lying face down on the ground,

as if pulled downward by an invisible force

– that same force that fashioned all of us out of fragile clay –

in the original lush garden of possibility

ears to the ground

listening to the sounds of deep desires and urgent longings,

distracted and perhaps disturbed by a thousand thoughts

dancing in synch with the litany of the saints –

sung in near-perfect modulation

name after name of women and men

– down-to-earth people –

who lived their lives looking for feet to wash,

the saints who blundered their way forward

into the Big Heart of Love.

instinctively, two little children

neighbour their elders,

their fresh cheeks

rubbing against the cold marble floor

imagine them whispering in innocent silence

the loud imperatives of what it means to be an artist of the good news:

• stay close to the mud and the humus that knows all  the seasons by heart
• stay rooted and grounded in love, mercy and compassion
• let your clay be moist lest you lose the imprint of the artist
• play and pray with all, in good times and bad times
• laugh and cry, and let the tears be the lens through which you look at life
• stretch the circle of compassion where everyone belongs
• steer away from sticky pedestal behaviour.

Ordination Day