Writing
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In violent times, beautiful words, centuries old, resonant with truth... more»
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the rush has begun and we know it can only get worse... more»
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bird on a wire let me hear your song bird on a wire you can do no wrong for your singing is as love to me more»
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My God is the God of silent things. Wombs. Passages in the dark. more»
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Breath of ancient trees rush of many wings symphony of cicadas in the afternoon... more»
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(Advent 2b: Isaiah 40:1-11, Mark 1:1-8)I am sure that each of us has at some point tossed a stone into a lake and seen ripple after ripple come from the epicentre, the place where the stone hits the more»
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Who wait for the night to end bless them. Who wait for the night to begin bless them. more»
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For the generosity of children I give thanks' for the way children believe miracles can visit them, I give thanks. more»
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I walk dangerous paths the line between right and wrong... more»
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It is difficult, and often frightening, to let go of what has been received as truth... more»
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It is a story of fragile hope then and now, for we live in unpredictable times. It was ever thus... more»
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At night it was light and from the bed in my grandparent's house, I could look through the open curtains to the ocean and watch the midnight sun. more»
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This will pass like the sun rising. This will pass like a breath of wind across the face of a leaf... more»
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No surrender, holding the line of retreat and advance, countless blades wave in sullied draft declaring nature's vulnerable defiance... more»
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Falling: Round small, golden light Nudged from place, purpose done; riding air in descent like flight... more»
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In a flash, shutter-lie, the mind receives an image that remains, knowing beauty, barely held beyond the instant of sight... more»
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In all his years of wonderingacross oceans to far away islandssearching for a place to call homethe man never imagined findingsuch calm in a woman’s eyes.They glimmered like bright starsguiding more»
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There is a kind of wind that blows during certain days of the year and it's almost as if it knows how to stir up our deepest fears. more»
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I now wonder whether the biblical account of Cain and Abel might also be a folk memory... more»
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If only I were an artist I would paint portraits of you lying on your side in bed... more»
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let me sweep your church I'd leave the door ajar to split the glimpses of grace... more»
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mortally imperiling herself for love of God, her courage far surpassing our conceiving... more»
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The embers of a late Autumn. Morning mists, fruitfulness, golden light, wind in my hair... more»
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We shape our buildings, and afterwards our buildings shape us.[i] Winston Churchill...what we build will, over the years, shape how we understand more»
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Sunday morning Dawns anew in the blue of my heart... more»