Magnificat

MAGNIFICAT 

What shall I do

with this quiet joy?

It calls forth the expanse

of my soul, calls

it forth to go singing

through the world...

to rock the cradles of death

gently and without fear.. 

to collect the rain

in my spread hands

 and spill it

like laughter...

Calls it forth

to bear into this world

a place

where light will glisten the edge

 of every wing

and blade of grass and

Shine 

along every hair on every head..

Gleam 

among the turnings of every wave.

Glorify

the turning open of each life,

each human hand.

from "Magnificat" by Christina Hutchin

My soul magnifies God.

Luke 1:46

*

The Visitation of Mary to her cousin Elizabeth is closely connected to the canticle 

of the Magnificat that she sang on that occasion.

*

Painting "The Visit" by Dorothy Webster Hawksley, (1884-1970)

Autumn Alchemy

The air is very still. Around them the trees perform their autumn alchemy, transmuting their leaves into gold against the gold of the late October sun: gold against gold. Together they walk between the trees. Hand in hand, as always. They do not speak. Words would add nothing to their togetherness.

Every now and then one of them stops to read a text on a stone, out loud, but softly, while the other waits quietly. And then they walk on. Sometimes the woman bends over as if to brush away some leaves from the stones, and only then they let go of each other. Many of the texts they know by heart, but every now and then they discover a new one, and pause to read it with great concentration. Their bodies stretch forward, and quietly they read names, dates, wishes for peace: gestures of a love which endures long beyond the dates on which they were inscribed.

Sometimes the effort needed is too much for them. Then they speak in turn, each one carrying the words forward to the end of the inscription. The rhythm of the one glides effortlessly into that of the other, as if one voice only is speaking. But a beautiful text they read together, simultaneously. The woman now and then shakes her head compassionately: "So young still, so very young." "Come", says the man then. And at another place they might just nod, or agree together: "Yes, yes, that is a wonderful age!"

Their bench is occupied. A woman, middle-aged, alone. They greet her. "Good afternoon madam." But the woman does not respond. Her head is lowered, sunk deep in her own thoughts with a resigned finality. She hardly seems to notice them as they walk past her. They walk on, a little taken aback, to the next bench. There they rest.

A bird starts singing its evening song, sitting in a tall tree which bends over a new grave. The song sounds so full of life. In the distance a church bell starts ringing, almost as if in response to the bird’s own cadences.

"That late already? Come, we’d better go now." Hand in hand they walk back between the trees, past the woman on the bench. She looks up at last as they approach her, grateful to have the cemetery to herself. Grief is, after all, a private thing. High overhead a formation of geese is flying. Winter is nigh.

Arise, My Darling, My Beautiful One

Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, 

come with me.

See! The winter is past; 

the rains are over and gone.

Flowers appear on the earth.

The season of singing has come

and the voice of the turtledove

is heard in our land.

The fig tree ripens its figs,

and the vines are in blossom;

they give forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my beautiful one,

and come away...

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Song of Solomon 2:10-13; 

Illustration by Z. Raban

We Are Made For These Times

One night in my dream I heard a clear voice. The voice was so vivid that the phrase remained with me when I awoke. It had said to me: ‘You are made for these times’.

Belief sometimes comes before understanding. I knew that the words struck a chord with me, for they voiced what I do indeed believe: that I truly am meant to be here now, in this time. But why in such a difficult time? Both in my personal life and in unfolding world events there has been much to cope with. We prefer to make decisions based upon sound judgement and known circumstances, but so often we can find ourselves in a situation where we know so little about what might happen as a result of our decision, but we have to make that decision anyway. 

We make our decision, and we do our best to adapt to the changed circumstances. Adaptation is an existential process, certainly if it is in a phase of not knowing where it all might lead to. What are we trying to adapt to? And how do we grow and bear fruit? To find this out is a challenge which we all face in this day and age. But since adaptation is something that simply 'happens', it is not always possible to play a steering part in this process.

We cannot simply decide when and in which direction we adapt. What we instead can do is to let our soul-light shine and radiate outwards - not only by trying to be 'good' and acting out those ideals we think are positive, but by allowing the intrinsic nature of our inner being to be, unfettered by judgement or opinions. As the world is going through change and transformation we also are undergoing transformation on an individual scale. Even those of us who might not even think of ourselves as being particularly intuitive must now be feeling that something big is happening around us, that we are being driven towards… well, towards what, exactly?

