Blindness and insight

Those long periods of  my life when I was not able to ‘see’ with the eyes of faith, when I  could not understand what was going on, when there was no inner light. Stumbling in darkness and I could not ‘will’ myself to  recognition or  vision. What was hidden from me because (perhaps) I was not ready to receive it, the time not right. Something too to do with the pervasve sceptical secularism in which I live and  move, disbelief everywhere, indifference and heartlessness in workplaces,  homes, even churches.

Straining with dimmed eyes to catch a glimpse of hope.

From this morning’s Gospel reading, Luke 24:13-32:

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’


Smell of woodsmoke at dawn, heaped dead leaves and pruned wood burning somewhere nearby, the debris of  summer’s end. Our little sluice gate on the irrigation canal stolen during the night, so that means welding a drain cover. Brief moment of  near despair, sense of increasing hardship. Looked over the fields streaming  light, sun breaking between the mountains and  noticed that  the foliage on the young pin oak across the road is reddening. The farm workers passing with woollen caps pulled down low to ward off the mornings chill.


The online hullabaloo of Easter with a new Pope over and perhaps we might find more thoughtful and  appreciative  commentaries. How much those piercing and tender homilies from Pope Francis have moved me, what is authentic and touches the heart.


For some reason though, I keep thinking about a painting from the French surrealist Max Ernst.ernst.kindness




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