I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. - You come, too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
that's standing by the mother.
It's so young, it totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long. - You come, too.
-Robert Frost
Friday, February 26, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Two Souls Meet up on the Roof Last Night
Two young souls met on the rooftop one night, and what a night to remember! Both were bundled up with extra layers for protection against the cold, but the cold didn’t really matter anyway: they could have been up there in summer outfits and they still would have been warm. They made small talk, and sometimes no talk at all, because sometimes you just don’t need words to communicate...sometimes all it takes is looking into the other's eyes and something sweeter thsn words rushes forth into your own eyes.
One soul had big brown eyes which spoke of gentleness and compassion, and offered a sisterhood that the other soul with blue eyes could not refuse, and which they accepted with humility and inside wept for joy.
The soul with the Blue eyes knew he was not the cause of this joyful meeting. He knew that someone greater had planted the seeds that had garmented over time, and now were just starting to break through the soil. In such silence had these seeds grown, and in such silence had they penetrated the soil. They had been watered carefully through prayer, and feed daily by the Divine Hand.
So they flew from that rooftop to their Father's house, and there they knelt, gave thanks for the companionship He had given to them. The Father accepted their thanks, and told the Blue eyed soul, “seeds are protected by the soil, and are given nutrition; now my son, see the young plant that has begun to grow ever so slowly. Protect it with great servitude from the world that seeks to destroy it, and turn to the Son for that is your life. Do not despair when clouds appear, and rain falls, but rejoice for clouds and rains are necessary for the growth of the young plant, and know that even when the Son is gone from view, it will always be there, and will break through the Clouds.” With that the Father ended his commands to the Blue eyed soul. Then he took his sister, walked her home, and said goodnight. With much sadness that night had ended, but in realizing all good things must end so better things can begin, the blue eyed soul walked back to his home, giving thanks and humming a simple tune in his geart.
Your Brother
Ernest
One soul had big brown eyes which spoke of gentleness and compassion, and offered a sisterhood that the other soul with blue eyes could not refuse, and which they accepted with humility and inside wept for joy.
The soul with the Blue eyes knew he was not the cause of this joyful meeting. He knew that someone greater had planted the seeds that had garmented over time, and now were just starting to break through the soil. In such silence had these seeds grown, and in such silence had they penetrated the soil. They had been watered carefully through prayer, and feed daily by the Divine Hand.
So they flew from that rooftop to their Father's house, and there they knelt, gave thanks for the companionship He had given to them. The Father accepted their thanks, and told the Blue eyed soul, “seeds are protected by the soil, and are given nutrition; now my son, see the young plant that has begun to grow ever so slowly. Protect it with great servitude from the world that seeks to destroy it, and turn to the Son for that is your life. Do not despair when clouds appear, and rain falls, but rejoice for clouds and rains are necessary for the growth of the young plant, and know that even when the Son is gone from view, it will always be there, and will break through the Clouds.” With that the Father ended his commands to the Blue eyed soul. Then he took his sister, walked her home, and said goodnight. With much sadness that night had ended, but in realizing all good things must end so better things can begin, the blue eyed soul walked back to his home, giving thanks and humming a simple tune in his geart.
Your Brother
Ernest
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Just a little rambling
I grew up next to a river. I wish that everyone could say the same! I think of my river every day, even now. I used to sit on the craggy rocks of the bank, letting my feet dangle in, watching the beautiful, ponderous movement of the water. It is so silent, yet forever active: kind of like love.
My mother used to braid my hair. I never liked having my hair brushed, because it was very, very long and very, very thick. My mother knew how to brush it, though- she started at the scraggly ends and slowly worked her way up. "100 stokes," she used to say, and we would carefully count each and every draw of the brush through my hair until we reached one hundred. She usually combed and braided my hair in the dining room.
My mother used to have long hair, herself. My father loved her long hair, she told me, and he loved to watch as she would twist it into a wrap around her head. But, the more children she had, the shorter her hair became, because she simply didn't have time to maintain it anymore. It was never too short for us to play with, though.
Once my parents planted tulips out in front of our house. They planted the bulbs during the fall, and all through that season and the winter, the thought of those tulips sat in the back of my mind.
One spring morning I looked out the window and saw, smiling up through the mulch, a delicate little crocus. I remember feeling a jolt of joy. I ran outside, got down on it's level, and said, "You're beautiful! So beautiful!" and proceeded to kiss it's thin petals. The poor little thing probably felt a little overwhelmed with my affection, but it remained there, smiling steadily and looking more beautiful with every passing second. Finally, after much staring and smiling and kissing, I went away from the little crocus for the day and went back to my usual chores. Each time I passed the dining room window, I made sure to glance out at the little flower.