There are many things happening right now which suddenly seem to be moving directly against what we might have hoped for: a more peaceful, more enlightened world – which also is a world in which women and men respect each other on equal terms, and children can be children, and not under-age workers or child soldiers. Now, because of these things, it can be so easy to feel overwhelmed by events, to feel that we are powerless against such a tidal flow of negative forces. We are not.

Our personal power is something which can never be taken from us. It is our personal power that gives us the ability to transform. To realize this is to empower ourselves, and this is when our individual transformation becomes a light to those around us, and in turn to those around them, and the power of this ripple effect expands outwards and transforms the greater world. Yes, these times are difficult, but that is exactly why we are here now. This is the time and this is the place, wherever that place may be, to make our stand and let our soul-light shine, for the darker the shadows, the more fiercely this soul-light will burn. We, all of us, ‘are made for these times’.

I wish you, my dear reader, all the trust and soul-power to shine brightly throughout the coming year.

Painting by Greg Spalenka

A Season of Waiting

On the threshold

waiting

for the golden light

that desires to mirror itself

in my heart

inside

is silence

Advent, we say, is the season of waiting. We might more truly say that Advent is the season of desire - and desire unfulfilled, at that. Waiting is a form of emptiness, but it’s an emptiness that implies expectation: we wait for someone or something, do we not? And we desire the arrival of what we await.

In our hectic world we constantly face a barrage of distractions, from the chattering voices of social media with which we constantly keep in touch via our ubiquitous smartphones, from the pressures of commercialism which urge us to buy, buy, buy, at the very time of the year when we should be retreating into ourselves in silent contemplation and reflection. For this also is an aspect of advent: it is – or should be – a time of quiet reflection.

If only we can manage to be silent in ourselves, to still all those chattering voices which distract us, then we allow the true spirit of advent to reveal itself. That sense of expectant wonder is always present. Advent is in every moment. And that moment is universal. “Peace, be still.” were the words we are told Jesus spoke to calm the storm on that far Sea of Galilee. If we allow those words to echo in our hearts, whether we are Christian or not, and whether we celebrate the Christian day of Advent or not, we allow the true spirit of a universal advent to emerge, and we find ourselves filled with a renewing spirit of anticipation, wonder and silent joy.

The Anointing

Mary Magdalene has become known to us as the woman who anointed the feet of Jesus. Her action in doing this is traditionally interpreted as a gesture of humility and devotion, but if we look beyond the doctrine, then other more meaningful possibilities open themselves to us. 

The Magdalene was a woman who deeply loved. She loved a man who did not just give love, but who was Love: who inspired her on her way to consciousness, to complete incarnation, and so to become his spiritual equal. She loved Jesus with all her heart and soul, and therefore placed something in his being which made him also complete, so that in him also the male and female could connect in their essence and the Kingdom would be revealed to them both.

And then the great turning point came in both their lives: the baptism in the River Jordan, for it was then that Jesus became Christ: the Anointed One. He felt the forces in him extend themselves beyond his own individuality, and he knew that another life awaited him: a life in which he had to leave the personal self behind to be outshone by something unnameable. With the act of baptism the earthly Jesus of Nazareth was united with the pre-existent Christ: the Logos, or Word, and from that moment Jesus the Christ became the vessel of universal consciousness.

Jesus and Mary remained husband and wife, but no longer in the sense of having any conventional partnership. As difficult as it must have been for the Magdalene, she knew that this was how things were meant to be. Her silent strength grew, for not only did she accept all that was, and was to come: she actively stood by – and beside – her husband. In this earthly life she was the only one who understood in depth what he was truly saying, what the innermost meaning of his words were. She knew it, she felt it, it ran through her with force and warmth.

But what equanimity was demanded of her! She sensed Jesus’ coming death, and her heart was filled with grief. How her soul must have been torn apart, how the ground beneath her must have trembled, when she stood in witness to the horrific death of her beloved. But again she stood up to meet him once more. "Hold me not", he spoke to her. And she understood. There was no need to hold him physically, for she knew that he and she were One.

