Tag: Spirituality

YOU

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YOU

By Jane Tawel

June 10, 2026

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Open our eyes,

and let us see.

YOU are Way,

not wall.

YOU are the Open Door

not the closed borders.

YOU are process,

not product.

YOU are not container,

but Cosmos.

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YOU are OTHER,

and yet, not other.

Like a MOTHER,

YOU womb me,

Birth me,

Nurse me,

And with opened eyes,

I see only YOU,

And YOU and I are One.

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May the Light of Your Love,

Blind us into healed eyes

and new sight.

May the Grace of Your Goodness,

cause us to stumble from our marches

so that we may hold out hands of help

to the bruised and to the fallen.

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May the Wonder of Your World,

make us weep with longing

and humble us, and gladden us

to care for this Our Home,

with the same parental care

that YOU, oh, Father care for Your World.

May we fall in love once again,

with this our Home, and these,

our Brothers and our Sisters;

And may we treat all Life — as YOU do — 

with the same kindness and nurture

that a Gardener and Farmer gives

the blessed, life-giving Land.

*

May the Freedom of Your Mercy

Heal our hatreds.

May the selflessness of Your Justice,

replace our false desire for punishment.

And in the Court of Your judgement,

May the oppressed be restored,

the prisoner set free,

the lame walk and the leper dance.

And May Your rivers of righteousness roll down,

rolling and roiling,

as the first become last,

and the last are the first,

and all tumble and meld

into the Oneness that is

Your Kingdom come.

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Parent, Creator, Foundation, Friend:

May the Love that is

Of YOU,

And that is beyond comprehension,

May the Mystery of Love that You are

and that You can only be, and can be no other — 

May that same Love

that is beyond all human understanding,

and that is also the miracle of Love

available to all humble hearts,

Keep our feet inching forward on The Way,

Keep our minds open to Your Truth,

Keep our wills muscular with the joy of Your Spirit,

And may our hearts beat as One

with You and with All that You Love.

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May the Lure of Your Love,

make me, as You were and are,

a fisher of lives — 

to patiently cast out the lure of your love

to catch them and release them

back into the OCEAN of YOU,

Just as YOU have caught and released

this small guppy of a girl.

*

May it Be.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Truth and Love

By now, I am assuming people who want to know the truth are reading people like Heather Cox Richardson or It’s a Lovely Life by Heather Delaney Reese or Robert Reich. I have posted their sage words many times and could again and again, for they report on what is happening in this nation with truth and integrity and big hearts for the people of America. 

Some days I can barely stand to read what is being allowed to happen on our watch — our poor, poor children — what a mess we are handing them, that is, handing them if and should we continue to exist. For those people who either can not give up their false idols or who prefer an alternative reality that more suits their ego, or who just want to stick their heads in the sand and pretend things are not as they are or that there is nothing they can do, or that “they just want to enjoy their lives” — I pity you, I truly do. And while I still feel so very angry that so many are allowing this nation, and the religion of Christianity, and the planet to be destroyed by their own ignorance, greed, fear of the other, power-hunger, or frankly for some, absolutely their evil intent, I also feel such sorrow for them; they have “given up their souls for profit” as the Good Man says, and given up their humanity and human dictate to care for the world in exchange for power and the illusion of happiness with more and more and more money. Some of their idols are obviously and literally insane — stark raving demented and insane. And still they never see the truth or that “money can’t buy you love” and that you cannot “worship God and material greed”. 

I feel such sorrow that on this our 250th birthday, we have slid down the slippery slope of uber-capitalism and empire so very far. I feel such a sense of shame by association and wonder how some people can feel no shame. 

 I am grateful for those still speaking truth. I am grateful for those who still believe in the idea of America and that we can be what we set out to be, 250 years ago. I am grateful to my depths for the brave people who have claimed the same religion I have for so long and who are sharing what that religion actually teaches, and who are speaking up for Jesus the Christ and for our sense of who a loving God is — “a God and a Christ who loves all humans — no matter what their background or identification”. as St. Paul taught us God and Christ love. And how I pity those people tied to a religious instutition that pays them to continue to tell people what they do here doesn’t matter — that all that matters is whether you go to heaven — something Jesus never, ever said. “The Kingdom of God is within you — here. Now”. …… Or it’s not. 