It was raining a couple mornings later. My mother and I were standing in the dining room, folding laundry. I was staring at the threads of rain clinging to the windowpanes, and listening to the gentle drum of the water, when I remembered the crocus. Without stopping to put on a coat I rushed outside and hurried over to the garden patch in front of the house.
There stood the little crocus: but it was not quite the same today. It had drawn its petals carefully over its face, and its little neck was bent down so that it seemed to be asleep. The rain fell down upon it and all around it, and the wind blew so that its fragile stem swayed; but the little crocus remained, modestly clothed and silent.
At first, I was worried. I did not like not being able to see its face, or smell its fragrance- I felt entirely shut off. I spoke with it, coaxed it, sang to it (and felt a tiny bit foolish, but not much); but all to no avail. So finally I left, feeling a little saddened and dejected, and scared that the little crocus might die.
The next day was brilliant and sunny. One of those days where everything just drips with something good and beautiful, and everyone is happy...don't you find that most days after a rain are that way?
Well. On this particularily lovely spring morning, I took a stroll outside in the oh- so ardently shining sun and happened to pass by the garden. There, to my surprise, I saw a glorious, perfectly white tulip with its face tilting up into the sky. It looked like a cup of purity. I realized this was my little crocus, the one that had been so guarded a couple days before. As I stood there marveling at that gentle creation, I realized that the little crocus was not unlike a human soul.
The soul is given many gifts and many treasures. One of the finest treasures a soul can be given is the gift of simplicity and purity. This gift has to be guarded jealously, and it will only be cultivated if it receives direct contact with the Son.
The crocus, in closing its petals and averting its face from the freezing rain and driving wind, is the pure soul who covers itself in the garment of stillness and patience. The pure soul resolutely shuts its doors to the inclement weather of the world, to the driving sensuality and freezing fears. And when the time is right- when the storms of destruction have passed by- the crocus is transformed into a tulip, which is the fullest form of its being- and it displays its beauty and radiance to the sun. So it is with the soul...after the period of waiting and safekeeping, its gently cultivated purity is so effervescent that it must burst forth into something magnificent: a soul in the sight of God.
I realized that no amount of human coaxing or singing could get that little crocus to come into its full being--that is something only God can do, in His own time. So it is with human souls. He decides when the time is right, and He decides who gets to delight in the presence of His well-prepared souls.
And sometimes, God puts souls together who recognize the beauty of one another; and these souls put their roots down side by side and quietly encourage each other through every storm and trial, and delight together in every ray of sunshine and every gentle rain-- until the day when they are transplanted by the Gardener into the finest Garden of all.
With love
Gabriella
My mother used to braid my hair. I never liked having my hair brushed, because it was very, very long and very, very thick. My mother knew how to brush it, though- she started at the scraggly ends and slowly worked her way up. "100 stokes," she used to say, and we would carefully count each and every draw of the brush through my hair until we reached one hundred. She usually combed and braided my hair in the dining room.
My mother used to have long hair, herself. My father loved her long hair, she told me, and he loved to watch as she would twist it into a wrap around her head. But, the more children she had, the shorter her hair became, because she simply didn't have time to maintain it anymore. It was never too short for us to play with, though.
Once my parents planted tulips out in front of our house. They planted the bulbs during the fall, and all through that season and the winter, the thought of those tulips sat in the back of my mind.
One spring morning I looked out the window and saw, smiling up through the mulch, a delicate little crocus. I remember feeling a jolt of joy. I ran outside, got down on it's level, and said, "You're beautiful! So beautiful!" and proceeded to kiss it's thin petals. The poor little thing probably felt a little overwhelmed with my affection, but it remained there, smiling steadily and looking more beautiful with every passing second. Finally, after much staring and smiling and kissing, I went away from the little crocus for the day and went back to my usual chores. Each time I passed the dining room window, I made sure to glance out at the little flower.
It was raining a couple mornings later. My mother and I were standing in the dining room, folding laundry. I was staring at the threads of rain clinging to the windowpanes, and listening to the gentle drum of the water, when I remembered the crocus. Without stopping to put on a coat I rushed outside and hurried over to the garden patch in front of the house.
There stood the little crocus: but it was not quite the same today. It had drawn its petals carefully over its face, and its little neck was bent down so that it seemed to be asleep. The rain fell down upon it and all around it, and the wind blew so that its fragile stem swayed; but the little crocus remained, modestly clothed and silent.
