reviews poetry spirituality
A poem reflecting on student wellbeing:
A long absent student enters class,
sits with quiet determination,
tries not to be noticed,
you call her by name.
Survival is a story ancient as the stars:
light out of darkness;
a distant child returned.
After one hundred days of exile
may she know the promise of hope
and walk peaceably from joy to joy to joy
from blessing to blessing to fresh immeasurable blessing.
On the morning of 15 January I read of my appointment to the World ExCo. Soon after, I wrote this reflection:
What is a community if not a home
for love between and among people,
seeking the good of each other and growing together?
What is CLC if not a community
formed in God’s presence
which seeks to extend goodness and hospitality
to help people feel at home in the world?
What is church if not a community
where the People of God discover themselves
as beloved before all else,
encourage each other to live in the light of this deep truth,
and help build a longer table for all to enjoy life’s feast?
Who am I if not a space
for the divine presence to live and move and be known,
a person in whom life is growing slowly but surely as a Eucalyptus sapling,
a home for goodness and mercy to meet
and justice and peace to embrace?
I teach RE at a Catholic high school for girls. On Friday 11 March 2022, during period 1, my Year 8 students were to create a storyboard of key events from Holy Week and Easter. To centre the students in prayer before beginning their work, I introduced the Taizé chant “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom”. We sang the chant twice in a ‘call and response’ fashion. I wrote this poem during quiet reflection that evening.
Through the communal mingling
of voices, the great Spirit moves
among twenty-one young women,
kindling to fire their hopes for a new
world. In the quickening of call
and slowing of response, these singers
become carriers of joy, heralds
of freedom. This is the truth being
met, here are the people of God.
Look at them call out in unison
see them glance at each other
hear their enjoined words
and how can you not be moved?
In awe, open your eyes, lift up
your ears. These are the witnesses
to faith, these are the first responders
to suffering, these are the students
whose lives are to rebuild all things.
Image: Hans Vivek on Unsplash
Leave a CommentWhen I sat down in a nearby garden, distant from life,
I listened to resonant birdsong,
I gazed at the golden edges of cloud,
I admired the yet-to-be-planted ferns,
I watched the tiny spider climb along the soil ridge.
And I heard my soft voice in the depths
and I experienced my yearning hoping loving hungry self
and I knew a deeper response to my day had arrived.
Then a repeat call of a bird in the tree above
renewed my sense of that place:
A haven for responding peacefully to life,
A home for discovery,
A rest stop to bring awe onto your path.
Meanwhile the sun—kept back by whiteish grey clouds—
meandered its way toward dusk in this place
and sunrise in another; and the cars
on the street below bellowed a solemn blare to the birdlife.
The birds went quiet for a minute or two,
taking in several breaths
listening out for their audience of trees
seeing comrades launching high
feeling the breeze of renewal
experiencing the soft sky
and readying themselves for performance.
But then across the same concert hall of trees
travelled the staccato cry of an infant human
and the non-human world offered an orchestral response
their glorious symphonies returning me to joy.
Finally the sun’s soundless rays spread over this page,
gently inviting, and my happy pen takes its rest.
Most mornings of 1999 I caught the 7:04 train
and felt compassion for all the downcast faces,
a 12-year-old witness to disappointment.
A people alive to the world would bring colour to trains;
had my fellow commuters suppressed
their true desires for life?
I continued observing, noticing, watching
for the next decade or more, until friends invited
me to step into my own shoes: to participate.
Set free from such memories and judgments
I embraced this people and their enterprise
with pen, mind and heart.
Now I hop off trains and walk
with the moving assembly, joining in
with fashion and courage, ‘life abounding’.
On Saturday 15 May 2021, CLC in Asia-Pacific met for a virtual meeting celebrating the start of the Ignatian Year. The Jesuits and wider Ignatian family are marking 500 years since Saint Ignatius of Loyola was injured on 20 May 1521 while leading troops into battle at Pamplona. His subsequent transformation became evident while recovering in his family home at Loyola.
I wrote a reflection “Ignatius responds to God’s call at Loyola”, which was used as an input for reflection, and then members shared in small break-out rooms. I wrote the following two poems on the morning of the meeting.
He was struck low in body
and found himself low in spirit.