Transformation is everything, and great suffering offers great transformation. Jesus into Christ. And Mary now into an aspect of Wisdom - Sophia. People came to listen to her, but they did not understand what she was telling them. With sorrow she saw the ways in which the words of her beloved were turned into stone – how the deeply-meaningful teachings of the inner mysteries became distorted by all-too literal interpretations, how groups came into being, and how schisms occurred as each group disagreed about what was meant, and what it was correct to believe. Mary/Sophia, the witness to history, saw how a church was formed.

Mary Magdalene in our time shines forth as a symbol of the lost feminine aspect in a male-dominated society – a society to which the church also belongs. But her gentle force has not been lost, for in the cosmos nothing dies, it is only transformed. The Christ-consciousness, the Buddha-nature, and the Krishna-consciousness are present in each and every one of us, and yearn for discovery. And so also the force of the Magdalene is still tangibly present in our own time, if we allow ourselves to be open to it.

And those ‘more meaningful possibilities’ of Mary’s anointing? This most special woman already knew all that was to come. Her act of anointing was notably not done with water, but with precious oil. Even then, in that house in Bethany, she had begun to prepare the body of her beloved for earthly burial, and the one who anoints is as blessed as the one who is anointed. 

   

A blessed and joyous New Year to all.

People wish various things for their loved ones and friends in the coming year. 

My wish to all my readers this first day in the New Year is 

that you will experience a sense of wonderment, 

in whatever form you would wish it to be, 

whether that is in a creative endeavour, 

or simply in the joy of everyday experiences. 

A blessed and joyous New Year to all.

Emma

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Painting: The Family by Sergey Ivanov

The Shepherdess

The night is cold: so cold and clear

that the bright stars above

seem closer: so close

that just by raising my hand

I can touch them. And I do.

They are my fingertip sparks.

I pull my cloak around me

for a little extra warmth.

But I am used to this hillside cold

where my wandering flock grazes

here among the wild rue and acacias

of the high pastures.

My flock and the circling stars are my companions,

and when I speak to my flock, I know

that they recognize my voice,

even know what I say to them.

At times I also speak to the high stars.

Then I must listen so carefully, so quietly

to hear the soft sighing of light

that is their astral language.

Not all can hear them, and even those who hear

that gentle sighing of the night

can know what is being said to them,

but I do, and I know that the stars understand me also.

Among my flock is a little one:

an orphaned newling, born out of season,

still uncertain of the world.

I feel her warmth beneath my cloak

and she feels my own warmth.

She is quiet now, asleep inside my cloak,

asleep beside my heart.

Tomorrow, when the stars are asleep,

I will carry her down the hillside,

down from these high pastures,

and we will both go into Bethlehem,

for that is what the stars tonight have told me I must do.

Painting The Shepherdess by Robert Gavin

The Silent Joy of Advent

Today is Advent, the day in the Christian calendar which is the first of four Sundays which look forward to the coming of the Christ child. But need we view this day as exclusively Christian? The word advent simply means an arrival – any arrival which we might view as significant. In this broader sense the word advent also contains the idea of anticipation, and that anticipation in turn contains a sense of joy and wonder. We wait in joyful anticipation, which could mean the coming birth of any child. 

Those of us who have children, who have borne children, will know that once that expected child has arrived into the world then it is impossible to imagine our world without the presence of that little soul in it. The universal period of advent is not four weeks, but nine months – although the sense of anticipation quickens, becomes more keenly felt, as the expected time of the birth approaches. During this time of advent we make preparations. We decorate the new nursery, we acquire the necessary furnishings – the cot, baby bath, and suitable decorations in the form of mobiles, cuddly toys and other items. We, as it were, prepare the nest. And this becomes another aspect of our advent: it is also a time of preparation. We lay the way for the expected new arrival.

But while advent implies all of these things, and whether we have children or not, it still is a term, a state of being, which can apply to us all. In our hectic world we constantly face a barrage of distractions, from the chattering voices of social media with which we constantly keep in touch via our ubiquitous smartphones, from the pressures of commercialism which urge us to buy, buy, buy, at the very time of the year when we should be retreating into ourselves in silent contemplation and reflection. For this also is an aspect of advent: it is – or should be – a time of quiet reflection.

If only we can manage to be silent in ourselves, to still all those chattering voices which distract us, then we allow the true spirit of advent to reveal itself. That sense of expectant wonder is always present. Advent is in every moment. And that moment is universal. “Peace, be still.” were the words we are told Jesus spoke to calm the storm on that far Sea of Galilee. If we allow those words to echo in our hearts, whether we are Christian or not, and whether we celebrate the Christian day of Advent or not, we allow the true spirit of a universal advent to emerge, and we find ourselves filled with a renewing spirit of anticipation, wonder and silent joy.

