More on: meditation

It was the season of the prayer for rain. To condense, to cloud, to empty out, to rain. And nothing is familiar but the rain.

What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?                             —Rubaiyat The kick wheel turns against the spondees of her feet —clop-clop—upon the floor: amorphous clay shines like a seal’s skin. We are uncarved blocks, says the Tao. Hum-hum, says the wheel. And I am Yahweh at dust, she says, her hands tucked and carving…

Pieter Claesz, 1641 Such an austere palette! Such an embarrassment. Such riches! —A flute of currant-red liquid, —-black and red currants in a silver bowl, rhyming red beads on the lacquered finish of the fork-and-knife set, a red —-and black string (the sole blood ——-coursing through this body, save a flush of the wall left…

Most days the labyrinth’s covered up with folding chairs, but Fridays it’s open even to unbelievers. Our docent says the labyrinth is not a maze, that the pilgrim cannot lose her way coiling toward the center rose. My pastor friend and I are chaperones, here to help field-tripping kids weave the ancient circuit that the…

Both hands of a clock rotate counterclockwise as I read backwards—you, give, leave, I,  peace. You gave us peace. You left us peace. You left us for a little while until you returned, glorified in an era without aerial shots, prior to montage. A figurative clock I mentioned is anachronistic. You said, Peace I leave…

Carrying flowers in a vase in a high wind is similar to Herding butterflies without a net. All of the beautiful colors wind-surfing down and away, Sweet release of all we held dear. And that is the way it goes, Rose petals flat-hatting down the interminable divides. So hold on tight, raven breath, Hold on…

A meditation before the Madonna del Parto of Piero della Francesca 1. I speak to you, Lady, in words of my time still new as the boy’s laughter as he cut this morning’s bread. You sway a little, in the soft shadows where you dwell, like a boat painted inexpressibly blue. To speak of that…

MY MOTHER’S FIRST PRAYER was by phone, with a call-center employee from a Toronto Christian TV show. My mother was at a difficult moment in her life—health not good, family on another continent, a small child in her sole care. When she saw the show’s smiling, boyish host, she decided that he was an idiot and,…

I SOMETIMES CARRY a rosary these days, a Spanish one of wooden beads that a friend gave to me. I used to think that it reflected the same impulse as needlework, which I do inexpertly—a desire for the consolation of repetition. Now I consider it a spiritual discipline, as I try, in middle age, to…