Okay — ranting, I know. Sorry. I honestly day after day, just can’t get my head around it. 

But here is my hope — — today, on my jog, as usual, I pick up other people’s trash. This is my Father’s World and my Mother’s Breast. One day a couple thanked me and said, we teach our grandkids to do this and we make a game of it. There is my hope and encouragement. Today I will try my best to teach my students to write and read and think critically and ethically and spiritually — they are all in high school but very few schools seem to encourage this any more. But there are some who do and many parents who do, and these young people — they can take over from us any time in my opinion. There is my hope and anticipation that we — they — can turn this ship around. And today, I will tell my family and friends and the early morning workers at the end of my street who gather to find work to feed their families that I love them, and be safe out there, and I am grateful for your lives. And I will tell the bees in my lavender, and the lizards on my sidewalk, and the tree in my front yard, and the blue, blue sky — “I love you. Be safe out there. I am grateful for you.” I will hold all these lovely things and these other human souls in my heart and will send them thoughts of joy: “You make my heart glad and hopeful. Thank you for being wonderful, amazing you”. And even if sometimes I wonder where God is, or why He doesn’t “do something”, I will pray the only prayer I know: “I love you. Make me a being of Love. Please help us”. 

And there is my hope. Because I know there are lots and lots of people out there who are truly loving. And some are Christians, and some are Hindus, and some are Muslims, and some live in Iran and some live in Ukraine and some live in Palestine, and some live right here on my little street in SoCal. And Love is the most powerful force in the universe. “Now these three things will remain, “Trust in The Good, Hope despite the circumstances, and Love for all — but the greatest of these is Love”. (St. Paul). 

My hope is that little bits of Light and Love will overcome the darkness and hatred of this dire hour. I end this not with anger or hopelessness, but with determination to do my part — to be the light and be the love. And I have hope because I know enough people who are doing that same thing. And to quote another great saint, MLK, the “arc of the moral universe will bend toward justice” and we little Whos in Whoville will be heard by the One Who Loves and Who hears us, and “we shall overcome”. 
May it be so.

© Jane Tawel, 2026

De-linting the Soul

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De-linting the Soul

By Jane Tawel

June 30, 2026

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My life is like a woolen sweater.

And for better or for worse,

It picks up the lint of cares and woes, and leaves me — at best — fuzzy;

and on my worst days,

underneath the sticky bits and pieces,

You wouldn’t recognize — 

for all the obscurations — 

the lovely fabric

that I once called my Self.

*

I wear my heart upon my sleeve

and grieve for wasted hours.

I have spent a life-time (so it seems), continually zapped and attracted to

the static electricity

that draws the small self

to the dross of info-mercials

and the shallow pools of beliefs.

How constricting to Experience

are the tight constraints of creeds

and the ego’s flimsy needs

of knowing the Unknown!

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We are so apt

to attract the small things of this world,

and wear them like jello-ey armor.

Snake-charmers offer us

the splith of polyestered promises

and we exchange our Robes of Righteousness

for scraps of fame and fortune.

*

The heart longs for a Soul washed cool and clean;

and to wear upon the breastplate of Desire,

some Super-Powered magical coat-

a cloak to drape over

this worn and lint-y sweatered, sweltering self;

a cape of invisibility against the clawing chatter;

a coat of many colors to be set-apart;

a cape with wings to fly above and

to soar beyond the latest news or views;

to uncover a covered face that looks only down

upon sinking sandy shoals of un-real real-estates.

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I seek the fabric-proof of Wonder

to daily use upon my sweatered self — 

the warm embrace of sun on skin

and breeze in hair

and watching dust motes fly

from my small self to scamper in the air.

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I seek the Washer

of sweaters, fish, and feet

to wash away the chattel and the floss

of doctrines, policies, and cults

and the small iotas of informational-dross;

of lint, and dust, and things that tear

and all that makes me unaware

of how the Soul longs to be freed,

unclothed and standing unashamed.