Detail of Joseph the Carpenter by Georges de la Tour

The Light of the Year

Child of silver, child of white

sunrise pale and sunset amber

lace from the dew of a thousand dawns

woven by the meadow’s slumber.

In your hands a precious light

to step the pathway’s coming year

with all that time and light adorns.

For all that happens on the path

By you is blessed and meaningful

whether for me is bliss or wrath

and whether clear or not-so-clear.

One thing only I would ask:

release your treasure gradually

through sunsets’ gold and seasons’ turning

so the pathway I may see

in a perfect twelve-month burning.

Painting by Gaston la Touche

Christmas Greeting

I wish all my readers great joy in the stillness of Christmas

to hearten and enlighten your New Year.

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Painting The Shepherds by George de la Tour 

The Sister Stars

How high we are here;

seated somewhere

between the stars

and the sleeping town below.

See: we are so high

that we have but to reach out

to touch the moon’s bright face

as it rises to greet us from the horizon.

See: we are so high

that we need only to listen carefully

to hear the murmured whisperings

of the gods above

as they chart the tide of the affairs of men

asleep and unknowing in the world below.

See: we are so high

that we count ourselves

as sisters to the stars.

Continuing their journeys

our sister stars are unaware

that their wanderings, their very courses,

are traced out by us.

For nothing can happen in the heavens

unless we three decide that it will.

The truth is: the gods are helpless,

unable to act without our instructions

(although they do not know this,

and imagine that their schemes

are all their own).

And so we three sit here quietly

through the blue Arabian night,

making the decisions of gods,

naming new constellations:

here: the leopard,

with glowing twin-sun eyes,

there: the stooping falcon,

wings stretched between galaxies,

and there: the heroine,

riding a winged sphinx

to stars yet more distant than her own:

all creatures of our night-watch fantasy.

But even these things are pastimes,

pleasantries, mere diversions.

For our true purpose

Is to search until we find one star,

and one star only

among our myriad sister stars.

Somewhere, if only we can find it,

shines a star that will save the world.

and that is the star

which we will call down to earth.

Painting: Arabian Nights by Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant

Advent: Silent Wonder

Today is the beginning of Advent: the first of the four Sundays leading towards the Nativity. The word Advent means ‘the coming’, and, if we open ourselves to the spirit of Advent, these four weeks contain a heightened sense of anticipation, of expectancy, of hope, of waiting, and trusting in new life not yet fully known. 

Here in northern Europe the winter is advancing, and for me the winter is a time of silence. Nature grows more silent in winter. There are no leaves on the bare limbs of the trees to give us the breeze’s summery rustle, and many animals are less active. Even the birds do not sing their dawn chorus in the winter darkness – and when the snow lies thick upon the ground all seems to fall still in the muffled white silence.

Silence also is for me a part of Advent. It is this silence which lifts Advent beyond being a time of the Christian liturgical year into being a time which touches upon mysteries which are more universal: those mysteries of the heart which touch us all. When the spirit of Advent is combined with the spirit of silence we are in a state of waiting in silence. And when that waiting is a waiting with a sense of deep and joyful anticipation for what is to come, we create a space in which love can grow, in which trust may flourish. 

Love, hope, trust, silence, waiting in joy for what is to come, are all doors. Combining these doors together into one opens the door to the approach of wonder. But what is this wonder? To trust in love for what is to come, to allow our inner silence to grow in this time of waiting, allowing the loving-kindness that is the essence of the divine love to grow in us, is the true spirit of Advent: the spirit of anticipation, of silent wonder.

Detail Painting Madonna by Fra Filippo Lippi

Candles in the Earth

Today, November 11th, is traditionally the feast day of Saint Martin. Martin was a 4th-century soldier who, when still only eighteen, arrived with his troops at the city gates of Amiens. As the soldiers filed into the city they passed a beggar. Martin was the only one who stopped, but being poor himself he had nothing to give. Instead, he tore his cloak in half and gave half to the beggar as some protection against the winter cold.

That night in his dream Jesus appeared, wearing the half-cloak that Martin had given to the beggar, saying to his angels: “See, how this young man has clothed me.” The dream had a profound effect upon Martin. He gave up soldiering to lead a life of simple devotion, founding a monastery where the poor could always depend upon finding shelter. 

