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A WGREN Meditation for the Week of June 28, 2009
Creek Down Below
Creek down below; where are you going?
Started by the tears of God
Are you happy or sad?
Creek down below; where are you going?
Turning, churning and splashing by.
Is it something I said?
Creek down below; where are you going?
So clean, so fresh, so full of life -
Why are you in a hurry?
Creek down below; where are you going?
So calming, so peaceful, so relaxing -
Are God's tears needed somewhere else?
Creek down below; where are you going?
Are you looking to give new life elsewhere?
Or are you going to tell a story of life long ago?
Creek down below; thank you for being here!
To comfort me, to let me breathe, to let me see.
Tom Sciranka
A WGREN Meditation for the Week of June 21, 2009
I Hear The Brook
I hear the brook - steady - a bit like the wind in the tops of pine trees -
I can see the brook, - it goes hypnotically left to right -
though I don't hear it left to right.
The brook doesn't know how steady it is, - or maybe it does, and thinks I am
going right to left, and it moves not.
The brook goes what we call 'downhill', because a mass mutually attracts other
masses. The brook could just as easily, and evenly, go uphill - if masses repelled -
or go up one day, and down the next - like parking on opposite sides of the street.
Then the brook with its molecules of water, flows over a few rocks, gathers air,
makes foam (& sound). The foam is not one set of molecules set with permanence,
producing an image to me on a hillside as if I were looking at a painting or a
photograph of "foam-in-brook" from my vantage point. No, - the foam is
continuously being re-created, but each recreation (faster than my eye can sort out
replacement of molecule collection with molecule collection) is the same as the one
or ten thousand just past.
So, - I am a preacher - a molecule in the stream of history of my religion, in the
history of humanity, - going downward, because mass attracts mass, - and each
sermon is a 'flowing-into-place' of the motioned-molecule that is the preacher, -
settling so that persons in the hillside congregation see a re-creation of the
resurrection (or miracle, or crucifixion), and then a new one again as the next
preacher and the next flows over the rocks of life, and gathers air, to become the
next and same picture of the resurrection over and over and over again, left to right
through history. It is different from seeing a painting of the resurrection (of
someone's imagined image) where there is no motion, no re-placement of the
molecules. A preacher's job is to flow downstream, to be one molecule in a billion
that takes its turn on the rocks, and then flows off, making room for the next one,
and then going where he and she are pulled to be.
And, it is, I believe, the same for the priest, and the shaman, and the iman, and the
rabbi; - moving into place, re-creating the picture of the Bo tree, the Healing, the
Hejira, the Burning Bush for the people on the hillside - so it is ever, ever new and
always, always the same.
It is, I believe, the same for the artist, the poet, the novelist, the sculptor, the story-
teller, the musician, the dancer, the composer, the teacher - flowing over the rocks
of life, gathering air, to make foam and gurgle that brings purpose from the trivial, meaning from the mundane, holiness in the almost-
overlooked, eternity in the instant passing of word and ink, tone and rock, paint
and rhyme.
We hear the brook . . .
Wayne Albertson, Pastor
Ada First United Methodist Church
A WGREN Meditation for the Week of June 14, 2009
Walkies, Anyone?Walking in the meadow or woods with me, would probably be a lot like an outing with the family retriever after it's been cooped up for too long. Don't expect to get anywhere at speed and prepare for a lot of stops.
When I was younger, the walking I did in area parks and wild spaces was nothing more than exercise. I was out for "cardio activity" and moved at a forced march pace. "Keep up or move out of the way!" was the motto as I barreled along the paths. I apologize again to all those I left irritated in my wake. For all the attention I paid to my environment, I might as well have been one of those suffering souls in the gym attached to a treadmill.
These days, the woods and meadows are my refuge and places of practice. I do recreate myself. However, the process is psychological and spiritual. I go to the woods to experience a richer sense of human being. I also walk to remind myself that my wholeness depends on the respect and care I demonstrate to the planet and those other beings who share it with me.
So, like a happy and unrestrained dog, I may move a number of paces quickly. But I brake for most anything: wild flowers, beautiful bark, and animal prints. The spongy green moss calls me and I pause to gently pass my fingers over its surface. Kneeling in the damp soil, I move my face closer so I can see the tiny rust colored disks raised a millimeter or two above its surface. I will sit at the temporary pond in the forest until my knees and pelvis lock, waiting for the wood ducks to feel safe enough to float quietly toward its more open waters. I also find great joy in the textures of the trees. For each of the past few days, I've pulled up short to caress tiny, new leaves, admiring their tender skin. Dogs, some very young children and naturalists are probably the only ones willing to crouch with me, get wet, and bring our faces to the earth to appreciate the infant plants and insects. For everyone else, I'm an odd and aging woman.
But if you want to see what a change of pace could do for you, give this kind of walk a try. Change perspectives with your dog. Open your mouth to scent the air more deeply, to taste a drying soil on the breeze. Investigate closely; explore the surfaces that surround you. Take your time and observe the changes that bring the pussy willow buds from the familiar furry gray to light green spikes shaped like spears of aloe but infinitely softer. Use all your senses to seize the manifold wonders of a spring day.
Kathleen M. Dixon
A WGREN Meditation for the Week of June 7, 2009
I sat on a log by a stream and thought . . .
How traveled water must be -
Here its clear form gurgles over rocks and follows the force of
gravity;
Its journey will come hundreds of miles and end up somewhere in some sea; -
Such an incredible journey with untold sights and scenes.
But then perhaps with the energy of the sun it becomes airborne;
It travels in fluffy clouds in blue skys above,
Or experiences the wrath of wind and storm -
What a view would be open to see and boundaries set only by wind!
It creates the magical morning mists that creep on mountainsides and fill
valleys wide;
Colder air would force captive moisture into its liquid state and then
to fall down
onto and into the ground.
Or the water might travel past all forms of life that inhabit Earth's thin
outer shell.
The journey might carry it far away through channels and caverns
yet unknown.
But then perhaps it might be caught and held by some plant,
Taken up and built into a tree or blade of grass or seed;
In turn ingested by fowl or beast and travel yet another path
locked in place for the life of the host,
or spewed back to the earth with abrupt release
only to start another journey on another path to random places full
of serendipitous fate.
But I, a human, think I have seen so much
with planned schedules and lists of things to see and places to go.
. . . when I find time
What's the cart and what's the horse?
Is it the chicken or the egg that counts the most?
When do I take the time to flow freely and enjoy the journey?
. . . As simply as the living water.
Pete Conrad
