A profusion of tributaries pulse within
surge and fall away so swiftly
who I am becomes a question
I can only answer when I throw myself
into the great and powerful now
by tracing them on these pages.

Floating upon the waters
has been natural for me
on my wavy journey of faith
yet for most of my life I have been moored
to one or another church or spiritual dwelling
and there in the six directions
of the medicine wheel
or in mindful silence and meditation
I found solace and inspiration
and challenges to be a better man.

Born into the Roman church
from a mother whose tie to sanity
was her rosary
each bead a knot
and the chain her bond to the holy.

Novenas, prayers, litanies, and creeds
became the native tongue
taught when we were young
mysteries and sensory symphonies
of the rituals filled us to the brim
spilling dreams and designs
for a special future
ending in the Great Upthere.

But a destiny of storms
awaited me on my journey there
as I fled into a barren night
a zeal and appeal of career my light.

Now in the lateness of life
I am again moored in a church
in love with several humble followers
of Jesus the Christ there
songs and Word and wisdom fill the air.
And back home I have my own medicine woman of a wife
a five decade anchor of faith
a vessel and fiery heart full of love.

So here I am no longer floating
or boating from one port to another
my friends are dying and growing old
my body battered and heart weary
but I am alive, again brimming and often teary
for God has taken hold of me
Jesus who hounded me has tackled this old fool
and the Spirit has chiseled and shaped a jewel
tenderized my heart with his reckless love,
his overwhelming endless push and pull
and with his merciful Light has re-created and made me full.

I see you from the third floor
you there with white blossoms in your hair.
I envy the birds who fly freely
And rest in your shiny green glory.
I wish I could smell your sweet scent
Hold your soft pedals to my cheek
to heal all the blemishes
make smooth the rough spots
witness the fragrance of my serenity.

There are leads on my chest
to detect any vagaries within
but you are the best heart monitor
circulating in the deep vessels and chambers
checking what pulses and moves in me.
I trust you there
in the darkest parts of me
where life wanders.

The birds' songs are inviting me
to join them in joy
in holy union with Earth
where they make their home.
May I have such a relationship
bring such joy
to each small encounter of the day.
My desire is to be wrapped in a spirit of kindness
cloaked with love
as I step into the stream
with my fellow creatures
for I know the pain of anger
the dark valley of revenge.
Today I want a different mind
and heart.

In this quiet lake
floating on a fugue and the Clair de Lune
the softness of your touch
soothes me smooths and sands away
rough edges.

How sweet this pianissimo movement
before the bombast trumpeting of work and muscle.
These times make a life of worth and dignity
give now its power
and hint of eternity.

The big story of this day is Jesus’ Resurrection from death.
It will be celebrated in homes and churches throughout the world.
But I think Jesus is more interested in us than us celebrating him.
He wants us to recognize
and celebrate the way we rise
from our darkness, and digressions
failures, weakness, sadness and depression.

When Jesus was on Earth he was honest.  He was himself.
That’s what got him in trouble.
He teaches me to subdue the anger and every hint of violence inside
to be true to the unique creature his Father has crafted
not special or above the rest of ordinary men
just different and true to my own voice.

Unlike Jesus, I am not that courageous and mighty with the power of love.
I still fantasize doing damage to those whom I deem evil
still I care too much about what others think
about how I look or sound in public.

I am unlike Jesus in too many ways,
but I am like him in my rising from darkness and doom
from my own self-made tomb.
My resurrections might be tiny
but large is the Spirit in me
and the ability to see
the light
to see the right
and pursue it wherever it leads
into meadows and into the weeds
away from tradition and my roots
beyond my past moorings
toward truth
and its small soarings
telling my little stories
from death to glory.