LIKE A DEER THAT YEARNS FOR RUNNING STREAMS

life is too short.

and we, mere mortals never want to be short-changed or short-circuited in the life we live. we wanted to savor life at its fullest. but our fullest is not perfection itself.

and so we search through thickets and undergrowth for the path that leads to living waters. then, we discover that our path is a constant cycle of emptying and filling, of dying and rising, of accepting and letting go in this waterhole of life. in a forest of being, symbiosis is the key, the essence of relationships. challenging, inconvenient, messy, struggling, frustrating experiences litter the way to growth. yet, it is venturing into the immense depths within ourselves where we see more clearly, learn to be less controlling, long more deeply, and touch life with greater reverence and gratitude.

as thomas merton writes: "a door opens in the center of our being and we seem to fall through it into immense depths which, although they are infinite, are all acessible to us; all eternity seems to have become ours in this one placid and breathless contact".

then eternity beckons us.

like a deer that yearns for running streams.

WHEN THE RAINS COME LATE

sometimes, the rains come late.

inundated, the parched fields drown in torrents they long have wanted. the promises come in retrospect of what should have been - green, lush, and verdant. now, blessings become calamitous surgings uncontrolled.

there are always regrets, afterwards, fingers pointing at the sky.

is it a case of global warming?

or perhaps, of hearts turning indifferent and cold?

this is the story of our fields of dreams, and of people who believe in them

a case of, too late the hero.

SOMETIMES THE RUNNER STUMBLES

we walk through the path of life.

sometimes, we run. without some boundaries or discipline it is difficult to stay on course on a path that has depth and quality to it. people, events, responsibilities, and various activities keep us running and worrying with little time to breathe fresh air and to smell the flowers.

stressed, presurred and at odds with ourselves and maybe with others becomes a burden as we trod on unpaved roads and sunken paths. good intentions are never enough. sometimes the spirit is willing but the body is weak. fingers crossed we take uncalculated risks.

the onslaught of rain and the blistering sun take its toll.

then, sometimes, the runner stumbles.

THE WINDS OF OCTOBER

they are always a prelude.

the leaves fall. the litter the pavements like september memories. like paul verlaine, the long sobs of violins in autumn, carried by the wind wounds my heart with a monotonous languor.

there is sadness in leaving. but seasons have their time.

these winds beckon me to prepare catching the breeze and winter chills of a snowy linen land. nipping the bud of summer, they now nip at your door.

can christmas be far behind?