As Eve once waltzed

before a Glorious World,

I yearn to cast away this linty life;

clothed only in the glory of

Created Good,

casting off my tattered rags,

uncovered and unclothed,

dancing unencumbered

into our Deep Divinity

and an Eternity of Life

lived Whole and lint-proofed

unraveled and unashamed

the un-Sweatered-Soul 

now naked as a baby 

that is purely Loved.

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Pulling the Flesh Apart

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Pulling the Flesh Apart 

By Jane Tawel

May 26, 2026

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Let us pull it apart — bit by bit.

Lay the body of our transitory knowledge

on The Surgeon’s board.

True, the words became flesh;

but this stuff — this meat — 

must be bound on the rack,

pulled out like taffy,

’til our bones bend and crack.

Words should be tortured,

eviscerating the bowels we call facts.

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Our gut tells us something

is Realer than real — 

Deeper than definitions,

Truer than the skeletons of

Only what we can see and taste and touch –

Oh! We are meant to touch the very Being — 

We are meant to be stretched into smallness

Split into Wholeness,

and cured unto death.

Only oxymorons, symbols, metaphors and myths — 

Only songs and pictures — 

Only stories of salve — ations,

Only tales of trudging the long road toward home,

Only legends of those who die for Love,

Only these are meant to live forever.

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Oh, we must lay our small selves on the Cross.

We must die to the language of our answers

And float in the ocean of our questions.

How mysterious is the human hand!

How awe-inspiring the body’s eye!

And what beyond what I am called to name,

Can I sense beyond my wonderous senses — 

Moves and lives in the being I call “myself”?

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There is Some-thing, Some-One, Some-Life/Self — 

Who is beyond all language — 

beyond all materials and all body,

beyond the mind’s best truest truths.

There is a Word the mind knows not.

A Name. A Life. A Presence.

The Word that sweetly sings to us

to be let in the cages of our heads and hearts,

and once, when homing there,

flutters like a small bird,

Singing songs of wordless Love and Life,

in flight and free within the Heart — 

Though not a “thing”, a word must do — 

Beyond, above, deeper, wider, purer, timeless — 

Some thing — visceral — 

Some thing — that moves and breathes and has its being

Some thing — despite all longing, we can not name — 

from a heart that no longer beats

but Swells –

Cresting until it bursts through

the walls of this poor substance

that I call, “myself”.

The Soul — burst asunder into

pieces of The Whole.

No longer words on paper

But The Word made flesh in us,

a Picture worth an Eternity of words.

No longer flesh and blood,

But Bread and Wine.

Given, so all may have Life,

And Life Abundant.

Life granted, beyond syllables.

Life, lived beyond flesh.

Life, here and now

in the Stillness

here beyond death.

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© Jane Tawel, 2026

The First Steps and The Last

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The First Steps and The Last

By Jane Tawel

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The first steps are the hardest;

I really don’t want to run this race.

My breath struggles at the start

and every aspiration

becomes the hardest to catch.

The last mile that I run

(and this is all by choice, mind you)

is pretty darn hard too –

Maybe I could just walk it?

Or crawl?

Or quit?

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I wonder if the last lap of this race

I’ve called my Life,

will be as hard for me

as my first lap?

Birthed into struggle

from the womb of the bed I’ve made,

will I run well the race towards Death?

Or will my passing on The Path

be the painful struggle

the agonizing effort to breathe

a battle waged as all the last steps

of the last journey I make towards Home?

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Or will Life’s Finish Line instead

be the first lap

of the next journey which

will no longer be any kind of race at all.

Will that final step

always be a breathing into

a beginning — 

effortless, weightless, sweat-less-

cleaned from the placenta of Death

into the Quest beyond questions,

Stilled and Resting, Peaceful, Floating

Reborn, restarted, re-breathed,

Dancing forward

into New Life?