At first, I was worried. I did not like not being able to see its face, or smell its fragrance- I felt entirely shut off. I spoke with it, coaxed it, sang to it (and felt a tiny bit foolish, but not much); but all to no avail. So finally I left, feeling a little saddened and dejected, and scared that the little crocus might die.
The next day was brilliant and sunny. One of those days where everything just drips with something good and beautiful, and everyone is happy...don't you find that most days after a rain are that way?
Well. On this particularily lovely spring morning, I took a stroll outside in the oh- so ardently shining sun and happened to pass by the garden. There, to my surprise, I saw a glorious, perfectly white tulip with its face tilting up into the sky. It looked like a cup of purity. I realized this was my little crocus, the one that had been so guarded a couple days before. As I stood there marveling at that gentle creation, I realized that the little crocus was not unlike a human soul.
The soul is given many gifts and many treasures. One of the finest treasures a soul can be given is the gift of simplicity and purity. This gift has to be guarded jealously, and it will only be cultivated if it receives direct contact with the Son.
The crocus, in closing its petals and averting its face from the freezing rain and driving wind, is the pure soul who covers itself in the garment of stillness and patience. The pure soul resolutely shuts its doors to the inclement weather of the world, to the driving sensuality and freezing fears. And when the time is right- when the storms of destruction have passed by- the crocus is transformed into a tulip, which is the fullest form of its being- and it displays its beauty and radiance to the sun. So it is with the soul...after the period of waiting and safekeeping, its gently cultivated purity is so effervescent that it must burst forth into something magnificent: a soul in the sight of God.
I realized that no amount of human coaxing or singing could get that little crocus to come into its full being--that is something only God can do, in His own time. So it is with human souls. He decides when the time is right, and He decides who gets to delight in the presence of His well-prepared souls.
And sometimes, God puts souls together who recognize the beauty of one another; and these souls put their roots down side by side and quietly encourage each other through every storm and trial, and delight together in every ray of sunshine and every gentle rain-- until the day when they are transplanted by the Gardener into the finest Garden of all.
With love
Gabriella
Monday, February 15, 2010
One Rose
Once Long ago, a boy was walking through the woods to pass the time. As he was walking he saw a rose bush, the young boy thought to himself, these are beautiful, I will pick them all and give them to my mother. The young boy ran over and picked one rose, and then a Lady appeared. The boy looked up at the Lady, and saw she was plain in appearance, but the beauty that emitted from her eyes miraculous.
As the boy sat there gazing into the eyes of the Lady, he felt a rush of Love. Something welled up inside him, something so deep, that he had to show the Lady the affection some how. The boy then proceeded to give the Lady the rose, but the Lady politely refused and said, “Take it home, place it in a vase and water it everyday. Also my son, you must come back every day and pick a new rose, and thank me with a kiss on the cheek.” To this the boy responded yes and gave his Lady a kiss on the Cheek, and he went home and put the rose in a vase. The next day the boy ran through the woods to that rose bush, the Lady appeared with a loving smile on her face, opened her arms into which the boy ran, was embraced, held and loved; then he gave her a kiss on the cheek and ran off.
This continued all through the boy's childhood; soon, though, he had no time to visit the rose bush, soon he put the vase of flowers in the closet, forgot about love, and turned inward to himself. The beautiful Lady waited for the boy. She would weep when he would not return, and everyday she was there waiting, praying, and suffering for the Loss of that Child. The boy, however, was also waiting, though he was not patient. The boy also prayed for reuniting with the Lady, though no words came from his mouth; and he too suffered, though no tears came forth from his eyes.
One day, however,the boy finally realizing his own loneliness, he set once more into the woods, and again he came to that rose bush, and there he saw the Lady. The Lady was different this time- her eyes were bloodshot from the rivers of merciful tears she had cried. As the boy gazed upon the face of this most Merciful Lady, he went over and kissed first the feet of the Lady and then her hands, and said to her, “Make me your son.” The Lady received the boy into her arms, filling his soul with contrition, sorrow, and penance, but there was always a gentle river of love coming forth from the Mother. The boy wept and wept in his Mother's arms. His Mother lifted the boy's face and said, “Pick a flower and continue the work you have started.”
