Month: Nov 2019


Ever seen clouds moving like waterfall?:

I went to Your mountain this morning and watched my Sky like words speechless fall from depths of endless peace,

watched You reach in my valley of silence, as if You prayed for me eternally

and every wish and motley thought fell in the mist of Your eyes like tears, needing release

needing me, needing my broken earth – reminding me of You in a way I never knew You exist

present tense continuum, You never cease, You never leave

the very place I thought was dead, resurrected You again- You fell tears in my eyes this morning at my altar of disbelief.

The Cross and the Cradle

And out of every wound a garden grew

The first time I really thought about Christmas, was when there was this rather large wooden cross snuck somewhere around a manger scene. It was at a low roofed chapel on a hill, I must’ve been 7 years old. The hill had white wild lilies growing all around nodding at the winds. It was a chilly morning that Christmas, the sun was thin gold spilling in through stained glass window with red blue and amber leaf and Shepherd. I remember staring at everything and wondering why He would love me or even know me by name, why would God be born in a stable in hay and everything, and why would He even want to die for thousands and billions of humans who didn’t care anyway?

That manger-cradle will forever remind me of the Cross, its like they are one vivid prop in the centre stage of my life. The Cross was mine, the Stable mine, I the inn keeper, I the jury, oh and I, Barabbas.

Rambling… yes,

it’s all too much to take in, too much. The beauty of This season grabs me with the fact that it was/is all for us, in exactly the way it happened.

That entire route from Cradle to Cross spills with parables and true life events that birthed whole new generations of rewired humans. It gave seed to new/renewed hearts and lives, like gardens we have grown from the wounds of the Cross.

I can scarcely take it all in, the Love, Tolerance, the sacrifice of Love, Forgiveness,Reconciliation, and Hope that refuses to give up on the chase for Peace. I love this season with all my yesterdays and todays and tomorrows. Every wound is His, every piece of our life story woven in His magnificent weave spanning every generation of Us.

Nothing is lost, nothing missing, nothing broken, Shalom! Look carefully,

out of every wound, a garden grows.

Inter-Species Comfort-bearers

Inter-Species Comfort-bearers

Photo: Olga D. Australia

So my sis sends me pics from her trip and this one travels in where my core is: Koala bear burrowing in shade, in foliage, feeding on what Koala knows best,

I’ve wondered why my Creator structured the universe among this many species, and what the dialogue between us all is besides the incredible facts of circles of life, food chains…

I’m fascinated at how Nature impacts my mood, my choices,

Ah times in childhood (and later), with blue crab and one particular jungle monkey, oh once a scruffy headed baby raven cawing his head off for breakfast. Yep! These have moved me more than earth revolutes can.

I have history with sand dunes, how they’ve moved me (nah, shoved at me), literally and otherwise(haven’t you slid down a dune, ever?)

Then there was Rover our fourlegged Priest of hearts: this canine knew how to talk. Once he said the word, ‘Mom’. I turned around slowly and he winked one amber eye at me.

When Rover left our planet for where Goodly Paws go, ( wasn’t at our home at that time), he visited in a dream where he slipped out of collar, his black black fur shining with silver edges.

Ach. I still ache for his friendship but that dream was an exotic thing. I don’t care what everyone’s saying; dogs do have soul. They growl at unseen spiders snuck in where we can’t see, they have these Frequency-Ears, they see stuff we don’t….onetime at a farmhouse he saw a deadly scorpion through wall… sniffed it out maybe,

I miss him with all my heart especially days like these when the Uncertain sits square in my eye and there are no quick answers for things that will take their course, like the illness of a young child, like setbacks that make friends and some closer ones sweet-talk away basic courtesies.

What Remedy ever exists for Humanity that forgets or ignores another because they are of no advantage; what cure for humans stooped low enough to desecrate the very purpose for which humankind were created? We become liars and connivers, we spread curdled words like butter on waiting bread and we lay it thick. All to draw fences between people: walls, barbed wire, little glass bit in walls. This isn’t news to any of us, but when it hits, it swings low. Especially if you don’t see it coming.

