The heart of the spiritual life is the journey inwards – to be a pilgrim of our own soul, not as some sort of narcissistic complex, but to explore that holy ground where we may meet God Himself. A wonderful but terrfiying place…
When I go inwards,
To that universe there,
Travelling in silence,
Meditation and prayer,
And if I take time,
In humble submission,
What might I find
If I loiter and listen?
If I look upon… me:
The central, essential,
Deep down core of me,
Beyond the cerebral,
And conscious control,
Behind the public face,
To what may be a dark,
Even fearsome place.
This journey is fraught,
As I struggle to still;
As I slap down thoughts,
Knowing that slapping will
Only corrugate calm:
Boistrous distractions play
Havoc with my plan,
Rachetting my dismay.
The baggage of years,
Lived in frantic haste;
Precious gifts spoiled,
Gone largely to waste.
The harvest of a life,
Lived in unquiet mood,
Prey to all weathers,
Reaps moral lassitude.
The Spirit’s tin opener,
To my can of worms:
Sharp blade of healing,
Wielded on His terms.
Radical surgery if
I can face the pain:
Interior enlightening,
For exterior gain?
For the route is clear:
Be still and know… Me.
In knowing Him, the
Ability to better be.
To ‘waste time’ with Him,
Is to enhance all time,
And to possess oneself,
In a superior clime.