Prayer

A Prayer In The Gazebo

A prayer for the well-being and peace of my Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and her Mother, and all the Mothers we are descended from.

A prayer for my Daughter, and your daughter, and her daughter, and their daughters, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Feminine, without which we are lost.

A prayer for my Sons, and your sons, and their sons, and their sons, for their peace and well-being, for the spirit and soul of the Masculine, without which they are lost.

A prayer for our world, for everything in it, for the peace and well-being of all its peoples and all its animals,  birds, plants, trees,  rocks, mountains, rivers and seas and all the fish therein.

May we live in peace, love and harmony with gratitude to the Creator of our universe, and all its suns and moons, stars and planets

and for all those gone before us, all those with us and all those yet to come, may all be blessed in this prayer.

(‘Prayer’ by Teri Flynn)

On The Wings Of Peace

Mike's card for world peace0002

During the 1980’s, Mike (Michael) Bryant created the Peace card above with a return option for receivers to re-send. He hoped that the chain of Peace would spread around the world. Unfortunately, I didn’t get around to sending it on at that time, I wish I had, but I offered his peace chain on my blog in November 2015, I don’t know how far it eventually travelled  and now, for the second time, I offer it once more, to reach the hearts of all people who believe that Peace is the answer, that peace can soften the hardest hearts, that love for our planet and all it’s peoples, animals, vegetation, will bring the light back, to heal and nuture the gift of life in all its forms. hummingbird circled

Image of world globe from original card by Mike Bryant

Wings of Peace is author’s own.

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When I was a chid,

I couldn’t imagine where the world began,

or ended.

There was magic in a rainbow,

the friendliness of trees,

countless days to play, to dream,

until fear, shame, guilt, pain,

shadows cast, and the child was lost.

Was love ever here?

Did it begin? Did it end? Why can’t I remember when?

Did you miss me, child, were you lonely then?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hawthorn Hedge

pixie black and white

Flower beds,

climbing beans,

cabbages, crisp and clean,

the narrow ditch

where nettles sting.

Snail tracks glisten

like silver threads on

the pile of stones at the garden end.

On hands and knees I hold my breath,

gaze through the gap

in the hawthorn hedge,

to the meadow,

where white horses tread.

And everywhere I look,

is new.

(You never forget that view.)

When I was very young, nature engaged in my make-believe games in complete and total co-operation. In my Grandmother’s garden,  every day brought a new discovery, stored in my memory box of sights, sounds, tastes, touch and smell, emotions almost beyond a language of descriptive adjectives. Someone said that birds, and animals perceive the world in a different way to humans, this is possibly true, up to a point. But what if, as adults, the ability to listen with our senses diminished along with our outgrown childish toys. The world is more than it seems, it speaks the language of the heart that we are all connected to. I trust my heart to engage with nature in total and complete gratitude.

Listening with Michael

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Kookaburra’s start the morning chorus, accompanied by the dove, bringing echoes of another age when the world was still young. The song is haunting. Michael says birdsong heals the world. He believes that birds sing every morning to redress the balance inflicted on nature by the wrong-doing of mankind.  It’s a comforting thought. I believe he is right.

It’s still raining. Rain-forest trees drip onto broad leaves of banana plants, into muddied earth, to find again the narrow river that will carry the song in it’s gurgling. Above my bed, a huge fly slaps frantically against the ceiling, finally settling into the corner just above my head. Watching the now motionless intruder, I’m convinced it’s up to no good, planning a dive-bomb attack the moment I look away.

From the other room, a suffocating smokers cough. A spoon rattles in a glass, the medicinal drink is mixed, swallowed with a mixture of hope & distrust. He lights a cigarette and heads outside to taste the morning. The smell of tobacco seeps into my room, but I wait for a few considered moments before slipping on my dressing gown and slippers to join him on the wooden deck.

He is comfortably seated on the cushioned bench, smiling with the same happiness that I feel. I kiss his cheek,  and together we listen to the rising echo of the waking rain-forest. The ethereal blossom of the Chinese silk tree, pretty in pink, catches me in surprised awareness. I’m not sure who is looking at who. Michael says nature is curious, watching and listening, just like us. He isn’t frightened of dying, he has a profound sense of excitement at realising the next step in the great adventure of his life. The basic survival instinct is manifested in his anger at corrupt governments, at wrong management of natural resources, and sadness, that so many people are blind or indifferent to the escalating deterioration of our planet, but his anger doesn’t last long, and there is no time for sadness.

Frogs call to each other. Birdsong reaches a crescendo. The narrow river below rushes past with purpose. Immersed in the oneness of all things, enraptured, we listen.