The boy picked a rose and went back to place it in his vase that he had forgotten. The vase was covered in dirt, and the roses were wilted, but he took each rose and ever so gently blew on it, revealing the red rose underneath. Then he took the vase and poured the stagnate water out. Although the putrid water made him gag, he completed his task, and soon the vase was spotless, filled with glorious roses. Then the boy took that last rose he had received from his pocket. As he was putting it in his vase, a young hand guided him as he placed that rose amidst the others. The boy turned to see who’s hand had guided him, and there stood a young woman. She said, "My Mother told me to wait till you had enough roses. For many years, all you needed was that single rose that my hand helped you to put in. Now I present you with these.” The young women then gave him a satchel of white roses, pure and innocent, and fresh as the day they were picked. The man then took the roses, thanked her, kissed her on the cheek, and put the white roses amidst his roses, and before both of their eyes, the vase of roses took form and turned into a rose bush itself. There in the midst stood the Mother of them both, with joy in her eyes, and she said simply and lovingly to them, “My Son and My daughter, see how two have brought life.”
Yours Respectfully
Ernest
As the boy sat there gazing into the eyes of the Lady, he felt a rush of Love. Something welled up inside him, something so deep, that he had to show the Lady the affection some how. The boy then proceeded to give the Lady the rose, but the Lady politely refused and said, “Take it home, place it in a vase and water it everyday. Also my son, you must come back every day and pick a new rose, and thank me with a kiss on the cheek.” To this the boy responded yes and gave his Lady a kiss on the Cheek, and he went home and put the rose in a vase. The next day the boy ran through the woods to that rose bush, the Lady appeared with a loving smile on her face, opened her arms into which the boy ran, was embraced, held and loved; then he gave her a kiss on the cheek and ran off.
This continued all through the boy's childhood; soon, though, he had no time to visit the rose bush, soon he put the vase of flowers in the closet, forgot about love, and turned inward to himself. The beautiful Lady waited for the boy. She would weep when he would not return, and everyday she was there waiting, praying, and suffering for the Loss of that Child. The boy, however, was also waiting, though he was not patient. The boy also prayed for reuniting with the Lady, though no words came from his mouth; and he too suffered, though no tears came forth from his eyes.
One day, however,the boy finally realizing his own loneliness, he set once more into the woods, and again he came to that rose bush, and there he saw the Lady. The Lady was different this time- her eyes were bloodshot from the rivers of merciful tears she had cried. As the boy gazed upon the face of this most Merciful Lady, he went over and kissed first the feet of the Lady and then her hands, and said to her, “Make me your son.” The Lady received the boy into her arms, filling his soul with contrition, sorrow, and penance, but there was always a gentle river of love coming forth from the Mother. The boy wept and wept in his Mother's arms. His Mother lifted the boy's face and said, “Pick a flower and continue the work you have started.”
The boy picked a rose and went back to place it in his vase that he had forgotten. The vase was covered in dirt, and the roses were wilted, but he took each rose and ever so gently blew on it, revealing the red rose underneath. Then he took the vase and poured the stagnate water out. Although the putrid water made him gag, he completed his task, and soon the vase was spotless, filled with glorious roses. Then the boy took that last rose he had received from his pocket. As he was putting it in his vase, a young hand guided him as he placed that rose amidst the others. The boy turned to see who’s hand had guided him, and there stood a young woman. She said, "My Mother told me to wait till you had enough roses. For many years, all you needed was that single rose that my hand helped you to put in. Now I present you with these.” The young women then gave him a satchel of white roses, pure and innocent, and fresh as the day they were picked. The man then took the roses, thanked her, kissed her on the cheek, and put the white roses amidst his roses, and before both of their eyes, the vase of roses took form and turned into a rose bush itself. There in the midst stood the Mother of them both, with joy in her eyes, and she said simply and lovingly to them, “My Son and My daughter, see how two have brought life.”
Yours Respectfully
Ernest
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Longing of Every Woman's Heart
She wants nothing more than to know that she will fall in love-- that she will experience love the way love is meant to be experienced. She longs to know in her heart that every detail of her life will be absorbed: not in herself, but in One who is beyond her. One who will make her heart move with purpose and joy, and who will awaken the shy tide down in her soul... the tide that so longs to crash and roll without ceasing.
She longs to step outside of herself and to give herself. She desires nothing more than to be needed and held, to be loved unconditionally and unshakably. She wants to lay her head upon the chest of goodness and purity, to memorize the rhythm of the heartbeat therein, and to fall asleep in healing myrrh.
She aches for purity. For simplicity. For trust. She wants to be as lovely as the snow that falls without a sound. She yearns to be caught upon warm palms that will transform her fears into beads of clean water, embracing and absorbing her very essence.
She wants to complete and be completed. She wants to bleed every drop of her own blood, willingly, for another. She wants to pour every little bit of her being into another, she wants to be pulled into glorious imprisonment... surrounded on all sides by love.
Yours Affectionately,
Gabriella
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