So Koala here snuggling, is my heart burrowing in the shade of Comfort few humans can tender. Maybe my Core is a Koala. I love the word Core: that invisible place deep there that tells me how I am at 3am,4pm,midnight.


One morning last year, I was alone a few hours at home, worrying my teeth out at how our youngest and blind, was to get through life. Eyes shut tight I told God if He cared He best give me a sign,

when I opened my eyes there it was staring me in the face, its black beady eyes twinkling through grey fur:

the squirrel took tiny steps into living room, then turned left into our bedroom. For the next 15 minutes nothing could’ve convinced me this wasn’t a supernatural event. Nothing. The room shone with my same old Indian sun, everything was gold tinted, even my dark thoughts.


Today I didn’t see how we were going to all recover from Joh’s anti-seizure meds* that have caused such a riot in all our lives – side effects of meds.

Is there any Light end of this tunnel? Yes, a few infact! All because dear Sis sent pic of Koala? Does Koala even know they’re in a blog post in another continent, leave alone that they’re cause for lights at end of tunnel?


Maybe that’s why God made all His species. Maybe every single creature was made to bless a certain of the other species, a type of Food chain, a Comfort Chain. What comfort is a mosquito? Maybe it is, to a particular shrub. We will never know somethings in this life, but some mysteries are there for all of us to see.


as I was crouching here over this post, our 18 year old (born blind and recovering from meds* now) Joh gave me a surprise gentle hug.

The past two months there’s been unreal aggression, a certain violence, uncertain days, nights of wondering when and how all this would/ could ever sort. Sure it can, it will, but the human core has a way of sitting down sometimes and not wanting to try getting up.

Today is different.

Something in me wants to unfurl and look up at the sun. There’s a quietened centre within that’s willing to give my own peace a chance. I have the power to make or break that peace,

oh yes it sure passes human understanding, it’s not from within. The only thing I could’ve cooked up today was a temper of tears. There’s kazillion words in my throat but must stop for now,

if you’ve read this far thankyou so much. If not, you’re still part of that Comfort Chain, maybe a bigger part than you know.

In my heart there are walls and rooms and doors

Pic credit Olga D. Canberra

There’s keys and stairways, vents and switches- in this heart. Like it or not, there’s a cooking pot and stove, a freezer and corners. There’s levels,floors,ceiling,tile and wash. There are left overs and water; bathwater, sprinklers, showers,bucket,toothbrush,needles, spoons &knife and fork. And cushions and covers. Mats, floor mats, table mats, dinner ware for guests/everyday. There’s a welcome mat and a throwaway. There’s towels and sheets, carpet and garbage. Oh veg peels, bouquets, flower vase. Garden balcony,books,papers,papers,papers,wires,cables, photographs, memoirs,chairs,canvas,easel,cases,boxes, music,chatter,silences,markerpens, erasers,coughs,sighs,laughter,prayer,steps, dreams, vision,hope,faith,dusk,twilight,dawn grey blush bright, noon orange yellow gold sun, rays sifting,shifting in, rising waning moonlit dust/steam, answers,questions,healing,tears,fears, rejection,hearth,peace,

My heart has walls,entry,exit, skylight,dewfell roof,rainharvest water,pulse,rhythm,arteries of Breath:

She goes around the sun, she goes upside down, revolutions rotatary- she can take this, she was made to run with me, no roots,

I’ve not understood how deep the wealth of the human heart, how inscrutable a store

Whats its measure, its define,

what an insanely blessed owner am I.

What dialect can describe what draws me like a bridge o’er Change ?

Everytime I say a word to the invisible God, it is a bridge into your territory. I whisper, I brake. Change is hard to take; all I have is the movement, this moment, and I’m taking it forward. I leave behind what cannot remain, I cannot stay I must say, talking to my invisible One, changes everything. It is beyond natural. Beyond Nature. Beyond my kilometers and mile. What dialect can describe the truth of Love that draws me like a bridge o’er Change?

