I slipped a rosary in my pocket.Silver links held red clear beads with small medals of Pope John 11.My dear Liz couldn't talk because of the tubes but a tear and a small smile told me she knew we were with her.She held the rosary as we talked to her and, when we left, she clutched it still.Her grandson is my godchild and, after she passed, they were going to bury the rosary with her but Wayne said no, he wanted it because it was from his godmother.It hangs on his bedroom wall and I cannot tell you how that touches me.She is with him whether he knows it or not.She is holding his hand;I can see it.

Mary, Queen of the angels, pray for us.