Firstly apologies to those who have been checking in over the last few months as I have been somewhat distracted. Love does that too you - makes some things much less significant. There is also the Facebook factor. Nearly all my friends have stopped or become much less frequent bloggers. Could it be that we are all spending so much time updating our status and stalking each other on facebook that we have no creative energy left for blogging. Perhaps Facebook is the new TV - its not evil in itself but it can suck our time and creativity from us. And I say Down with that sort of thing !
But on to happier things.
Autumn - that season of mists and mellow fruitfulness/ close bosom friend of the departing sun - has been late and lingering here in Sanctus Boscus. This morning the sun was shining, the air was cold and bracing and I was on my bike. It was glorious as I puffed my way to the top of the mountain, cycling on a golden carpet of fallen leaves and paying attention to the swaying trees. At the top I sat in the breeze and watched the ships on the blue Lough below, thinking, and paying attention to the sacred everyday. It refreshed my soul.
I've been reading a lot of Mary Oliver recently. If you haven't read her please run to the nearest store now and pick up Snow Geese and Thirst. If you like poetry and have a pulse, you wont be disappointed. The greatest thing I've learnt from Mary -and its not a new lesson, though one I have to be reminded of - is to pay attention to whats around me, particularly the natural world. This morning there was bird song, wind in the trees and the rhythmic sound of my tyres on the leaf strewn path , praying a simple prayer of thanks for nothing more than being alive and able to enjoy this ....
I'll leave you with a poem from Thirst and promise to be more regular here and less on Facebook in the coming weeks.
Blessings
M
Praying
It doesn't have to be
the blue iris,it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones;just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
Mary Oliver
Thirst.
