Ester Salvosa rscj | Ananda Amritmahal rscj

Long Retreat

"Come," you smile
inviting me to walk
through your reality
with you.

"Come," your hand outstretched
inviting me to walk
through my world
now yours.

And then, as racked body struggles
with tormented breath
you look at me:
"Come!"

The two faces of Passion become one:
letting it happen, not passively,
but with all the passion
of your prodigal love.

And blood and water spring out
healing, renewal, quenching of thirst
into parched hearts. Vulnerable, unstoppable,
your love flows through.

Openness / Freedom / Trust

Clenched fist – holding tight to security against a hostile world, striking out in self-defence
Grow into openness  in trust.

Closed heart – shrinking from new hurts
safely blockaded in ice
in fear of being pierced again
Grow into openness in trust.

Womb – silent, dark, unexplored
where heart and hands could root
and relax into blossom
Grow into openness
in trust.

For blood and water pour forth
bringing light and healing and joy
urging me to live beyond,
To grow into freedom – in trust.


Flour and water, a little salt
and a touch of leaven.
Hands knead and pound
and caress the yielding dough
and when it?s shaped, leave it to rise.
Then stroke on some egg white
a sprinkle of sesame seeds
and into the fierce oven heat
and out again, golden-brown
simple, wholesome bread.
"Perfect!" she smiles.

The smile widens as
hungry children pass the loaf around the table
break off a corner, taste and savour
and reach for more.
More than the bread is shared
for each brings something of herself
and when they leave, each is diminished
and unutterably more whole.
And there are still crumbs on the table ?
"A feast for the sparrows!" she chuckles
as she shakes them out the window.

Loving Mother God, make my life
like that of your son
bread to be shared
that the breaking and eating
may nourish life and joy and love
in all you invite to the meal.

Sandy Schadewald rscj
United States Province

Bridal Song

Ah, best-loved, is it your voice, then?
uttering those words that sear my soul
that it might be tempered, straight and true?

Your careful sowing, beloved, that makes the thorns
spring up on my path?
ripping clothes, lacerating flesh?
that I might stand before you, stripped and naked?

Your longing for me, heart of my heart,
that makes the distance between us seem so vast,
the journey so wearisome?

Then, indeed, my lord and my love,
the words are set to shenai music
the thorns trace henna patterns on my feet
and each weary step, so it brings me closer to you,
chimes with the sound of ghunghroos.

Ebb Tide at Ostia

Something drew me here today
Something ? that knew it was dying
Knew that it was time to die
Knew that it had to ? but didn?t want to.
And if it must, wanted
The dying to be here by the sea
Alone.

And now I sit here, at the sea?s edge
Watching the ebbing tide carry away
The last of the hope, the dream.
Wanting to stem the life-blood draining out
And letting it go ? sand slipping through
My open fingers ? in the water
Gently.

And, ebb or surge, the restless waves
Draw my heart into their yearning
And in their muted roar still sounds
?Trust me?.

Margaret Wilson rscj
Province of England-Wales

It?s Real

"Mary!" you said
and the beloved voice speaking only for her
to her
cleared the tear-blindness
and she knew who stood before her.

The familiar scene sent goose-bumps
familiar yet new
down my spine again.
Before ganglions stopped quivering
you looked at me.
"It?s real," you said.

Real? What is? What does "real" mean, anyway?
But even as mind began laborious clumping
through quagmires to truth
your joy was bubbling inside
filling my body with light.

As we danced that dawning
and your wounds spattered gay patterns on the floor
who cared what truth and reality held?
You are. "You are my joy," I whispered.
"Ananda," you said.