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© Jane Tawel, 2026

Even When We Are Numb, Let’s Stand and Deliver for Love

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By now, I almost want to stay numb and depressed, but I am still just stubborn enough, I guess, to not want to give evil , insane, war-mongering, greedy, immoral, or just plain foolish people what they want. And every day I am reminded that there are good people in the world, and that the planet is ours to save, and that America really, honestly, needed to change anyway, so if it has to change by a trial by fire, so be it, I will keep working with the fire brigade as best I can.

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So you know that awful feeling when your leg and foot fall asleep — the numb, painful tingles? and how it is excruciating to stand? Well, I remind myself that even though both legs, arms, and my mind are numbed and in pain, tingling with disbelief, anger and sorrow, I remind myself that the house is on fire, so I gotta keep getting up and keep moving toward The Way, toward Goodness and Light. Folks, the fire is raging, but despite our desire to give in to the numbness — we gotta vote for democracy and a return to reason, vote with our dollars, yell, move, and stand and deliver, ya’all.

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And those of us who have tried, failingly to be sure, but have tried, to walk The Way with the idea that the God of the Bible and Jesus have the most loving, gracious, justice-freedom toting message of all — meaning Love above all and for ALL — we need to speak out and more importantly LIVE OUT, what God is really like and what Jesus really taught and lived. Because what those greedy warmongers, foolish fear-mongers, judgmental non-thinkers, and sleight-of-hand shysters in the halls of power, both under the guise of American and Religious powers, are trying to sell you are selling you fire policies for houses underwater, not Life Policies for Houses built on The Rock of True Life.

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May your numbness be not more than you can bear to carry today. May you let your anger make you determined, your sorrow make you compassionate, and your numbness let you know that we need each other and we are not alone. Then, unlike the person mentioned in this article — Think about others and as The Good Book advices, when you can, “think on these things: whatever is true, right, pure, honorable, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praisworthy.” (Philippians 4:8) 

We are numb, we are afraid, we are angry and sad, but lastly remember — no matter what the end point is — Hope is free and Love is forever. 

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This is from a long, hard read about just the latest insanity in America, but it sums it all up with facts. It is from a great newsletter you can find on Facebook and Substack called: Oregon’s Bay Area, by a mother/ daughter team, the Geddry’s. 

Here is a quote near the punchline of this article: “That is the connective tissue between Trump’s redistricting brag, his openness to sending National Guard or ICE to voting locations, his terror of a Democratic House with subpoena power, and the GOP’s willingness to keep funding the whole circus. They are not waiting for Trump to become normal. They are trying to preserve power long enough to make normal voters irrelevant.

HCR also ties the economic story together: the Iran war, Trump’s ballroom, tax cuts for the wealthy, cuts to Medicaid and SNAP, the rising debt, and the larger question of what Republicans are doing with public money. That question may define the summer. Americans are being asked to pay for the war, pay for higher gas prices, pay for the debt from tax cuts for the rich, brace for cuts to programs they rely on, and somehow also pay for Trump’s vanity projects and personal legal escape hatches.

Trump said he does not think about Americans. Today’s news is the receipt.

Fuel prices are up and the war bill is climbing, but Americans are not on his mind. The Pentagon dodges questions about munitions and costs, but Americans are not on his mind. Iran retains most of its missiles and the Strait stays closed, but Americans are not on his mind. He boards Air Force One with billionaires and flies to Beijing to open markets for corporate America, but Americans are not on his mind. His Justice Department quietly explores a settlement that could immunize him from financial scrutiny, but Americans are not on his mind. His party rigs maps, dodges oversight, and works methodically to make democratic accountability harder to enforce, but Americans are not on his mind.”

And so — instead of THAT kind of mind — “Let this mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus”. (Paul) “Let your love extend to all beings” (Buddha) “Love is the ultimate truth at the heart of creation”. (Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita) “Yes, goodness and faithful love will pursue me all the days of my life,
 and I will live in the LORD’s house as long as I live.” (Psalm 23 from Hebrew Scriptures) 

“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

Jesus replied: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.” This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Jesus as recorded in Matthew 22).

Some Days I Just Don’t, But I Do

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Some Days I Just Don’t, But I Do

By Jane Tawel

April 11, 2026

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I guess it’s not fair

to say I don’t care

but somedays there are times

when I don’t.

