FREED FROM SELF-IMPOSED LIMITATIONS
Why must the goose fly north? Ask the arctic tern why he must go from the top to the bottom of the world every year. As for us humans, we must do the things that free us from self-imposed limitations. I am doing my own thing. My own way. My own time. I think that’s legitimate. I am doing what I must do to be true to myself and my nature. | from Roderick MacIver, The Journey Itself Is Home
What are you doing on a daily basis to be true to yourself and your nature?
Art | Arctic Tern, Watercolor on paper by Roderick MacIver

FREED FROM SELF-IMPOSED LIMITATIONS

Why must the goose fly north? Ask the arctic tern why he must go from the top to the bottom of the world every year. As for us humans, we must do the things that free us from self-imposed limitations. I am doing my own thing. My own way. My own time. I think that’s legitimate. I am doing what I must do to be true to myself and my nature. | from Roderick MacIverThe Journey Itself Is Home

What are you doing on a daily basis to be true to yourself and your nature?

Art | Arctic TernWatercolor on paper by Roderick MacIver

LET GO OF THE TOWEL
Let’s imagine for a while that it’s not a woman that’s behind the towel. Let’s imagine it’s me, it’s you.
What is it going to take to drop the towel and take a long loving look at the truth behind the towel?
What is it going to take to drop all the excuses, respect and honour what we find, and let the journey start from there?
Cartoon | Chris Madden

LET GO OF THE TOWEL

Let’s imagine for a while that it’s not a woman that’s behind the towel. Let’s imagine it’s me, it’s you.

  • What is it going to take to drop the towel and take a long loving look at the truth behind the towel?
  • What is it going to take to drop all the excuses, respect and honour what we find, and let the journey start from there?

Cartoon | Chris Madden

LIMITATIONS
“Limitations are nothing more than self-imposed ghostly misconceptions. They vaporize into thin air when you learn to see through the walls, but first, you have to see the walls.” | Sri Gawn Tu Fahr
What are the walls that you haven’t named yet, the walls that you haven’t seen through yet, the obstacles that are still clipping your wings and limiting your potential? 
Digital art | Electus by Adam Martinakis

LIMITATIONS

“Limitations are nothing more than self-imposed ghostly misconceptions. They vaporize into thin air when you learn to see through the walls, but first, you have to see the walls.” | Sri Gawn Tu Fahr

What are the walls that you haven’t named yet, the walls that you haven’t seen through yet, the obstacles that are still clipping your wings and limiting your potential? 

Digital art | Electus by Adam Martinakis

LIKE A FEATHER
"There was once a king sitting on his throne. It pleased the king to raise a small feather from the ground and he commanded it to fly. The feather flew not because of anything in itself but because the air bore it along. Thus I am a feather on the breath of God." | Hildegard of Bingen
Consider this:
We are that light, little feather on the breath of God … on the breath of Life. How does it feel?
Photo | Jim Champion

LIKE A FEATHER

"There was once a king sitting on his throne. It pleased the king to raise a small feather from the ground and he commanded it to fly. The feather flew not because of anything in itself but because the air bore it along. Thus I am a feather on the breath of God." | Hildegard of Bingen

Consider this:

We are that light, little feather on the breath of God … on the breath of Life. How does it feel?

Photo | Jim Champion

STEPPING STONE

This morning I saw the Peace Bridge for the last time as we drove out of Derry.

Here is a short video depicting the bridge and a poem, "Stepping Stone", written to mark the opening of the Peace Bridge, It first appeared in the Belfast Newsletter, Friday 24th June 2011, and Derry Journal, Friday 24th June 2011.

Listen to it a couple of times … read it out loud slowly … pick the one word, image or phrase that strikes you the most and carry it with you through the day as you yearn and pray for peace.

Darkness
At the turn of the year, the river
here was clogged with lumps of ice: tonight,
this water, so lately a flint-tongued impediment,
is cool and soft as kitten-lapped milk
yet swift and sure in its onward flow. Here
I stand so, on the cusp of burgeoning summer
beneath my feet, steel struts powerfully tensioned,
above me, white spars, poised, sail ready,
elegant arms, outspread readied to receive.

People need bridges: for stepping on, and off;
for getting over on; for ease of traffic,
for harmony and for concord. This bridge
is more than an assembly of nuts and bolts,
is a fresh cast embodiment of hope and faith,
and a new stepping-stone of the mind
for us to cross on without hocus-pocus.

Bridged here, between sea lane and air lane
where exile and trespasser meet, and
grey ghost ships float, we
the communality rest on this aspiration,
this conviction in the strength
of forearm locked to forearm
We have turned our back on them,
on those phantoms of the dead,
and on those phantoms of the living.

It’s no go with the flow, the rag tag standards,
submarined pennants, old banners and tattered flags.
We have turned our backs on the sight
and smell of blood,
and yes, we now assert our feelings and
claim this breathing land
with piles sunk deep into sweet, damp,
dry and loam-and-gravel ground
the fusty reek of its ancient earthiness,
dappled, trembling,                                  
shivering light and shade; a ground infused with the
hidden turbulent currents of love and life.

The long night that bruised my cheek
carries the vanilla tang of wine,
it tantalizes my sense of taste and touches my skin,
I am alive.

