I wonder sometimes about the prophets

I wonder sometimes about the prophets,

Do you?

I wonder if the prophets are speaking,

And If the people are listening.

Or if the people would rather ignore

Anyone who challenges the institution.

I wonder where the prophets are

And if we would even recognize

The voice of God in their message.

Or if they would be pushed aside

And labeled as ‘mentally ill’,

Or exiled to Patmos.

But would exiling the prophets silence

The voice of God?

Or would they still prophesy

From the wilderness.

I wonder if the prophets are speaking.

Something about lighting a candle

There’s just something about lighting a candle

That makes me smile

The flicker of the flame on the wick

Sparks a momentary indulgence in thought

About nothing in particular

So I sit back in my chair

Listening to silence

Something that has become a nightly practice

A time of prayer

A divine invitation into stillness + trust

Nothing to say or do

But these are the moments I discover

True rest

And beauty

And so I am once again able to see

that God is indeed everywhere all around me

And when the world proclaims darkness

I see Light

That shines brighter than the sun

what calls to me?

I opened the door again and walked into the room

Noise.

Loud.

And clamoring.

The sea of voices longing to be heard.

I am pulled in every direction–

How can I really listen when all of the voices are yelling,

All at once.

Confusion and anxiety are now being felt in my body.

I am overwhelmed after being in the room only a few minutes

I walk out the door and catch my breath.

I wonder, what is it that calls to my soul?

I can’t figure it out.

I want to say something… to add to the noise.

Somehow I know I can contribute, that my voice would like to be heard too.

But my voice is a mere whisper,

that my own soul can’t hear.

So I quiet my anxious heart and grow still,

and hold the tension I feel.

And I pray, God, can you hear over all this noise?

tell me, what calls to my soul?

the spiritual path, a poem

This season.

It’s so hard to find the words to describe transformation.

All I know is I’m not the same as I was before.

Not who I was yesterday or even an hour ago.

My soul is dynamic and changing.

Flowing through the great endless river of Love,

That flows within this bodily expression somehow, energetically.

The divine seed planted inside me is growing roots that cannot be seen.

And my soul is going down with them into places it has never lurked before.

Penelope was unsettled before but now I am intrigued and curious, and I know my soul can be trusted.

Rumi’s wisdom guides me now in this moment to quickly go in the direction of my soul’s leading.

And so that’s where I will go.

Letting go of fear and walking steadily on the spiritual path.

a poem for waiting

It’s different this time, you know

But It feels so familiar like I’ve been here before

Penelope can only fear and dread

Yet there I am at rest in the chaos and uncertainty

I guess this is what it’s like to be human

Waiting

Waiting

Waiting

Penelope, she fears and dreads

But April

She trusts

She is at rest

She dwells in peace

She loves the process of transformation

This is where her heart knows

There is no fear in Love

she spoke up

Somewhere deep within she knew that it was the end.

It took some time to surrender to her inner knowing, but she knew it was time.

So she spoke up.

She mustered all of the courage she could find within herself and she spoke up.

In the weeks following, something happened and it surprised her.

She didn’t expect it, but she realized it was an invitation.

An invitation to be resurrected.

She had been dead for a while and she didn’t even know.

She remembers being resurrected once before, but this time it is different.

She is stronger on the other side this time.

She is realizing she has the power within her.

So she is starting to speak up more and more and more.

And now her heart knows things it didn’t know before.

And it is setting her free.

Setting her free.

She is free.