Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heaven. Show all posts
Friday, June 14, 2013
from The Silent Scripture by Sebastian Barry
Some days later I was out on my porch, fussing over my roses. It was an activity that even in my distress brought a tincture of comfort. But then it is clear to me that any effort at gardening, even a haphazard, stop-go one such as mine was, is an effort to drag to earth the colours and the importances of heaven.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
from Homily XXVII On Numbers, by Origen (cited in Depression, A Stubborn Darkness, by Ed Welch)
"My soul has long been on pilgrimage" (Ps. 119:54). Understand, then, if you can, what the pilgrimages of the soul are, especially when it laments with groaning and grief that it has been on pilgrimage so long. We understand these pilgrimages only dully and darkly so long as the pilgrimage still lasts. But when the soul has returned to its rest, that is, to the homeland of paradise, it will be taught more truly and will understand more truly the meaning of what the pilgrimage was.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Artist of God (in memory of Fae Malania, by Marly Youmans
(Fae Malania wrote a lovely little book called Quantity of a Hazlenut -- a collection of essays on life and faith. Malania's husband was an Episcopal priest, who helped to update the Book of Common Prayer (in the 1970s, I think). When Malania passed away a few years back, Books and Culture published this poem, written in her memory by Marly Youmans. I was already a Fae Malania fan, and fell in love with the poem right away.)
The litter of fallen leaves is ankle-deep
And all my words are black ants on the page.
What can I say that's worthy of a life?
Your tower of private dreaming is no more.
Your mouth stops open like a chorister's,
The mirrors go veiled, the window's propped ajar.
"Ineffable," my dictionary sings
As starlight gilds the larches of paradise.
You drink from a shining cup and are made whole.
No, your isle of blessings is not like that.
It is beyond all our imaginings.
The words pour through me and are lost in mist.
The world in time's a dark and thirsty place.
Dear friend, from Paradise-the-blest, will you
Fetch me one drop to cool my burning tongue?
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