Archives for 2015

In praise of tiny goals

I know many people who want to write books they haven’t completed—and I, alas, am one of them.

The standard advice for writing a book? Ray Bradbury, Stephen King or Donald Miller recommend 1000 words a day. If people did that, they’d publish 4-6 books in a year, Miller says.

More commonly, writing gurus recommend 500 words a day, which gives you 182,500 words a year—i.e. 2-3 books of average length. However, how many writers do you know who publish 2 to 3 books in a year?

500 words a day is more challenging than it seems, apparently.

Because….Life!!

* * *

But how about slice that finer? 250 words a day? Which makes for 91,000 words a year. One long book.

1000 words is too challenging for me. I have streaks of the perfectionist. I get distracted. I get tired. I have a life, a very full one. And I need to work on my health, which is partly built by exercise. And I want to make time for my spiritual life, my family life, my social life, my house and garden. A consistent 500 words every day I find challenging for the same reasons. If I do it consistently, other things slip.

But 250 words? 250 words. Beautiful. Piece of cake. Blink of an eyelash. Not quite, but I can often write it, and revise the previous day or two’s words in half an hour. Perhaps it’s psychological–1000 words or 500 seems like a lot; 250 words feels like nothing. If you’ve read this far, you’ve read 267 words.

But 250 words a day adds up to a long book a year.

And isn’t it better to have a low goal, and reach it than a lofty one which sneers at you when, more days than not, you fall short?

So last week, I wrote 250 words a day six days a week on my memoir, did not miss a single day, and took new ground every day. So easy, so joyous, and how quickly it gets done.

* * *

Mid-life is a time for radical changes. And change, revision of life, excites me. But what I am trying is what the Japanese call kaizen—making big changes in the smallest measurable increments, a technique used brilliantly to change the corporate culture and increase productivity in Japanese companies. I am making changes in the smallest possible increments—using a app, Runkeeper, that gives me feedback as I walk so that most days I increase my speed and distance by a few seconds a mile, and a tiny increment of a mile; slowly improving the efficiency of my housekeeping practices; slowly but radically changing my diet; and writing more by aiming at less.

Everest is climbed step by step, and slow progress means you are more likely to get there smiling.

“A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labours of a spasmodic Hercules, ” Trollope wrote, who wrote daily and steadily for 35 years, producing 49 novels.

So off I go then to write 250 words.

When You Think it’s All Over, And That End is a New Beginning

By Anita Mathias

So John, beautiful, sensitive evangelist, is exiled to Patmos, a Roman penal colony, by the Emperor Diocletian.

It’s all over for him. He who had been one of the three with Jesus at every climactic moment of his ministry; who had leaned on Jesus at the Last Supper feeling the physical and verbal beat of his heart; who stood by Jesus at the Cross, seeing the heart of the Gospel; who intuitively saw the connection between the Old and New Covenants, beginning his Gospel echoing Genesis, In the Beginning was the Word.

Oh, he’s done for.

Here he is on barren Patmos, the sun scorching him by day, and the moon by night, the few springs hard to find.

It’s all over, John. You had been commanded to go into all the world, and preach the Gospel to all creation.

But here you are, alone on Patmos.

You who once wrote with the pen of an angel—you have recorded your memories of Jesus.

Nothing new is happening. What are you to write?

* * *

Meanwhile, the Roman Empire rushes on in its empirely way, and the Christian Church flourishes underground, getting stronger in its paradoxical way. And John: alone, forgotten.

Silent.

He who has learned so much, and has so much to teach has no platform; no readers, no listeners, nothing…

* * *

It’s apparently all over for you, John…

Except for that one thing that still can happen to the one exiled to Patmos, who feels that all his life has been a failure, and that life is almost over

One thing no one can rule out: not the exile, or the prisoner, or the solitary.

GOD.

God spoke to you.

* * *

The Word of God.

The Presence of God.

It changed everything for John.

He hears a loud voice like a trumpet, and turns around to see a man whose eyes were like blazing fire. His voice was like the sound of rushing waters. And from his mouth a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance (Revelation 1: 10-16).

And Jesus said

“Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look: I am alive for ever and ever!”

Do not be afraid, oh hidden one, for you are hidden in me. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the A and the Z, and within this alphabet, all words are possible, all things are possible.

I was dead, dead as you fear your future is, dead as you fear your hopes, your work and your influence are. But now I am alive.

And in me, all the crushed, hidden, suppressed things in you shall come alive.