Above my head the wind plucks at strings,
plays a requiem fro us and for them,
the moon rides on a rippling mirror,
impatient, it overrides the sinuously serpentine shadows,
we are too impatient for peace,
yet we are half caught between two worlds
tomorrow and yesterday are held in one single moment
in this one place.

Time between times, places between places
it is time to cross over,
for those of us who are passionate about
voyages, this is our time,
for those of us who believe in bridges,
this is our time.

Poem | Sam Burnside
Read by RJ Burnside

RUBLEV
On this Trinity Sunday I prayed with the poem Rublev by Rowan Williams  The poem responds to one of Andrei Rublev's most famous works, a beautiful representation of the three persons of the Trinity as angels seated around a table bearing a single cup. 

One day, God walked in, pale from the grey steppe,slit-eyed against the wind, and stopped,said, Colour me, breathe your blood into my mouth. 
I said, Here is the blood of all our people,these are their bruises, blue and purple,gold, brown, and pale green wash of death.
These (god) are the chromatic pains of flesh,I said, I trust I shall make you blush,O I shall stain you with the scars of birth
For ever, I shall root you in the wood,under the sun shall bake you breadof beechmast, never let you forth 
To the white desert, to the starving sand.But we shall sit and speak aroundone table, share one food, one earth.

Poem | “Rublev,” by Rowan Williams in After Silent Centuries (The Perpetua Press, 1994)
Painting | An icon of the Trinity by Andrei Rublev

RUBLEV

On this Trinity Sunday I prayed with the poem Rublev by Rowan Williams  The poem responds to one of Andrei Rublev's most famous works, a beautiful representation of the three persons of the Trinity as angels seated around a table bearing a single cup

One day, God walked in, pale from the grey steppe,
slit-eyed against the wind, and stopped,
said, Colour me, breathe your blood into my mouth. 

I said, Here is the blood of all our people,
these are their bruises, blue and purple,
gold, brown, and pale green wash of death.

These (god) are the chromatic pains of flesh,
I said, I trust I shall make you blush,
O I shall stain you with the scars of birth

For ever, I shall root you in the wood,
under the sun shall bake you bread
of beechmast, never let you forth 

To the white desert, to the starving sand.
But we shall sit and speak around
one table, share one food, one earth.

Poem | “Rublev,” by Rowan Williams in After Silent Centuries (The Perpetua Press, 1994)

Painting | An icon of the Trinity by Andrei Rublev

THE MATERNAL CONNECTION
A surprise landed in my inbox this week. My dad sent me this black and white photo. According to him that’s me beholden and cradled in mum’s arms!  I am assuming my dad was the man behind the camera and therefore the one who captured my mother’s gaze. A perfect photo to pray with on Father’s Day.
Today, may we remember the sources that give us life and be grateful and thankful.

THE MATERNAL CONNECTION

A surprise landed in my inbox this week. My dad sent me this black and white photo. According to him that’s me beholden and cradled in mum’s arms!  I am assuming my dad was the man behind the camera and therefore the one who captured my mother’s gaze. A perfect photo to pray with on Father’s Day.

Today, may we remember the sources that give us life and be grateful and thankful.

WHERE ARE YOU LIVING?
Look at the third row … look at the front row … look at the faces … feel the different energies.
Don’t you think life is too short and too precious to spend it sitting in the third row? Even if it is just for today:
Sit in the front row
Let go of your fears
Stop thinking about what others may be thinking
Live fully in the moment
Embrace playful opportunities as they arise
Laugh until you leak
Smile broadly
Khalil Gibran said, “Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”
Photo | Grace Robertson - On the Caterpillar, Women’s Pub Outing, Clapham, London, 1956.

WHERE ARE YOU LIVING?

Look at the third row … look at the front row … look at the faces … feel the different energies.

Don’t you think life is too short and too precious to spend it sitting in the third row? Even if it is just for today:

  • Sit in the front row
  • Let go of your fears
  • Stop thinking about what others may be thinking
  • Live fully in the moment
  • Embrace playful opportunities as they arise
  • Laugh until you leak
  • Smile broadly

Khalil Gibran said, “Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

Photo | Grace Robertson - On the Caterpillar, Women’s Pub Outing, Clapham, London, 1956.

ONLY OUR RIVERS RUN FREE 

Leaving Dublin, travelling north through Slane with stops at Monasterboice and Downpatrick. Approaching Armagh, our final destination for today, the bus driver sang Only Our Rivers Run Free. The music struck a cord deep within me, so much so that I had to look up the lyrics and listen to the song again. Here they are for your consideration.

When apples still grow in November
When Blossoms still bloom from each tree
When leaves are still green in December
It’s then that our land will be free
I wander her hills and her valleys
And still through my sorrow I see
A land that has never known freedom
And only her rivers run free

I drink to the death of her manhood
Those men who’d rather have died
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
To bring back their rights were denied
Oh where are you now when we need you
What burns where the flame used to be
Are ye gone like the snows of last winter
And will only our rivers run free?

How sweet is life but we’re crying
How mellow the wine but it’s dry
How fragrant the rose but it’s dying
How gentle the breeze but it sighs
What good is in youth when it’s aging
What joy is in eyes that can’t see
When there’s sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free

Lyrics | Michael McConnell