In the later centuries of medieval times it was November 11th, Martin’s day, which marked the beginning of winter, and of advent: the countdown of forty days to the shortest day of the year. On this day in the Netherlands it is a tradition for children to go from door to door carrying lanterns made from scooped-out turnips with candles in them. These simple lanterns carry a message: a reminder that during the long months of the northern European winter, when the earth appears to sleep, each living thing still carries within it the spark of light, the seed of new life that will awaken once more in the spring.

These little candles, these tiny sparks of the summer sun that stay alive to burn through the sleeping earth of winter, offer a more profound reminder: that the apparent end of life is not really an end. The precious flame still continues to burn, even when it is no longer visible to us. Our life, our very soul endures, even though it might change its form. And if sometimes we forget this truth, perhaps in those despairing moments when we imagine that we have nothing left to give, we can remember Martin’s gesture. All of our humanity, all of our compassion and our hope for the future, can be contained in just half a cloak, and warm us until another spring arrives.

Painting Saint Martin by Gustave Moreau

Ascension Day

Ascension Window Taizé.

Stained Glass made by Brother Eric.

In the story of my own soul, 
I can see the Light at work. 
Through stained glass it may sometimes appear 
to be patched and variable, 
but even so that Light is very real indeed.

Wishing you all a Happy Ascension day.

Emma

Mother's Day

We need only remember her. We need only call her by the heart-name every human being has set into their very souls before they ever came to earth, that one word each of us knew before we could even feed ourselves, before we could even walk. The very first word inscribed into the hearts of all of humanity across the entire planet:

Mama

Mami

Madre

Mamo

Mommie

Makuahine

Maji

Majka

Moer

MànaAnya

Móthair

Maman

Máti

Mère

Okaasan

Mutter

Mor

Mari

Motina

Matka

Mother

Text: Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Painting The Soul of the Rose by John William Waterhouse

The Mothers

The Mothers

They are saying that he is of us all.

If this is true .. and we trust that it is so ..

and he truly is the son

then he also must be our son

and we, his many mothers.

What, then, must we think

when we see him ride between

the waving fronds of palms?

What, then, must we feel

when he passes by us,

almost close enough to touch?

Donkey and colt are enough

to carry him to his destiny.

But we, the mothers

who line these streets

to watch him pass

among the adoring fronds 

do not see a king, triumphant.

We see no crown, no royal robes,

no hem to kiss, no kingly sword. 

We do not see the one

whom those around us

hail as lord.

We, the mothers, only see our son,

and as mothers know these things

we see only the dear son

for whom we soon must mourn.

For the crowd, he leads,

and they will surely follow.

But he himself must follow his own road

And where that road must go

and our grief will be the grief 

only a mother’s heart can know.

Riding the Donkey

Scripture tells us that, just one week before his crucifixion, Jesus rode in triumph into Jerusalem. We also are told that, before this ride of triumph, he was very specific in his instructions to his disciples about the animal that he wished to ride. As we know, it was a donkey. He even told his disciples where they would find the specific donkey that he wished to ride for the purpose. We might ask why such a humble animal was the mount of choice for this moment of supreme acknowledgement and recognition of Jesus’ earthly worth. 

The worldly reason might have been a practical one: a donkey certainly would have been a readily-available animal. And the symbolic reason might seem apparent enough: what more humble animal than a donkey to underscore Jesus’ own humility? What more telling way to demonstrate to the crowd that they might hail him as a king, but that his own trappings of kingship were the very things of their own everyday use? This is as far as explanations usually go. But is it possible to go a little further, to dig a little deeper, to discover that there is more to this tableau of humility and triumph than at first seems apparent?

A carving which was discovered on a pillar in Rome depicts, of all things, a crucified donkey. This rough carving, which dates from the second century, might at first seem mocking: perhaps the equivalent of a political cartoon of its day. But the image points us towards a mystic teaching of Gnosticism, in which the donkey is symbolic of the human ego. And a fitting symbol it is! Like the obstinate and stubborn donkey, the ego can be unruly. We might wish to go in one direction, but the donkey (and the ego) insists on asserting its own will, on telling us that it is the most important thing there is, and its will carries us along with it.