In me, your future is bright and full of possibility.

“Write, therefore, what you have seen, in a book.”

And at his word, John begun a new chapter of his life, writing… Words of comfort and revelation for seven churches and twenty one centuries.

* * *

Diocletian exiled you to Patmos, John, but Diocletian was not writing the story of your life, though he may have thought he was. He was but a pawn in the Grandmaster’s good strategy for your life.

You were exiled to barren Patmos out of fear and malice and the desire to control and neutralize you.

But that was exactly the plot Jesus permitted, to get you out of the way of ministry; out of the way of teaching; out of the way of adulation and followers and rapt listeners; out of the way of Simon who would buy your power, and James and Peter who might wonder who was the greatest.

This barren island, where no one wants to hear from you, no one wants to speak to you, where is there nothing to do and no voice to listen to but Christ’s, this place which seems an insane location for the man who knew Jesus better than any man did, the beloved disciple, for heaven’s sake, who could tell all the world about him– why would Jesus permit you, John, to be in Patmos?

Because you did have more to write, as it happened, and he had to get you quiet to hear his words, away from teaching or ministry or church planting, or trouble with the Romans, or trouble with the Jews, away from it all, away from the important necessary work of building a church that would be the hope of the world, to do something even more important.

To choose the better path.

To hear what the man with eyes like fire and a voice like the sound of running waters said, and to write it down in book.

* * *

Oh reader, does your life feel becalmed? As if all your bright dreams have come to nothing? Does the Empire run on without you, both the Kingdom of the World, and the Kingdom of Christ, while you are forgotten in Patmos.

You are not alone. He who sits upon the throne walks unseen beside you.

Your future is bright, for he who is light itself can turn your trajectory around in a moment.

For every seismic change begins within.

And while He chooses to let you stay exactly where you are in your dark season, he who is light itself will be for you light in the darkness.

* * *

Oh you who feel the sting of failure, do you know that being beaten and coming to the end of yourself are powerful things? Closed doors force you to look for the door that Jesus will open and no one can shut.

Oh you who are well and truly defeated in what you set out to do, you who are well and truly out of energy, be of good cheer. You will now be forced to rely on a power beyond yourself for sustainable strategies…and this I know, his strategies will beat yours, any day, every way.

When everything seems to have ended, a new chapter can begin when you see the face of Jesus and hear the word of God to you. A new chapter will begin when you learn to work with the power of the Holy Spirit.

Be not afraid.

* * *

So you who are on Patmos, what do you do?

First of all, surrender the rest of your life to Jesus. Open your hands, and pour all the dreams and ambitions in them into his hands. Pour your health and your talents, your money and your resources, or the lack of them, all the things you have going for you, all the things you do NOT have going for you, into his hands

Do not dream of beginning a new chapter, a new project, a new enterprise without his direction.

Is your life too quiet? Do not fight the quietness. Do not seek to make things noisier unless he tells you to.

Are you unknown, and unrecognised; are your words dormant within you? Ask him to give your words wings, to bring them to all those who will be blessed by them. Hand your career over to him as clay, asking him to fashion something beautiful, something lasting with it.

Train yourself to act not by might or by power, not by force or manipulation, but by God’s spirit. Ask God to teach you to work with the power of the Holy Spirit.

When you think it’s all over, and you think you’ve failed, and are on a downward spiral, too old to do anything new, beautiful or important, get quiet on your Patmos, for as many days or weeks as it takes, until the noise of the outer world blows away.

Get quiet, Beloved Failure; listen hard for the one with blazing eyes, with a voice like a trumpet.

The answer may come immediately, or in the ten days it took the prophet Jeremiah to hear the word of the Lord. Or longer.

Then do what he tells you.

It may be that when everything is lost, he will speak, he will whisper, whisper softly in your ear. Stage directions that you really need to hear.

And all your past will be an insignificant chapter compared to the great chapters he is now going to write in your life, you and he together.

And all the words you have written will fade into insignificance compared to the words you will write, as he whispers softly in your ear.

He saves the best for last.

