Pilgrimage

A pilgrimage of the heart,

an errand of the spirit

I will take a morning walk 

and knock on my friend’s door,

lean on a tree, feel the root’s vibrations.

I  will fold my hands and listen to stories:

People walking, their pockets heavy with stones,

birds singing sad songs and hiding  their wings from the sun

riverbeds with broken porcelains,

multi-syllabic prayers uttered in silence at Angelus.

A child and a lady smile and wave 

when I pass by on my way home 

on the sidewalk with wild flowers 

blooming next to the iron fence.

I have been walking to the river again since 4 days ago. I did not walk today.

Memories

Opening your school yearbook after so many years

memory are like high places we cling to

revelations can pain your heart

you want to resist but rawness is hard to hide

like a cry of a sparrow

eyes and face can reveal so easily

what is to inhabit bleakness of a future

or emotional existence when tethering from ordinary

but youthful exploits can ripen into awareness

mistakes can be forgiven

contradictions can come to resolutions

you can rise again after a wicked plunge

new leaf, new lines of relationships 

can bloom in extraordinary clarity

you are a survivor.

Lives of Others

An orphan she has 

Few stories to tell, few attachments

How could she show passion,

Or care for someone

But she knows where ripe plums are, 

Which mushrooms are edible

Where to find spring water, safe and crystal clear

How to be resourceful

Habit and prudence and street smart

She starts learning the constellations,

Learns how to be afraid and be calm

She looks at the flowering vines,

Sleeps like an owl and wakes up 

To her full height, realizes

Distances between trees, between her

And trees, her and others

She is a distance of her own.

Things she cherishes, go away

Teaches her gratitude.

Her beautiful eyes say, thank you.

note: The book I’m reading: Ten keys to Reality by Frank Wilczek.

I will have surgery on my right ear next week. The discomfort is tolerable at the present time.

Sometimes I have to take some analgesics.

Meaning of life

A tiny sun drenched backyard

bougainvillea luxuriantly blooms

unbounded, like eternity

Books I finished reading during the pandemic:

The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton

Victory by Joseph Conrad

Mastering the Art of French Eating by Ann Mah

 

The Place

The Place

The surprise of hearing my own voice

like seeing slivers of light filtered between the trees

The words are whispered which I could have missed

Words of encouragement, a push

My eyes are closed, my attention sharpened

I am resting a bit after walking long

My breathing is trying to catch up with my steps

In trying to reach my goal I struggle

There are benches, handrails, sources of spring water

I am vulnerable but not feeble.

I am not alone, or helpless

Though night is approaching I am not lost.

Is it the wind or spirit descends from above the trees

A voice telling me a place in eternity

The place where I am going.

 

Struggle

A glass of wine and rain on a March afternoon

She says she just visited Morocco

Ate a lot of foods served in tagines.

 

I struggle to know

The imperfections of a place

To find a solution, an honest quest

Some look familiar, others look relevant

A little twist, a little nudge can move small stones

Inspiring but not enough to tackle boulders

Unheroic simplicity to a balanced life.

Even busy exhausting life

Can point to God

With his never absent mercy and love.

To seek God is not for a day or a month

It’s not a pilgrimage

It’s a lifelong task, I will find in him

“The ultimate reasons for things.”

Sometimes we feel dead in our faith

Sometimes we feel invigorated like spring

The desert of lent is not devoid of life

“Rise, do not be afraid.”

Search and Work

Search and work

Search the depths of your life experience

for revelations of the sacred

Maybe they are ordinary

Maybe they are unnoticed

God is always working for us to find him

Is he beyond my comprehension?

I have to observe silence and be attentive.

With my human frailty I have to work harder

Not only in prayer but in faith

Selfishness and pride in spiritual ventures of disguises

Are difficult to discard without grace.

It’s a feast to plant and to harvest

With divine help.

At the end of day

I wipe sweat on my forehead

Thanking the Lord for the work done.

A new time

 

It’s Lent

A new time to bring us back to God

Forgotten often during busy hours of work

Or diverted in digital temptations

Come in silence. Sit still.

Quiet the tumult of your heart,

A few minutes of rest.

A time to affirm who you are.

Remember who will be tempted afterwards.

A Task

A Task

A point is tiny

but can make a difference

After a long series of words

can make one weary

a point or a period

can be a savior

a place to pause, rest

You can try

after a long succession of tasks

to breathe deeply

have a drink of water

a moment can brighten

you are ready

for the next task

or even kiss a girl.

 

Time in the woods

A time of windy days, of falling leaves

Trees of fertile, intricate roots, anchored

Rarely do we enter the woods

As if we are afraid bears or snakes may cross our path

Thursday afternoon or any day,

Any ordinary day, is a day of sauntering,

Luminous time of spending an afternoon

Without concern of looking backwards

Not to imagine but to experience kindness of time passing,

To experience ourselves vulnerable and alone sheltered in the woods,

I like to think distant birds return because of me, a selfish notion of enticement,

Dreams die not because of unimportance

Though lustrous, their solace is celebrated no more

If you are struggling just to survive, are you missing much of life?

I encounter the homeless and heard of refugees

They crowd the margins, tiptoeing the edge of the cliffs,

The deep sea below and jagged rocks.

Each morning they look for a clean place

to be alone.

Life of abundance, life of scarcity, life of loss

And the liminal spaces between

What are the life’s possibilities and questions?

Intense experiences challenge the boundaries.

Solirude. Tumult. Arrested time.

The book I’m reading, page 37, asks,

“What’s the measure of your worth?”

Priceless, I shouted.