The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

for love

for your dream

for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow

if you have been opened by life’s betrayals

or have become shrivelled and closed

from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain

mine or your own

without moving to hide it

or fade it

or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy

mine or your own

if you can dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes

without cautioning us

to be careful

to be realistic

to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me

is true.

I want to know if you can

disappoint another

to be true to yourself.

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal

and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless

and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty

even when it is not pretty

every day.

And if you can source your own life

from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure

yours and mine

and still stand at the edge of the lake

and shout to the silver of the full moon,

“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me

to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up

after the night of grief and despair

weary and bruised to the bone

and do what needs to be done

to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know

or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

in the centre of the fire

with me

and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom

you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

from the inside

when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep

in the empty moments.

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

by Edgar Allan Poe

We

The Holy Spirit will guide us and the powers of hell will not prevail against us. In this promise of Jesus, the Church, as a living community of believers, discovers its bearings and its hope as it marches through the ages. The mysterious movements of the Spirit make the Church holy; the faltering strivings of its members make the Church human. Together the Church is whole. The Body of Christ functions in ways too numerous to treat fairly in this article. We, however, are capable of rallying to its mission to proclaim the good news for the salvation of souls, to recognize its power to sanctify and to heal all who seek its graces, to support its efforts to serve those in need, and to accept its invitation to intimacy with Christ.

The liturgical seasons with its feasts and solemnities highlight the glories, the struggles, the pathways, and the pitfalls characterizing the journey of the faithful. Being a member of the Body of Christ is not for the weak and the variable. Ironically, it is material such as this that the Lord chooses and fills with the courage and strength of the Spirit. From this labor the great personages of the Church have arisen. These men and women have impressed on the pages of human history the mark of Christ still active. And from their efforts, an untold multitude of faithful have followed them giving to the world Christ's presence.

Everyone wants to feel a sense of accomplishment in life, an awareness of having contributed to some higher purpose. The world's models of success and achievement have their rightful place, but not the place. Someday, all of the laurels of victory will fade. It is then that, in all humility, we would like to be assured that we have done well in the eyes of God. We hope that we have given to life something that has mattered, that has eternal significance in the unfolding of God's plan. In our own small way, we would wish our life to be judged to have moved the Body of Christ along its destined path.

The double-edged swords of freedom and power are wielded by all throughout their lives. The ends for which these gifts are used either aid in realizing God's plan or result in frustrating it. The fruits of God's love are available to all. In total freedom of will, one must choose to possess it or to reject it. How risky and yet how wise is that divine strategy. One must own one's faith and take the responsibility for making that faith visible or to discard it and accept the consequences of a Godless existence. Love is the product of a freely disposed heart and mind. God bears the risk of not being given the love of His creation and His creation bears the effect of refusing that love.

Christ and the Church: If he were to apply for a divorce on the grounds of cruelty, adultery, and desertion, he probably would get one.

- Samuel Butler

In spite of the traitorous acts of some, the Church produces abundantly those who are truly heroic, sacrificial, and good. Holiness is a crown dearly won. People of a secular mind, lacking faith, are quickest to pick up stones to fling at the faithful who have stumbled in their moral lives. How odd that those who apply few or no moral norms to themselves demand perfection of others. In my opinion, they simply are attempting to validate the dead creeds of their lives by castigating those who are seeking the truths of a living faith. Warts and all, give me the devout believer every time.

The panoply of virtues and vices lies before us. These moral options in life are like colors from which we choose in creating our self-portrait. The Church is a vital community committed to choosing wisely. Yet, as members of that community, we often choose foolishly. Thus, the image of the Church as a great hospital to which the casualties of life may come to have their wounds bound and find healing is most apt. Credit must be given to those who have chosen correctly. For those, the image of the Church as a juggernaut smashing through all obstacles, sailing toward a holy port would suffice. Metaphors, notwithstanding, we thank God for the Church's presence - our presence - as a beacon in a world so often devoid of light.

We live in every land, we speak every language, we encompass all races, and we worship the One - as one people. Let us then cling tightly to the hand of the Holy Spirit and pray for the love and wisdom, the help and hope, the healing and assurance that only the living God can bestow on the living force that are His people, His Church. We!

By Rev. Raymond Petrucci

Vincent and Vincent

This is so beautiful, a marriage of art and music. The paintings of Vincent Van Gough set to the song Vincent ( Starry Starry Night), as sung by Josh Groban.

I know why the caged bird sings

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Star Light, Star Bright

Star, that gives a gracious dole,
What am I to choose?
Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
Or little buckled shoes?

