What it means to be AWOL

AWOL=Aprhodite with out limbs?

Here it is, the second full week of Lent and no poetry . . . and no blogging since January.  Yikes!  I realize I have been AWOL . . . active with other liabilities.  (Thank you thesaurus.com for help coming up with that new acronym) and I apologize.

I debated long and hard before deciding NOT to keep up the tradition of posting a poem a day for Lent on these pages.  I just don't have the time and energy this year.  Rather than attempting to take on the task and falling short or neglecting other areas of my work that need attention, I'm publicly owning up to my limitations . . . which is actually my Lenten practice for 2014.  This year I'm trying to, if not embrace, at least more gracefully accept my imperfections, be in and with discomfort, and just generally choose honesty and vulnerability over masks and denial.

Whew.  That work alone feels like a full time job.  On top of that I'm in the midst of promoting the upcoming pilgrimage to Wales in July.  (Click here to learn more.)  And continuing my work with the Cathedral.  And have been leading a retreat or two a month since November.  And  . . .

I launched another blog today:  Postcards from the Pilgrim's Path.  The new blog is a way of weaving another thread into the tapestry of work I'm doing through Anam Cara Retreats.  Please feel free to check it out and subscribe if you're interested in Celtic spirituality.

I'll still post here periodically-- poems and musings that aren't related to the Celtic stuff.  Just not as often as I have done in the past, but hopefully more often than I have done recently.

I hope you'll stick with me as I ease into a new rhythm of blogging.   And as a thank you for your patience, I'll leave you with this poem, one I've posted in the past but has been hanging around with me this Lent in particular, as you'll no doubt understand after you've read it.

PERFECTION

by Killian McDonnell, O.S.B. from Swift Lord, You Are Not (St. John's University Press)                   

I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
Gone.

As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
in.

It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
joy.

Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
birth.

Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can't be won, concedes the
war.

I've handed in my notice,
give back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
quit.

Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo's radiant David
squints,

the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is
cracked.