Don’t wanna’ keep fighting

Don’t wanna’ keep hoping

Don’t want more nail-biting

Or dreaming or moping.

I’m barely now coping

So, forgive me for writing

this doggerel dressed up like a poem.

*

I may be quite small — 

just a gnat, or a flea

on the tail of the dog-eating-dog lives we lead.

But I think even small things should matter — 

Don’t you?

I think children and tadpoles

And flowers and bees,

And fire-flies and moon-beams

And seashells and seeds — 

All matter should matter — and all that’s beyond — 

All life’s matter should matter to me.

*

There are some times I should

just breathe deeply, just be.

But at junctures of fear, doubt, or faith,

there’s a Voice that will whisper,

there’s a choice to be made:

Should I speak up with courage?

Should I fight, quit, or flee?

*

So, I live in the question — 

in this Time, in this Place,

Will I be or not be

one who makes a small difference?

Will I trust even small acts of love

will deliver us?

Will I choose to be kind?

Will I show love and grace?

Will I seek truth and justice?

Will I leave a wee trace?

Will I follow the way

of the sages now past

and of Good people I know

who stand tall and speak out?

No — there is no foreseeing

what the future will hold;

But I choose to stoke embers

of hope in my soul

for the Life that is Freeing

for the Life that’s eternal

for the Earth, our maternal, dear home;

for humanity’s spark

for Light conquering the dark,

for Divinity’s Known and Unknown.

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Somedays I think maybe

I can’t make a difference.

Somedays I think maybe

There isn’t much hope.

But I’ll do the good do’s,

What I can — just my part — 

And I won’t do the don’t’s and the do-nots.

And when fears try to stop me,

And doubt quells my heart,

And I struggle with why, how, or whether — 

Then I’ll look for a friend

And I’ll look for a hand

and I’ll whisper: “let’s do it together”.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Hope’s Plucked Feathers and Bits of Light

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Hope’s Plucked Feathers and Bits of Light

By Jane Tawel

Thoughts and riffing on Emily Dickinson’s poem, “hope is the thing with feathers” and meditation on the quality of our Light.

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The feathers of hope seem plucked to the skin.

The chill seas have plasticized Beauty.

The soul is not perched but in free-fall it seems.

And the sweet tunes are perniciously wordy.

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We are abashed with fire and ash

Hearts sore from flight from Power’s storms

Frigidity of soul-less gales

Compassion’s hands, hard to keep warm.

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I am this one small speck of dust

Blown by the Wind of time and place.

But even bits of dust can shine

Reflecting Light’s Eternal Flame.

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The shore seems further now than then

And like a bird in flight, I long for rest.

My heart is fluttering, fearful, tense,

and all the raging makes no sense

When all we little creatures want

The same –

safe-keeping, seeds, clean air, warm nests.

*

Hope flies again in fleeting moments

when the clouds clear from my mind.

And through the dark and thundering storms

I sometimes glimpse the Rainbow’s Light beyond.

I think She meant when once she said,

“Hope is the thing with feathers” — 

It’s not a thing that I can know.

For who can understand a bird?

A bird still awes me — Creation’s Wonder — 

And maybe just as wonderous, so is Hope.

*

We can not understand or cage

this marvelous grace of hopefulness.

Just as I can not make The Light,

but only clear my soul for His Reflection.

There’s nothing I can give to Hope,

“It asks no crumb from me”.

But even in extremities,

crumbs from Life’s Bounteous Tables can be sweeped

into our waiting, emptied bowls.

And as Our Mother felt Her womb-child leap,

Hope perches — fluttering, moving — 

Waiting to be born to Life,

once more today within our souls.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Nature Has No Kingdoms

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Nature Has No Kingdoms

By Jane Tawel

February 22, 2026

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Nature has no kingdoms.

No names, but what we give them.

No fame, but when we use them.

No needs but those we rape from them.

The fish and trees and God-created birds and bees,

are at the mercy of man’s own ego-needs.