And if he says so, “write everything you have seen in a book.” (Revelation 1:11)

* * *

Tweetables

When you feel everything is dead, lost & over, but God suggests a new beginning. From @anitamathias1

As we listen to God, the trajectory of our lives can turn around in a moment. From @anitamathias1

When everything seems to have ended, a new chapter can begin when you hear the word of God to you. From @anitamathias1

Within the Alpha and the Omega, all words & all things are possible. From @anitamathias1

Image credit

“Thin Places,” Where the Boundaries between the Spiritual and Physical Worlds are Almost Transparent

By Anita Mathias

sunset_calf_sound_7 Celtic Christians prized “thin places,” where the boundaries between the spiritual and physical world are almost transparent. Where we can sense shimmering in the physical world the just-as-real, invisible, supernatural world, charged with the glory of God, with hills ringed with angels in chariots of fire.

Could God really be more present in one place than in another? I wondered until I slowed down, calmed down, and began to experience the presence of God pushing though, and thin places.

* * *

Thin places—near mountains, rivers, streams, meadows, the sea—are, in fact, often places where people have worshipped and sought God for centuries. The air around beaches, waterfalls and mountains is rich in brain-activity boosting, depression-banishing negative ions. Benedictines and Trappists often built their monasteries in such places.

Is it fanciful to suppose that places in which thousands have prayed would attract the spirit of God—and angelic presences?

Perhaps what happens in a pilgrimage spot is not that God descends to earth in a shower of radiance and the earth ever after exudes his fragrance. Perhaps it is we who sanctify spots of earth when we bring our weary spirits, our thwarted hopes, the whole human freight of grief, and pray—our eyes grown wide and trusting; our being, a concentrated yearning. Perhaps that yearning, that glimpse of better things, attracts the spirit of God, and traces of that encounter linger in the earth and air and water so that future pilgrims say, “God is here.”

* * *

I felt that when we visited Ffald-y-Brenin. There was a peace and holiness in the air. I could sense the presence of God in the stillness and especially around the high cross, placed on the highest hill of the retreat centre towering over the countryside.

I gave up analysing it after a while. I surrendered to the peace. As Eliot says in “Little Gidding,”

You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid.

That peace, a sudden clarity of thinking and creativity? I guess I could call it the spirit of God.

Healing hung in the air. Looking back at my post written there, I see I was praying for healing from self-induced adrenal fatigue. Well, seven months later, it was completely gone, and I was gulping down books again, and writing a lot.

***

Just being by the ocean, watching it, listening to the roar of the waves quietens me, reminds me of immensity, of God’s infinite power, and opens me up to his spirit. I suddenly find myself praying in tongues. I pick up God’s guidance and directives most clearly on beach walks.

And, as all cultures at all times have noticed, mountains are specially charged with the presence of God. They are places for peace, serenity, and elevated thoughts. In the mountains, my thoughts instinctively gravitate to God.

* * *

And, of course, in our own homes and lives, places become thin because we often pray there.

I pray face down in my bedroom, soaking prayer, and the accustomed place and posture probably more quickly tunes my spirit to peace.

I also enjoy walking and praying in the fields around my house for I live in the country. Again the accustomed routine of walking and praying makes me feel happy and exhilarated and, within a short time, I find myself praying in tongues.

Thomas Merton writes about cultivating routines of prayer at the same place, and at about the same time, “My chief joy is to escape to the attic of the garden house and the little broken window that looks out over the valley. There in the silence, I love the green grass. The tortured gestures of the apple trees have become part of my prayer…. So much do I love this solitude that when I walk out along the road to the old barns that stand alone, delight begins to overpower me from head to foot, and peace smiles even in the marrow of my bones.”

* * *

Just we can feel stressed and uneasy by subliminal triggering memories of past trauma in certain places, or in the presence of certain people, our spirits can also swiftly be tuned to peace in places in which we have often experienced God’s spirit, on a particular seat in church, or on a particular country walk.

Working in my own garden is a thin place for me. Sooner or later, joy returns. Sooner or later, I find myself praying, often in tongues.

Another thin place for me is tidying up. I restore my soul as I restore my house. My body works, and feels happy working, but my mind is fallow. Clarity comes as I work, ideas. Peace returns, and I find myself praying…

* * *

Tweetable

“Thin places,” where the boundaries between the spiritual and physical world are almost transparent. From @anitamathias1

Images from a Magical Week at the Isle of Man

By Anita Mathias

The Isle of Man is a perfect cross between the glories of Ireland and England. We loved it.

We crossed on the Ben my Chree, which has a dog lounge. Merry loved it.

Here is the Cashtel yn Ard stone circle, facing the ocean. The burial place of Neolithic chieftans in 1800BC (about 400 years before the Book of Genesis was written)

Cashtal yn Ard

Fabulous at sunset.