This is that time in your life, a tide turns

This is that time in your life, a tide turns

There’s a tide turning in your life, a season changing

returning Harvests, a plot softened by unexpected showers;

This is time to weep relief, dance healing, restore from torn;

..a time to wake, take joy, stake claims ~ make returns on loss you never thought remembered your name.

This is that time, it comes by once in a few ways, like crumbs of yesterday in many waters, returning 7fold,

This is that time a tide turning in your life, a season changing, Harvests ‘neath every silent prayer.


I’m going to say it like it is unedited, we all got in the way of each other. There was not one saint left, no pretending sweet mouthed padre left standing there, just all of raving,spitting fire,fury at its ragged best. We were being assaulted,we would give it like we got it in jaw, lip, rib, shin,elbow, chin. That corridor to the platform became war zone. I searched for a pin and found it snuck in my sleeve,how it got there I’ll never know. Maybe I’m a pin planter by night. Maybe I’m a wrestler too. I wrestled with our assaulter, he looked no more than 19,20? Cherub faced darling teen, skin like sifted creamed gold. Why’d he want to get our bag? Did it look like money to him, it had some eats. Was he hungry? Didnt look it, he looked like he’d had a good breakfast too, we hadn’t had anything except watery tea and some dying potato chips from last night’s junk food binge. Train cuisine isn’t the best, I’ll say. Fried rice and chicken was like sauteed thermocol dipped in old oil. The kind of old oil aunt Maye had stowed behind her growling four burner. I wasn’t about to tell you about aunt Maye but I should someday, she was a warrior in a sari, if you ever saw one. I always thought she’d be best as world president: she harvested rain water, she grew food and a seasonal bee hive. Maye even had a wasp’s nest in her fav candle stand. (Will/must tell you about that one some time. Later.)

In the few seconds of fight with sweet faced railway station thief, my friend Koli grinned. Mid fight, she began to grin, it paralyzed thief, and Hatish and me. Not over, Koli began to look nice and kind. Think of it, Koli and aunt Maye began to merge into one form of art. The art of Loving kindness. I might never recover from what happened next. In a few swift exchanges, Thief boy was now shown the insides of said bag, and asked if he would help us empty it, we weren’t hungry Koli said. Hey there was more than chips there, never mind if they were dying, there were some pretty great Mad Angles, there was our collective bag of Thises and Thatis, but Koli was into it. Into the act of being hands of the Beloved>God. Her small practical hands looked like that, mid station with hundreds of human milling about us and the pungent scent of phenol cleaned floors.

The young gold cream skinned thief looked with worry at Hatish’s scratched arm. Four long scratches like a wild cat had gone at him. I was certain I had a fractured femur. Koli’s hair had wrung itself out in fantastic twirls. We all looked amazing must say, like Grace on fire. But Gold face, he was tazed. Tazed with the hands of a brand ambassador of God. Koli.

Left to me, I can’t say what I’d have done, maybe report him to say the least.

Thinking hard on this, here’s a theory.

We, I mean us as the human race, are really wholly totally used by evil as it’s easy hostage. The boy was used as one,we got back at boy. War begins; there are sacred desecrations that happen in this field of bloodied justice.

We are human and capable of divine love, and we are human and capable of being held hostage, leave alone being coaxed very swiftly into assault.

This isn’t about universal justice and what one should do with wider aspects of the law. I’m talking between us, in our homes and staircases and corridors, between families of citizens and tribes of everyday people, there are two terrible truths staring me in the face.

1. We are capable of anything when held hostage by a certain kind of deficit.

2. We are capable of divine love if we have received it, (yes esp if we’ve witnessed it). If not, then perhaps there’s zero difference between us and our perpetrators.

That’s three truths?


(Sigh. That was my first attempt at short story after eons. Koli and Hatish and the goldskinbed boy thief do not exist, but Maye was a type of my grandma Rara…I do have pieces of her stashed in me somewhere in journal and 206 bones. Don’t you have a grand person in life that’s impressed a thing or two about living, and it messes your own brand of truths? Ay, tough being ambassadors, we get to choose too. Have a great day wherever:).