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philipchircop:

 
THE HOUSE OF BELONGING

I awokethis morningin the gold lightturning this wayand that
thinking fora momentit was onedaylike any other.
Butthe veil had gonefrom mydarkened heartandI thought
it must have been the quietcandlelightthat filled my room,
it must have beenthe firsteasy rhythmwith which I breathedmyself to sleep,
it must have beenthe prayer I saidspeaking to the othernessof the night.
AndI thoughtthis is the good dayyou couldmeet your love,
this is the black daysomeone closeto you could die.
This is the dayyou realizehow easily the threadis brokenbetween this worldand the next
and I found myselfsitting upin the quiet pathwayof light,
the tawnyclose grained cedarburning roundme like fireand all the angels of this houselyheaven ascendingthrough the firstroof of lightthe sun has made.
This is the bright homein which I live,this is whereI askmy friendsto come,this is where I wantto love all the thingsit has taken me so longto learn to love.
This is the templeof my adult alonenessand I belongto that alonenessas I belong to my life.
There is no houselike the house of belonging.

TO PRAY AND PLAY WITH THE POEM
1. Quiet yourself and become aware of God’s presence.
2. Read the poem in an audible voice.  
3. Ponder which phrase or word or image touches you.
4. Read the poem again, this time silently.
5. Relish the phrases, the words, the feel, the texture.  
6. On a blank piece of paper, engage the following questions:
Which was the first image that arose in you as you read the poem?
What were the immediate feelings that the poem triggered in you?
If you were to paint a picture about this poem what would you include?
If  you were to add a line of your own somewhere in this poem what would it be and where would you place?
7. Read the poem out loud again, but this time as a prayer to God.
8. Rest in silence for a while and listen to the inner movement within you.

Poem | David Whyte, The House of BelongingPainting | Roger Lane  

philipchircop:

THE HOUSE OF BELONGING

I awoke
this morning
in the gold light
turning this way
and that

thinking for
a moment
it was one
day
like any other.

But
the veil had gone
from my
darkened heart
and
I thought

it must have been the quiet
candlelight
that filled my room,

it must have been
the first
easy rhythm
with which I breathed
myself to sleep,

it must have been
the prayer I said
speaking to the otherness
of the night.

And
I thought
this is the good day
you could
meet your love,

this is the black day
someone close
to you could die.

This is the day
you realize
how easily the thread
is broken
between this world
and the next

and I found myself
sitting up
in the quiet pathway
of light,

the tawny
close grained cedar
burning round
me like fire
and all the angels of this housely
heaven ascending
through the first
roof of light
the sun has made.

This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.

This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.

There is no house
like the house of belonging.

TO PRAY AND PLAY WITH THE POEM

1. Quiet yourself and become aware of God’s presence.

2. Read the poem in an audible voice.  

3. Ponder which phrase or word or image touches you.

4. Read the poem again, this time silently.

5. Relish the phrases, the words, the feel, the texture.  

6. On a blank piece of paper, engage the following questions:

  • Which was the first image that arose in you as you read the poem?
  • What were the immediate feelings that the poem triggered in you?
  • If you were to paint a picture about this poem what would you include?
  • If  you were to add a line of your own somewhere in this poem what would it be and where would you place?

7. Read the poem out loud again, but this time as a prayer to God.

8. Rest in silence for a while and listen to the inner movement within you.

Poem | David WhyteThe House of Belonging
Painting | Roger Lane  

If you have been in the vicinity of the sacred - ever brushed against the holy - you retain it more in your bones than in your head; and if you haven’t, no description of the experience will ever be satisfactory.

In Search of Sacred Places: Looking for Wisdom on Celtic Holy Islands by Daniel Taylor (via on-pilgrimage)

patl:

Here’s a video from Ray Simpson on Celtic spirituality, St. Hilda, the Synod of Whitby, and the Great Emergence. Ray is the founding International Guardian of the Community of Aidan and Hilda, a third order Celtic Christian community of which I am part (and US NW Regional Guardian, webmaster and print editor).

How strange that we should refuse to take on a rather light burden: self-criticism, and choose instead the remarkably heavy burden — self-justification!

—Sayings of the Desert Fathers (via a-pilgrims-diary)

(via contemplativevoyage)

Contemplation is the highest expression of man’s intellectual and spiritual life. It is that life itself, fully awake, fully active, fully aware that it is alive. It is spiritual wonder. It is spontaneous awe at the sacredness of life.

—Thomas Merton, Seeds of Contemplation (via patl)

Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.

—Ernest Hemingway  (via sherlokided)

(Source: psych-facts, via yoginyc)

The only journey is the one within.

—Rainer Maria Rilke (via beingformed)