Merry at the entrance of a Neolithic burial chamber

The enclosures act, and the forced eviction of crofters in the Isle of Man as in the Scottish Highlands has led to many abandoned stone cottages all over the island

We camped out by Glen Willyn on a deserted spot of the Atlantic, Loved sleeping breakers crashing on the shore. Merry adored the beach.

Long walk up Glen Helen.

The islanders were so friendly and helpful. When we asked directions, a cheery helpful elderly gentleman invited us into his house to show us on his map…and then chased after us for we left our guidebook there. Roy said he was like Tolkein’s Tom Bombadil, totally at ease in his landscape.

Wandered around St. Patrick’s Isle, centre of Manx Christianity in the 6^th century, surviving the pagan Viking Invaders at the end of the eight century.

Enjoyed the miniature alpine gardens on the rocks.

Sunset at St. Patrick’s Isle

The famous four horned Manx sheep

A Celtic cross in honour of the dead in the first world war

The Fourteenth century chapel of St. Trinian’s

Truly magical Calf Sound, where calves were taken, wading through the water to be pastured, and then swum back at low tide for milking

There were magical sunsets.

The three-legged runner, emblem of the Isle of Man

Tweetable
Images from a magical week at the Isle of Man–NEW post from @anitamathias1

At the End of Broken Dreams, an Open Door

By Anita Mathias

About 20 years ago, in Williamsburg, Virginia, we used to sing this in church, “At the end of broken dreams, an open door.”

I sung it because I liked the lyricism, but I had no interest in the open door at the end of broken dreams because then the dreams would have to be broken, right?

* * *

Well, well, well…

My daughters, choosing their own paths, ask me what my goals were when I was their age. I confess–with a wry smile–that my life barely resembles the dreams I had at 21.

Well, hello there, “failure.” Except the word has lost its sting. Sadness has given way to a shrug.

My life hasn’t worked out as I wanted…more dreaming than writing….though I perhaps have some good decades ahead of me.

And had a career worked out as I had wished, there would have been a lot more stress, busyness, pointless work, self-promotion, and exhaustion, and I would have reached middle age substantially more tired. And in worse health!

There are gains to all our losses—and some loss to all our gains.

The best thing we can do then is throw up our hands in acceptance and worship.

Failure. The beautiful thing about achieving failure is that we no longer fear it.

Failure is a re-direction. We have been whisked into a different plot.

* * *

The dreams of 20-30 years ago are not entirely “broken,” though they have morphed.

I wanted to write as beautifully as the writers I then idolised…Salman Rushdie, Vladimir Nabokov, Toni Morrison, Annie Dillard, Laurie Lee; to write with that beautiful texture, almost music. Yeah, I’d still like to.

However, that kind of writing comes out of immersion in literature, and the way life has happened…I haven’t read enough.

I took four years out of reading and writing to establish a business. At the end of that four years, I faced my broken dreams. My fingers had got stiff. My writing felt like the flightless cormorant of the Galapagos– bland, music-less, poetry-less compared to what it had been just four years ago. The instinct had gone dormant. That intricate lace-like writing which had once won me a National Endowment of the Arts award of $20,000– I couldn’t do it any more. I had lost the knack.

Broken dreams.

Once the business no longer needed my involvement for my husband is now running it, I wondered what I was going to do, how I was going to wriggle back to writing.

And I did perhaps the only thing I really know how to do… I prayed.

* * *

And, four months in limbo, I heard God suggest blogging…

That sounds like a grand way of putting it, but it’s the only accurate way!

My readers when I started were my Facebook friends…but slowly through the miracle of Google and the web and social sharing, they grew. About 10,000 people read my blogs each month, unique monthly visitors Google calls them.

And, ironically, my blogs may touch more people’s hearts, spirits and lives than the exquisite, artful writing I wanted to create. They may influence people for good on a daily basis. May help shape the way people think and perceive; help shape spirits. Blogging has been an unexpected adventure, and an unexpected gift!

* * *

I want to write beautifully, of course I do, and I will keep trying to write well until I die. Keep practising.

But what I am primarily aiming for in blogging is not a lace-maker’s artistry.

I think instead of a leaf, a kite, a raptor, catching the wings of the wind, flying high and higher as the wind lifts it.

I think of recording what God whispers to my heart.

* * *

I am trying to write–if it’s not too grand a word–“prophetically.” I try to hear what God is saying to me, and write it down. Record what I am struggling with…and the answers I have discovered. Answers which may perhaps help someone else up to the next step of the ladder.

