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