The Wisdom of Wild Grace. Christine Valters Paintner

and full of possibility. And this is where I invite you to sit and rest awhile and dwell with me….

      I have long loved the stories of Christian saints who had a kinship with animals. They come mostly from the early Christian desert and Celtic traditions, but also feature later medieval saints such as St. Francis of Assisi and St. Julian of Norwich.

      Ever since I was a child, animals have offered me a window into an aspect of the divine presence that is more intuitive, more instinctual, wilder. The monastic tradition held the conviction that this kind of connection and friendship with the animal world was a sign of holiness at work.

      The heart of this collection is a series of poems inspired by the stories of animal and saint connections. I meditated with each story to listen to what it might reveal. Each story felt like a way into a new or renewed way of being in the world where nature is an intimate guide and companion. These stories remind me of some of the old fairy tales that hold wisdom for how to live well if we pay close enough attention.

      Many of the other poems in this collection are inspired by the tradition of the psalms of creation, those prayers of praise that celebrate how everything conspires to share joy and gratitude for this beautiful world.

      What we need most right now is a revolution of love. We desperately need to fall in love with creation so that everything we do reflects this love. If reading these poems supports you to see the world in a new way, to make time to sit outside and cherish the breezes, or to fall more in love, then my heart is full of gratitude and gladness.

      You Are Here

      (after Rainer Maria Rilke’s Book of Hours)

      You are the now and not-yet, the darkened dawn just before

      the first rays rise and you are the rays that pierce and prod.

      You are the siren screeching through city streets

      dropping me to my knees in prayer.

      You are the lilac and the dust,

      the refugee’s body found on shore with empty pockets.

      You are the wound that does not heal, the salve,

      the bandage, and the raised scar that remains.

      You are the dandelion growing through concrete cracks,

      the mirror smashed into pieces, the mosaic created.

      You are the vigil for my mother dying, you are the steady beep

      of the heartrate monitor and the long tone that makes me wail.

      You are ash from the burning towers

      the great gashed tree felled by storm, now moss-coated, silent.

      You are the gray headstone and the red bird that lands and sings,

      the gaunt face I ignore while rushing down the street.

      You are the old man’s spectacles

      and the love letters from his wife now gone.

      You are thick grime, a sob stuck in the throat,

      the voice long silent speaking once again.

      Original Poetry

       (after Moya Cannon)

      The mountains stand

      as guardians of eternity

      against a mottled sky,

      the tide withdraws,

      then turns, approaches me

      like a shy lover,

      each morning the sun

      appears once again

      and buttercups open

      their lemon mouths to sing

      of light and I can almost believe

      resurrection is possible,

      can almost see the world is a poem

      hiding under the fragile stem

      of flower that bows at the force

      of the coming storm.

      St. Hildegard Gives Her Writing Advice

      Cry out and write,

      were the words you heard

      tumble toward you from

      the blue-spattered sky

      midway through your life,

      Follow the greening,

      you tell me in dreams

      and I reach for the thread

      which slips from my

      close-clutched hand

      on fine days.

      How? I plead,

      you show me my dog

      playing in the sunlight,

      the way shadows sashay

      across my desk, and the orchid

      holds out her purple tongue.

      Always make time for tea,

      you utter as you take me

      by the hand through the garden,

      show me dandelion and thistle,

      yarrow and sage, sipping

      slows you down so you can see.

      Listen to the flowers teach,

      you whisper,

      find a meadow, lie down,

      and wait for the poem to arrive,

      I scoff and sigh

      then find myself

      among marigold, long

      grasses, and loosestrife

      all singing their glee

      and my page is full

      before I remember how

      I resisted coming here at all.

      Aubade

      The day opens its white page,

      spreading herself like so much possibility,

      you take your pen, pausing

      before you begin so you can hear

      the jackdaw caw high above

      your tiny shadow and the snowdrop’s

      insistent blooming, somewhere

      is the knowing glance of badger,

      each unafraid to write their stories

      on wind and soil and you see they

      offer ink for your pen in

      a hundred different colors.

      Praise Be

       “O tell us poet, what is it you do?—I praise.”

      —Rainer Maria Rilke

      Praise