Wounded physically and mentally
recovery would take a long time:
he could not skip any stage
but be drawn slowly towards life
by the God of life. This much
is true: that pain can open windows
into transformation, and gentle light
wakes the sleeping heart.
A long season spent dreaming and hoping
will prepare you to embrace a larger world,
one of service and glad reconciling,
of graced relationships. You do not know
where you are going, but a trusting
heart is what matters.
Grace starts a person’s journey into thanksgiving
and praise – giving glory to God.
Each day made for us is good:
filled with encounters, leaning toward
gladness, opening a path to walk in.
Enthusiasm is a path into joy,
fullness of life in God’s presence.
When I visit Flora’s hair studio
she greets me with joy:
“welcome, my friend! How are you?”
Blessed with such enthusiasm
I am renewed to my bones.
The whole experience is balm for my
disconnected self, giving me
cause for thanksgiving
and laughter. Graced conversation,
the gentle cut and shampoo wash,
gifts each — I walk away
brimming with delight for my day.
As I near home a man walks by,
grinning warmly as if witness
to the transforming encounter.
Meanwhile Flora greets her next customer,
shows him to his chair,
and the routine begins again:
a radiant smile, a brief time together,
glad tidings.
The gathered musicians talk with gladness
while standing under a tree, listening well
for the sounds from one another:
here voicing anecdotes and observations,
there responding with humour and light-heartedness.
In this encounter with delight each one is
renewed for the practice that awaits.
Music is a communal celebration of beauty
wherein players are safe to explore
the spirit and emotion of their hearts.
I observe the joy of these student musicians
set free by melody and meaning.
I imagine a culture of apprenticeship
which empowers young soloists
to embrace the boldness that is their own.
Soon these musicians will walk on, their
quaver-feet moving to a syncopated rhythm,
conversation abounding with colour and light.
The Australian National Academy of Music website is here: https://anam.com.au
The sun shines bright for everyone,
people who notice and people who imitate:
being a light for loved ones,
bringing a candle to a friend’s darkened room,
holding out a torch for strangers.
Walking barefoot on the sunlit beach,
we who notice prepare to join others in the project
of re-making co-creating loving
this spectacular spacious wounded home
for grace and doubt—our world—while swimming
in the surf between the flags and
among the participants of daily life who,
conscious of it or not, renew and restore
with all their being and effort, and
sometimes miss the mark.
While we swim near one another,
each one’s name sealed upon their heart,
we may do well to turn and say hello,
or not, and cover our eyes with goggles
and dive under the next breaker. This ordinary
ritual—ocean swimming—prepares us to swim
the more extraordinary channels of suffering
and helpless fear angst worry and illness
which one day will come our way.
Meanwhile, teams of lifesavers—sitting on the sand
and walking the beachside breakers—watch on,
ready to intervene if necessary,
poised to save a person struggling
in the water, hands bouncing above head
with distress and terror.
When this very situation unfolds,
coffee-drinkers at the seaside cafe notice
a commotion down on the water, and the
quick ripple-effect of human solidarity and
protection fills the sky with clouds of
concern. The man, in his 30s, is saved
from drowning, and splutters up water when reaching
the shore. CPR is not necessary, but they
will check on him in the hospital, just to be sure.
Our eyes play witness as ocean, land and air
overflow with compassion and leaves flutter in the breeze.
Several lifesavers are off to a barbecue,
murmuring to each other as the sun retreats,
expressing wonder at all that had happened in the light.
Swimming Maroubra Beach aged 12,
I walk out through the chilly waters
near a breaking wave and
the thrill of life fills me
at the point of decision:
to rise over the precipice
and stretch my neck high,
or dive under the body of water
and feel the tide roll over my back …
I take a moment to taste the salty water
and sense the warmth when I stand;
I spy my sister Claire out beyond the breakers,
a capable swimmer enjoying the surf,
now dad’s on his way, prescription goggles tight,
diving under each wave and slapping his arms on water,
coming up for air,
that thick broad glorious smile spreading wide across his face,
a lifetime of joy on his home beach.
My grandfather Pop called this his swimming pool,
provided just for him: a place to move and discover
oneself on the edge of a capacious ocean,
riding the waves and wading through troughs,
ever watchful of rips.
Back on the beach, towels unfurled and
glistening wet backs in the sun,
we feel a satisfying sense of achievement
and breathe out awe. At the arrival
of fish and chips we tuck in and relish each bite.
