Triduum Vigile

As we approach Easter (Ostara for some),
any writer cannot avoid the passion
that accompaies these day -- no matter
their religious draw. It is a time of awakeing
for those in the Northern climes -- perhaps a time
of dying for those in the South.

Some years ago, I attended a retreat
called Triduum -- a four day Holy Week
event that prompted a great deal of writing.
I will share these here, bit by bit -- certain
that something of the experience can be
extracted by everyone..

TRIDUUM -- An Intense Journey

Thursday

Any retreat can touch on mind and soul and spirit -- and should, but somehow one's first Triduum experience must be of a different journey, not from 'here to there', but more of 'from out to within'. Let it be so. It doesn't hurt that The Passionist Retreat Center in Citrus Heights is so special -- rightfully nicknamed "Spiritual State Park!" The incredible wisteria arbor is drooping with an acre of blossoms, and I quip to Rafael the gardener about 'grace from heaven'. A chat with him is always worth an early arrival. He has been transplanting flowers since before dawn, and will again each morning so that his 'little prayers' will greet the guests as the wonder about the paths at daybreak. I visit the chapel and the kitchen to see if I can help a bit. All is in order -- it has begun.

The first Gathering is of mundane importance to organize and structure -- to extenuate the importance of solitary time throughout the coming days -- and silence -- and new friends. A special treat! A couple is joining us from miles away to assist with music -- including a drum circle and background rhythms outside and around. Before supper I listen to their special giftings on the patio, which later, after the 'foot washing' lead to this:


The Pulse

Listen to the song that flickers in the candlelight
and guides the voice that whispers inside.
See the brilliant shimmer of the notes embracing
unspoken words that from our fears do hide.

Feel the laughing joy in the basin swirling water
that reduces pride to simple naked toes.
Absorb the gifted music that pulses in our veins
to pace soft touch and salve our bitter woes.

Press your forehead against the wood and time the drumbeat
that speaks to our communal birth and should
entreat that we join Israfel in song of holy praise,
visited in guitar and homemade box of wood.

Prayer without the music seems empty home to me,
now filled in true measure by new friends,
who came not knowing what to find, or easily to blend;
but left, I hope, with Love’s embracing ends.