Shall I wish a wedding-ring,
Bright and thin and round,
Or plead you send me covering-
A newly spaded mound?

Gentle beam, shall I implore
Gold, or sailing-ships,
Or beg I hate forevermore
A pair of lying lips?

Swing you low or high away,
Burn you hot or dim;
My only wish I dare not say-
Lest you should grant me him.

Dorothy Parker

A Peek into Clarence House

The first room is the Garden room and the Second room is called the Morning Room.

Clarence House for many years was the home of H.M Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother. Upon her death her favourite grandchild HRH The Prince of Wales with his wife the Duchess of Cornwall now live there with Prince's William and Harry.

The pictures show the transformation after Prince Charles with the help of his wife renovated and redecorated Clarence House to their own taste.

My Wild Irish Rose

Let me tell you a tale of old

a-fore when I

Was a rambling and a roaming then

Upon the heather way,

I was a searching for my one true love

To charm for ever and a day.

Where could I but find her

Those illusive flowing locks of raven hair,

A soft rosey cheek complexion

Of a tender skin so fair

For the brave to be a having.. but ne're do or dare.

But, I dreamt of her so

For I thought she would bear me up above

On angels wings

To a land of sadness never seen.

Well.. one evening I thought I had but spied her

A running wildly through the glen,

Her eyes all alight as diamonds

Her garment a-blowing in the wind

Then, the mist but up and shrouded her, afar,

fleeing from me then.

As the moonlight painted shadows

flickered 'neath the sighing tree

Eerie in luminous floating mist,

I struggled through the grasping bracken

Fearing of rocks below all dark and hallowed

Her footstep not to miss.

The fog did but lift as the clouds scudded by the moon

I saw the face of an angel glowing

tipped up toward the sky to croon

Not a moment too soon,

I discovered perfection delight

Casting a most wondrous silhouette

I gazed transfixed in that light,

Never had I been a feared

In the still of that vivid night.

My breath I now held and was about to cry out,

When the mist blew there across my sight

And I stumbled sharp and fell.

The moon smiled at my folly, as it sailed on it's way

For ne'er then could I find her once more

For be-sure, she vanished without trace

And I am but left,

with my story to tell

Of the sweetest touch of amazing grace.

My wild Irish Rose.

A Lighted Candle

The lighted candle in the window is an Old Irish custom to show that Joseph and Mary, who found no room at the Inn in Bethlehem, would be welcome in the house. The large white Christmas Candle, known as "Coinneal na Nollaig" which is decorated with Holly and lit by the youngest child in the family at six o’clock on Christmas Eve.

Will You be There?

Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:

Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there,

To sit down in your glory and to share

Your gladness, glowing as a virgin bride?

Or will another dearer, fairer-eyed,

Sit nigher to you in your j ubilee;

And mindful one of other will you be

Borne higher and higher on joy's ebbless tide?

Yea, if I love I will not grudge you this:

I too shall float upon that heavenly sea

And sing my joyful praises without ache;

Your overflow of joy shall gladden me,

My whole heart shall sing praises for your sake

And find its own fulfilment in your bliss.

Christina Rossetti

Mrs Beeton-A Life

Isabella Mary Mayson (1836-1865), universally known as Mrs Beeton, was the author of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management and is the most famous cookery writer in British history.

Isabella was born at 24 Milk Street, Cheapside, London. Her father Benjamin Mason died when she was young and her mother Elizabeth Jerram remarried a Henry Dorling. She was sent to school in Heidelberg in Germany and afterward returned to her stepfather's home in Epsom.

On a visit to London she was introduced to Samuel Orchard Beeton, a publisher of books and popular magazines, and on July 10, 1856 they were married. She began to write articles on cooking and household management for her husband's publications and between 1859 and 1861 she wrote a monthly supplement to The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. The supplements were subsequently published in October 1861 as a single volume entitled - The Book of Household Management Comprising various information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maid, Butler etc, – also Sanitary, Medical, & Legal Memoranda: with a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of all Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort.

The book (usually referred to as Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management) was essentially a guide to running a Victorian era household. It contained advice on fashion, child-care, animal husbandry, poisons, the management of servants, science, religion, industrialism and a very large number of recipes (it is often called Mrs Beeton's Cookbook). Of the 1,112 pages over 900 contained recipes. Most of the recipes were illustrated with coloured engravings and it was the first book to show recipes in a format that is still used today.

After giving birth to her fourth child in January 1865, Isabella contracted puerperal fever and died a week later at age 28.