I lie on my bed floating
in a sea of sensations…
The joy of a colorful world map
tacked to white walls.
The comfort of my grandfather’s photograph
smiling from the shelf.
The soft glow of golden lights around the ceiling.
The pang of singleness in the moment,
the wondering of who will come.
Fresh vision granted in the excitement of
The satisfaction of revising media platforms.
The image of mischievous smiles and bright eyes
I hope my own future sons will mimic one day.
The fear of sending a stupid email
that could open a whole world.
The wonderment of meeting celebrities,
The overwhelming peace of experiencing
how normal and good they can be.
The worthiness of prayers for years
and the quiet questioning if they will be worthy
for years to come.
The spots of emptiness for times gone by
and cherished moments never to be.
The love of sisters no matter the distance.
The warmth of blankets and depth of pillows.
Eagerness standing on the edge of the future.
Tears coming for the known and the unrevealed,
the knife and the oil,
the pangs and the gratitude.
Knowing in this moving, mesmerizing sea
it will become one dance,
One weaving of souls in eternal prophecy,
One touchable wrenching of relations
that are and were and are yet to be.
And life is beautiful.
Artist’s eyes are a gorgeous sight
In them dances a myriad of lights,
Countless emotions of age old race
accepted into so small a space
between two ears, but expanded
Down the stretches of eternity, forever stranded
Past the ends of the universe,
Endlessly traversing a deepening course.
Who knows of behind the artist’s eyes?
The flow of tears and pain and sighs,
Joy and laughter, loss and gift,
Such vast understanding as to cause a rift
between vision and another’s sense of reality,
Finding wonder in each bit of causality,
Pricelessly awed as if drunk by a magic potion,
Wrought and torn in a sea of emotions.
No wonder the colors are bleeding together,
A poignant masterpiece running over,
These attentive eyes created and vast
Reaching into the future, present, past,
By deeper mysteries in the mundane
haunted, untamed they are never insane.
Drink of the wells and tell me you too descry:
Vivid, copious are the blessings of the artist’s eyes.
Art Credit: Watercolor painting by Cierra Campbell.
Cierra is one of my fellow students at John Paul the Great Catholic University. She is a very talented artist in various mediums and has illustrated for numerous companies. Check out her website and store at http://hunterroseblog.wixsite.com/resume/portfolio.
It’s a chill, rain washed desert morning. We climbed a foothill at 6:45 am and prayed the Rosary looking out over the valley into the rising sun and the mists it flecked. Now, in our hour of silence I trekked out of the ranch and over the hill up some strange roads to a view of the mountains. I followed the Yellow Brick Road to the Wizard’s Way and found myself a spot—probably on someone’s private property—to contemplate the mountains.
All greys, greens, browns, and a little blue as clouds roll in to shroud the green peaks. Streams of sun burst through the grey and throw stiff white shafts over the mountains into the valley. I imagine though that they might bend and sway if the air wasn’t so still. Only the cold stirs in little puffs. Passersby stir so many watchdogs in the distance, but close is only a jackdaw making a bullfrog clicking noise and songbirds chirping incessantly. Serenity and wideness of scope reign here, and glimpses of a wider world. Soon I must go back to Broken Rock Ranch and later to the city. For now I can reach out with the fingers of my heart and feel the vista, let it wisp on my hand, and catch a tiny part to carry back, tucked deep in the recesses of my soul.
(Photo Credit: Clare McKay)
Tonight is the night we pass through a portal:
A moment upon which every age has lingered,
A threshold which no one has yet crossed.
Living flames issuing from the Cave of Bethlehem,
Glinting across a dark, dark world;
Breathing the prophecy of a new Dawn.
Light enough to guide wandering feet to the Child;
Warm enough to melt frozen souls.
That the trickle of fresh water
May quench the thirst of Jesse’s root,
Springing anew from once weary earth,
Soon stained by the wounds of redemption,
Yet ever untouched by the frost of waiting.
Such a threshold in which the Fire of Love hovers,
This threshold upon which we stand.
May you have a blessed Christmas season and a happy New Year!
My airplane touched down in Milwaukee for Christmas break during a gorgeous and dangerous snowstorm. I spent the last twenty minutes of the flight staring breathlessly out the window as crystals of snow streaked off the plane wings and glittered in the white lights. I was praying the Rosary, but every so often the wintery sight distracted me. For some reason the snowflakes stretching in icy veins off from the wings reminded me of Hans Christian Anderson’s tale of the Snow Queen. Then inexplicably wandering as minds often do, a new thought popped into my head: Advent is such a strange time for college students. Continue reading “Advent Mysteries”
“If it weren’t for the darkness, we wouldn’t see the stars.”
This is one of a collection of random quotes I sticky-noted to my work computer. This past week, it suddenly dawned on me while wrestling with wanting to know everything (meaning particularly The Future, particularly my control over The Future) that maybe that very wanting is why I have to be kept in the dark. Maybe it is so that I learn I don’t need to know everything, and yet it still works out.
Perhaps also though the darkness is a gift. Continue reading “Blessed Darkness”
New Joshua stood in the gates of Hell and led the people on,
Crying, “Open wide the doors to Christ. Be not afraid.” We rose.
He fought. He was born again. The Youth sprang up and fell for Christ.
And still we rise,
Horizon’s blazing stars
Scattering sparks and never burning out
As yet we soar up,
Up into the sky like fountains of flame
And as the gleaming embers penetrate the earth
Where each white-heat touches, a new torch fires up
And the never-ending, dying, immortal triumph marches on
Like the martyrs, living embers, ‘mid this century
When the Church shall rise again.
Rising like the sun of a new dawn,
Roaring like a Lion that once suffered as a Lamb,
Waking all the children sleeping weak within her gates.
For never shall the silence of the holy dead be lost
As the thundering battle cry
of Ver Sacrum
Living echoes on:
Long live Christ the King!
(Photo credit: Joshua D. Reznicek)