And that’s more satisfying, healing, and enriching for my mind, heart, soul, and body than writing the beautiful literary books I wanted to.

Blogging…the open door at the end of broken dreams.

Will I ever write the books I wanted to? I believe so, though they will be different, more products of Spirit than of blood, sweat, toil and tears.

And that’s all to the good, isn’t it?

* * *
Anyway, it’s become second nature now, when I face the rubble of broken dreams, things not turning out as I had expected, to ask, “So what’s the plot, Lord? Where’s the open door in this rubble? Show me the road I am to take.”

You come to a dead end, and there is hope in the deadness. For nothing in this world truly dies; dead seeds reappear as sheaves of wheat. Every death has some resurrection in it.

This world whispers of infinity. Pi has been computed to 10 trillion digits. 10 trillion of an infinite number of digits? Is that success or failure? It’s interwoven. There’s some failure in our bright successes, and our failures have ironic gains and golden lessons.

* * *

There are no dead ends. The door which seems closed whispers of windows.

And that window swings open….and you see the stars.

Tweetables

For nothing in this world truly dies; dead seeds reappear as sheaves of wheat. From @AnitaMathias1

The best thing then that we can do is throw up our hands in acceptance and worship. From @AnitaMathias1

The beautiful thing about achieving failure is that we no longer fear it. From @AnitaMathias1

Failure is a re-direction. We have been whisked into a different plot. From @AnitaMathias1

Every death has some resurrection in it. From “At the end of broken dreams, an open door.”

On Liturgy (which I Dislike)

By Anita Mathias

I was interested to hear the leader on my silent retreat say that different approaches to prayer or the spiritual life are like food. Different people like different things.

Such a simple way of expressing a new thought for me. (I had a mental gradation of superior and less-evolved spiritual practices.)

* * *

I intensely dislike liturgy. It triggers memories of the boredom-that –made-me-long-to-scream during the Catholic masses of my childhood; the continual looking at my watch; each part, the Kyrie, the Gloria, the Sanctus, the Agnus Dei , being accompanied with precise mental calculations of the number of minutes left before I left church and walked into fresh-aired rosy dawn.

* * *

For me, liturgy is noise and distraction—more noise and distraction in an already noisy, distracting world. I don’t see the point of repetitively reading out words other men and women have written; (I guess liturgy was written by men.)

I would rather express a halting, impoverished sentiment of my own than a fluent, winged thought someone else has penned. Because that emerged from his heart, not mine. Better a heart-felt stutter than lyricism recited from a printed page.

Also, though I think fast, and talk fast and write fast, and sometimes read fast– I am slow spiritually.

The liturgy has raced on and covered paragraphs while I am still meditating on the first sentence, and applying the airy words and ideas to my own earthbound life. Only connecting.

Nah, not for me.

* * *

It has its uses though. I’ve read that the liturgy was composed to provide a way for men and women who were barely literate to rehearse the bases of the faith in every communal encounter with God, and remind the heart of 360 degrees of truth.

And when my heart is bored, sullen, lumpen, or distracted, stray phrases from the liturgy does awaken and tune it. It expands the emotional range of my heart. Reminds it of things it would not have thought of, and rouses slumbering things in it.

And some liturgies are beautiful. I loved the sung liturgy of the Northumbria community. Yeah, sung liturgy is certainly more bearable. Like Gregorian chant. Or Celtic liturgies.

* * *

However, there are people who love liturgy. I have been in small groups with people who wanted to read out pages and pages of Compline. Oh Lord, have mercy on this poor restless woman’s soul. And it’s rude to whip out your iPhone during small group liturgy. Oh yes, it is!

I used to think that the liturgy was for those at a less advanced stage of the spiritual life. Who needed Cyrano de Bergerac to write their love poetry for them.

But no, I realized each heart is tuned in different ways. Different strokes for different folks. Some like turnips; some like chocolate. Me, I love Green and Black’s Chocolate.

And that must explain why something I find so exasperating speaks to other people. Who even love it.

But liturgy or heart-grunts, either way, oh Lord, tune my heart to sing thy praise.

Question

So do you like liturgy? Which spiritual disciplines work for you? And which do not?

The Only Form of Multitasking that makes you Cleverer

By Anita Mathias

My daughter Irene returned from a talk by neuroscientist Baroness Susan Greenfield informing us that multitasking decreases fluid IQ more than smoking marijuana, or losing a night’s sleep does.

