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Priors

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 "Is there enough Silence for the Word to be heard?"  Name of names, our small identity unravels in you. You give it back as a lesson. With zeal, or without. Trudging, finding perspectives, seemingly more lost than ever. To go through a contemplative life is akin to being open enough to see, free enough to hear, and real enough to respond. It is a life, and as it is always interwoven, it has its own rhythms of darkness and light, even when we always see a dying-rising. Simply put, it is a life of grateful receptivity even though minus some, or wordless awe, of silent simplicity.

Today, he is here to remember steps; little ones made over an uncertain period in life and world. People, instances, grace, servitude, humility, hope, grace, pain and hopelessness. A basketful for sure. Nothing is for sure. But one thing remains true, a place deep down, open, hoping and always looking. Sufficient grace, willing alms, for nothing is always promised. For this and others are next of kin to Hamlet’s: to be, or not to be, someone or somewhere else. Escape from a grievous circumstance or the shambles of an unwanted self, the hope of finding at a higher altitude a new beginning or a better deal. Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars; give me leave to drown my sorrow in a quart of gin; wine, dear boy, and truth. 

Musing #1. BP Winter.

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