Creation can’t fight back at us

because a Mother’s love can not destroy her child.

She must look on with helpless care,

as her human children hack her limbs

and nuke her beating heart

into a burning cess pool — 

once burning deep with Love — 

now shallow, broiling,

heart still aflame

in Nature’s dying throes.

*

Nature loves its anonymity,

its secrets and Its secret stores

of pleasure, beauty, and divine intentions.

Nature loves a vacuum — of human willfulness.

But otherwise, It thrives and strives

and circling, circling, circling

treasuring moments,

Creation throbs

with Holy Love and Life.

*

Why do the people again and again — 

throughout our shallow, fleeting things

that we call history and our place and time — 

Cry and demand the rule and greed of kings?

What does a small man need to need a king?

We circle and circle and circle the years;

we circle and circle and circle the drain;

and ever and always again and again

we forget our faith and place our fears

in the hands of the tyrants and idolatrous gods

in this man-made valley of unnatural tears.

*

Oh, small and longing human,

rest your eyes on the greens of the hills,

arouse your awakening in the blues of deep waters,

feel the soft earth beneath your bare feet,

listen to birdsong and small things in the night

let all Creation restore you to your true nature.

Creation is God’s first and only trusty scripture.

*

You have no need of earthly kings,

for there is One Whose Kingdom comes — 

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

and today — 

in Father, Heir, and Spirit –

and in this Earth, our Mother and our Home.

*

Here and Now. Be still and know.

We live and move and have our being,

here, where meaning pulses, and souls long,

heart to heart, twinkling-stars to songful-dawn.

In small-ish things, great Mystery lives.

The Tree of Life takes root and grows

above and through and in us all.

*

We need no one with clay-shod feet

to give us faith in what we can not speak.

Nature needs no idols.

Like Her, we worship best

in love of Known-Unknown.

Like Her, we worship best

when all are free, and all are One.

Creation — moving, growing, groaning — 

Creates and recreates a Holy Throne.

Like leaves that fall and mulch the earth,

We only rise to glory who die to find rebirth.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Mires and Wires

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Mires and Wires

By Jane Tawel

February 17, 2026

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Some of us dig in.

We dig, dig, dig down

into the sands

of our times,

into the tidepools

of our minds,

into the sucking mire.

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We are seldom able to fly,

but like birds on a wire,

we are called to balance —

precariously, it is true —

but trusting

that not one of us can fall

without the Weeping of the World.

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Here, where some of us have landed,

poised with wings tucked tight,

there is no room to gather

that which cannot be eaten today.

But those who choose to dig holes

like moles and augers in the land,

store up their treasures

leaving their names on the inverted pyramids

sinking into famed obscurity

and drowning in the solidity

of their false hopes.

Poor creatures —

so richly mistaken

and shaken to the core

by the fears of their impermanence.

*

I have dug myself plenty of holes.

But now I place my own small hope

on small movements of mine

fluttering, hopping at times from foot to foot,

attempting to share in the tight-rope act

of small beings barely balanced

in this singular time and place.

And like a small brown wren

I wonder how or when

in what future unknown space

will we, little birds —

(being now so often trapped and caught,

and bought — a dozen for a penny) —

will we at last be gathered

like chicks to Our Mother’s breast?

Here on this unsteady string of life,

we long for The Nest

and for the rest we once knew,

and yearn to know again

covered by The Father’s Mighty Wings of Refuge.

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It will not be by digging in

like a burrowing beast,

mistaking flowers for tares,

that I will find peace.

Nor will we know the love we seek

by running like lemmings or hares,

after any crown or prize

that we may chase.

We fledglings live encased

and see only through the cracks

of our embracing shells.

But incubating here

we wait to rise in glory.

*

It is still the same old story:

Only by falling and falling

and failing and flailing

into grace after Grace

will we learn to fly.

And someday, we will see The Face

of the One Who has kept us

hanging here in the balance

between life and death

where the faith of small birds

finds hope.

*

By dust we were created

and to dust we shall return.

But The Wind blows where it will,

and some will spread their wings to catch it

and will rise in flocked flight.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026