Spiritual pilgrimage involves solitary searching, receiving help and guidance from others, and offering help to others. It is a journey of deepening willingness and clarifying vision ... a process of reconciling will and spirit. In it, one seeks to find, and realizes with increasing certainty that one has already been found. There is company for each of us in this: of those men and women who have gone before ... of our spiritual guides and those whom we may help guide ... of our own community of faith. There is also the vast company of the rest of our contemporaries on this planet, the great body of sisters and brothers of all races, ages and faiths who seek to know and live in the Way of Ultimate Love ... And in the realm of contemplative quiet, beyond all ideas, beyond our rainbowed images of God and self, beyond belief, we share the same silence. We are rooted all together in the ground of consciousness that is God's gift to us all.
I just love silence. I love lying quietly in the afternoon with the sun streaming in through the windows of my cabin. Just being very quiet. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when I climb the hill up to the cabin, I stop and either throw myself down on the ground or look up to the stars and say, "This is fabulous. I am so happy, happy, happy that I am doing this. It's so nice to live close to the earth." I just love silence.
~ from "A Voice For the River" by Myczack in "Heron Dance"
Silently a flower blooms, In silence it falls away; Yet here now, at this moment, at this place, The world of the flower, the whole of the world is blooming. This is the talk of the flower, the truth of the blossom; The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.
Sacred hart in the blackening wilderness stately deer, gracefully bounding, holy vision of the Eternal Heart; countless, unending blood memories, surge like gold through your rhythmic veins, ancient paths stir the soul's journey. Sleeping titans stand on the edge, disregarding the dark, grasping webs of life, or silver antlers shining with white wisdom, of pulsating pearls of poetry flowing from open eyes of song, as the saintly sculpture disappears from its vanishing home into a dying paradise.
A week of silence had tipped the balance from the desire for external rewards to the intrinsic value of being. I passed the oak I'd sat on the day before. This was happiness: witting in a tree. Lying in the grass. Feeling the fog or the sunshine touching my skin. Watching a hawk circle. All anbition and seeking had fallen away. Even my desire to cling to the sensations of the moment had dissolved. I only wanted to live my life while it was happening, not enmeshed in the past of all that lives.
The unique saga of the whooping crane's struggle to survive as a species reminds us of how wonderful and precious are all God's creatures. In its fragility and its numinosity the whooper provides a needed symbol for a spirituality of creation that rekindles human reverence for the mysterious presence of God dwelling deep down within the beauty and splendor of all that lives.
~ from ONE HUNDRED CRANES by William J. Fitzgerald