My daughter, as intense as I am, walks around the house with her iPad, watching documentaries or TED talks or AsapScience (when she isn’t reading or studying.) Or sometimes—okay, mum, get real–lighter, less relentlessly educational stuff; she is a teenager, after all.

I keep telling her to do one thing at a time. Whatever your hands find to do, do it with all your might.

Delighted to have Baroness Susan Greenfield’s backing, I advised Irene to use the mundane things of life, waiting for food to reheat in the microwave, waiting for the kettle or the eggs to boil, as pathways into prayer. To ask for God’s wisdom and blessing on the next task, on how to do it best. To do a mid-day course correction if necessary. Repent. Ask God’s blessing, wisdom and guidance on the dreams and visions for which she is striving. Ask him for the big picture blue sky visions for her life, for guidance on her life’s work and for the path she is to tread which will be the precise intersection between her deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger. Thank God for his goodness. Breathe.

She said, “Mum, but praying through the day is multitasking too.”

I guess so. And it’s the only form of multitasking that’s scripturally advised: “Pray continually.”

You tap into the vast resources of a brain greater than yours. And somehow, that great kind brain comes to help you with ideas, wisdom and sometimes concrete external interventions, changing your circumstances from the outside, changing you from within.

And I guess prayer is the only multitasking that makes you cleverer.

Grazie Signore! “Thank you, Lord, for those who have greater gifts.”

By Anita Mathias

In his excellent The Ragamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning mentions the limited Antonio Salieri, court composer to the Holy Roman Emperor, who was conscientious, devout, and wildly jealous of the wildly gifted Mozart who–neither conscientious, nor devout–tossed off sublime music in the interludes of a life of “wine, women and song, and he didn’t sing much.”

Nevertheless, at the end of each piece of limited, uninspired music, Salieri added a postscript, “Grazie Signore.” Thank you, Lord.

Manning continues,“Grazie Signore, for other people who have greater gifts than mine.”

And that was a prayer I had never thought of praying.

* * *

Those of us brought up by restless parents with unfulfilled ambitions—and I guess that’s many of us!!—have, from childhood, absorbed ambition and striven to be the best, to win the prize, the first prize, if there are two.

An Oxford undergraduate recently told me that at school, she had to be the thinnest, the cleverest, the best in every field she was interested in, and there were many. At Oxford, however, faced with myriad people just like her, this drive made her ricochet between anorexia and bulimia. And exhaustion. Always exhaustion.

Oh, I know all about burnout and exhaustion (though not about slenderness!)

“If you do one good deed, your reward usually is to be set to do another and harder and better one,” C. S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy. Since success elevates us to a vaster ocean, this drive to be the best will inevitably burn us out and exhaust us, diminishing potential achievement.

And worse, should God ever grant a foolish Salieriesque desire to be the best, some interest and challenge would leach away from our world. It is a blessing I take for granted—that in my social circles, professional circles and online circles, I continually encounter those who are more intellectually gifted, creatively gifted, spiritually gifted, and better read. Always someone to learn from.

We all take that blessing for granted. Even the greatest living scripture expositor, speaker, scholar, writer, prophet or mystic still has much to learn…from the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us, leaving silvery snail trails to inspire…

So that’s it for envy—an occupational hazard of writers, according to Bonnie Friedman in her Writing Past Dark. Let me shed it with unforgiveness, and other cancers of the mind.

Grazie Signore, I resolve to inwardly rejoice whenever I read a writer or a blogger quite obviously better than I am.

Grazie Signore, for all those who write with the pen of angels, for they fill the world with exquisite language.

Grazie Signore, for original thinkers who make me too think.

Grazie Signore for the well-stocked mind of scholars.

Grazie Signore for all those who garden better than I, for in meandering around their gardens, I learn.

Grazie Signore for those read your word more deeply than I do, for they show me new things in it.

Grazie Signore, for those who encounter you more deeply than I do, who see your face more clearly, hear your voice more distinctly, for I learn more about you from them.

Grazie Signore, for those who are spiritually gifted, the speakers who revive my flagging spiritual fervour; the prophets who can tune into your thoughts; the mystics who can see your face and feel your heartbeat.

Grazie Signore, for the world so rich, so full of gifts, which you pour freely on all men and women.

Tweetable

Brennan Manning’s prayer: Grazie Signore, thank you, Lord, for those who have greater gifts.

Archives for 2015

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