Putting the ego in its place, triumphing over its illusory dominance, is a striving common to various beliefs. In Zen Buddhism it is symbolised by the bull, which in its temperament is seen as being much like the wilful donkey. To ride the bull is therefore the embodiment of subjugating the pompous ego, of achieving a necessary detachment from the forest of illusions which clamour for our attention and insist to us that they are real.

But riding the bull, riding the donkey, is not the final phase of the process. In these mystic teachings we are told that only with the complete defeat of the ego will true transcendence find place. The bull will itself be seen as an illusion and will dissolve and vanish. The donkey will be sacrificed on the cross of worldly pretence - and the man as well. For the supreme triumph is not the ride, but the moment of ultimate transcendence that will surely follow.

Painting Christ's Entry into Jerusalem by Hippolyte Flandrin, 1842

Cherokee basketweave cross by Baskauta

The passage in scripture can be found in Matthew 21:1-7

Spring - The Tipping Point from Darkness to Light

"I plant a little seed in the cold, cold ground. 

Out comes the yellow sun, big and round. 

Down come the raindrops soft and slow 

Up comes the flower, grow, grow, grow!"

 ~ A Kindergarten Song ~

How full of wonder is this childhood Spring experience! All seems to go without effort. But when we grow older, this inner blossoming, this tipping point from darkness to light, tends to come with some struggle.

In a renewed encounter with the outside world I see how the seemingly-dead wood of the trees and bushes are showered with a filigree patchwork of light green leaves, and I am amazed. I watch how every new little leaf struggles out of the bud. To grow, also as an inner growth, is not without effort, and at times that inner growth journeys along a path of tears. Inner resistance must be overcome in order to make it possible for a true freedom of life to awaken. Can we, like nature, open ourselves to this freeing light?

In many ancient cultures, and in our present culture, it is the egg which is a symbol of new life. In the cosmology of all lands on earth the egg was and still is considered to be a sacred symbol, and revered for its form as well as for its inner mystery. The egg represents the visible manifestation of a world or a being in the state of becoming. It hints at the origin and the secret of existence. The imperceptible seed develops within its enclosed space. It grows without any intervening power from outside, bringing, out of a slumbering nothing, an active something forth, and all that is needed is warmth. And after developed into a living being, it breaks out of its shell to come into the world.

If, as the mystics tell us, our Earth is a living being, then all which is upon it must also in some form be alive, and have this potential for growth. We might imagine that there is a clear difference between what is ‘alive’ and what is ‘non-living’, but the line between the two can be far less defined than we think. We break open a geode, and there inside a magical little world of crystals is growing in a silent beauty which otherwise would pass unseen. Are the crystals alive? They are certainly growing – and growth is a quality that we tend to attribute to life. Perhaps this is why in mystic thought the crystals are said to have their own consciousness: a primitive mineral consciousness which is on a level of awareness below the organic world.

We know that we are alive. But what defines this essence? We grow and develop from a tiny seed of life – but the very atoms and molecules which make up our entire bodies, and which contribute to this process of growth, are themselves non-living! So it seems that this threshold between living and non-living is more vague than we might imagine. What is certainly not imaginary is this shared potential for growth – not just physical growth, but growth of consciousness.

All natural growth and life processes begin with some form of consciousness. It is a rhythmic, self-perpetuating cycle. When these powers which serve the natural growth and nurturing of life are released, then our inner life has access to them, and they become a vital subsoil. This is the realm where the life powers feel at home. It is also the place from where love and compassion well forth. It radiates warmth, as in nature the sun gives warmth. On this level there exists a continuous dying and living again, as in the realm of plants. 

On the tipping point of bud towards leave, from darkness to light, rises - behind the sensory world - the sun of springtime, and fresh green leaves come into being. These revitalizing signs in nature give us trust and joy. Unconsciously we know that they represent a human ideal:  to grow towards the light.

The Quest

The Grail is beyond being able to be contained by or claimed by any one religion. But the quest for the Grail is never truly over. Maybe the reason for this is not so much that the Grail will never be found, but what the Grail actually is, and what it represents, is different for those who quest after it. Sometimes we find what we are looking for, and sometimes we don't. And sometimes what we find is not that which we originally had sought.

Whatever it is that you seek, my wish for you is that you may find it  - or something very like it - in the year to come. And even if you do not do so, then I hope that your journey is still an inspiring one.

Blessings and Joy to all for 2014.

Painting by Arthur Rackham