It was a heavy meeting this Wednesday morning. Someone has cancer, someone is six years (!) into his wife having a degenerative neurological disease, someone’s wife has cancer, and there are others with family members with cancer or other serious problems. And the wounds aren't just physical. It’s not like there is some kind of the answer to making it through these things. I think it's good to have family, community, friendships; it's good to have faith and/or a spiritual home; it's good to know you're doing your job; it's good that you're here...
Mention was made of Beatitudes...
Now when he saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and
sat down. His disciples came to Him, and He began to teach them, saying:
Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for
they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they
will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and
thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for
they shall be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
(And so on – Matthew 5:1-12. I carry these verses with
me in my little notebook - for contemplation.)
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From an email to Jeff: Last night I was thinking that we're all
just passing through and in the end, not many people will mark our passing,
hence it's good to treasure and nurture those relationships.
I was also thinking that here I go on another vision quest into
the Wind Rivers. I think I have some kind of fundamental or spiritual
connection to the Winds. To paraphrase John Muir, These mountains
call and I must go.
Love, Charlie
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Attics of My Life
(written by Robert Hunter, sung by the Grateful Dead, dedicated to Leslie)
(written by Robert Hunter, sung by the Grateful Dead, dedicated to Leslie)
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.
I have spent my life seeking all that's still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there were no strings to play, you played to me.
In the book of love's own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.
In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.
I have spent my life seeking all that's still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there were no strings to play, you played to me.
In the book of love's own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.
In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
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Last week I talked some about a photograph of a girl who has haunted me for years. Here is Omayra Sanchez shortly before she died. I put the photo up for about 10 minutes and then realized I'm not qualified to do that. Maybe if I was still caught up in service - but I'm not. You can google her name. I recommend it.
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