Love
In Remembrance
Click for meditationRegarding "In Remembrance"
My father was a firefighter
For decades, but seldom, if ever, spoke
Of the true dangers he faced.
He would come home from a
Shift, and might say he was
At a “bad fire” the night before,
But nary a word was breathed about
What made it so “bad.” Years
Later he confided to me a few
Details, but he totally carried most
Of his experiences to the grave.
Towards the end of his life,
He gave me some of his
Old fireman gear, including
His rubber coat, boots, and helmet.
All of his equipment was
Saturated with the smell of smoke,
Smoke which had swirled from
Fires many years before.
In each pocket of his rubber
Coat was a door wedge. I once asked
Him about it. He told me every
Fireman was taught to carry them
So they could wedge open a door, and
Not have it close unexpectedly
Behind them and trap them.
His wedges were all darkened and
Disfigured and smelled, too. In my Dad’s
Days as a fireman, firehouses did
Not have washers and dryers
For the firefighters to keep
Their fire clothing clean.
In Massachusetts they now do.
But the dangers of carcinogens in
Smoke–infused environments
Were not commonly known years ago.
From the time my father went to
His first fire until his very last,
He simply kept wearing the
Same heat-seared and smoke-reeked
Gear over and over. And so when I
Got possession of his equipment,
I ultimately hung it outside
On a maple tree to air out. It is
Still there. One day this past winter it
Snowed out…and the flakes
Alighted his coat and gently
Just stayed. I sensed he was getting
An anointing. I and my siblings
Might not know the details of his
Firefighting career, but Creation knew
The humbleness and dependability of what
He unselfishly always did…
Leo Carroll
July 22, 2019
…And so is draped his
Fireman’s coat, still his broad
Shoulders showing, altho’ it’s been
Almost forty years since he
Donned and wore…
His coat, his sense
Of duty, and lo’ still on this winter’s
Day carrying the smell of
Long ago smoke…
O’ Dad, almost all those
Fires you fought you seldom of spoke,
But the snow knows, and its
Softness anoints in silence the
Dignity of your tome.
Vermont Morning
Click for meditationRegarding "Vermont Morning"
And so when a woman
Recently showed me a photograph
Of her palms cradling a
Little bat in Vermont,
I was taken aback. She was
Supporting the creature
As if on the softest
Throne of white mittens.
I knew this was a special
Woman. She had found the bat
Asleep on a wall in her
Vermont home one morning, and
Had taken pity on it.
If she had been a member
Of the Jainism religious
Sect in India, which
Practices non violence
Against all living beings, she
Could not have been more loving.
She handled the bat as if
She was presenting the
The long lost treasure
Of the Knights Templar.
The photo of the bat
In her palms was taken
About 10-15 years ago,
And yet she still carried it
With her as if it was
A sacred, holy relic, and
When she showed it to me,
I was able to peer into
The simplicity and
Compassion of her soul.
Leo Carroll
February 16, 2019
Who else in knitted, mitten-white
Palms would e’er cradle a
Tiny, helpless bat in hopes to keep
The scared creature calm?
Very few people would … only
Someone who had herself been lost, and
Thus recognized the cry when
The morning sun wafted it across.
Love
Click for meditationRegarding "Love"
I was recently sitting
In a waiting room in Stoneham and
Listening for my name to be
Called for my ophthalmology
Examination. It is still not clear to
Me what happened next,
But I sensed someone was
Standing in front of me and
Staring at me. I raised
My head slowly to look up,
And there was this little
Boy, perhaps six or seven years
Old, and he had a smile
On his face. As soon as our
Eyes connected, he said
Something quickly to me which
Came out in a burst, like a
Digital stream of binary
Information. I could not
Understand a word of it,
But whatever he said, it was
Obviously important to him from
His facial earnestness looking at me.
Before I had a chance to
Respond, however, a young woman
Quietly appeared beside him,
Gently took his hand,
And as she started to
Turn to lead him back to a
Chair in the waiting room,
She gave me a knowing nod,
As if to convey she knew
That for a few seconds
Her son and I had connected in a
Mysterious, spiritual bond.
Leo Carroll
February 20, 2019
I feel his presence before
I see him, a young boy perhaps six
Years old who now stands several feet
In front of me, almost as if an
Apparition he so suddenly appears,
Like a rush of wind and then the
Paraclete’s breath upon my face,
And he smiles but his attempt
To speak is garbled and unintelligible —
At least in a worldly way that I can
Understand — and then his mother
Walks up softly and takes hold his hand,
And gently leads him away to
A seat in the waiting room’s
Sheepfold … while I in my
Chair am left wondering in
Awe of the message spoken by his
Incomprehensible words, and
Why he had picked me to be
Culled from out of the herd to
Hear his vocal cords struggle
In stanza and verse?
From the Field
Click for meditationRegarding "From the Field"
There is a field in the
Middle of the Maine woods,
Which functions for me
As if a prayer carpet before
A glistening farmhouse
Which rises above
It in the distance.
Holier than any place
Of worship, this
Field, in turn, bows
Before the farmhouse
To which it points.
Every time I have
Stood in that field,
The farmhouse has
Appeared as if it was
Caesarea in the Gospels,
A veritable shining city
Upon a hill, and a
Beacon to anyone
In search of coming into
The presence of their
Higher Power. And as
If trying to mark my path
To the Kingdom of God, I always
Take my compass out
And take a reading of the
Farmhouse’s direction from me.
The bearing never changes –
It is north northwest,
As dependable as
The eternal love of God.
Leo Carroll
December 5, 2018
I come in awe
Before this mountain,
Embraced by tall
Autumn grasses as I
Peer up at what
On a sun-facing slope
Rests – a far-away,
Familiar white
Farmhouse, ablaze
In sunlight like it
Was disseminating
God’s Word to alight
Upon my head…
And then an inner
Voice prompts me
To re-check the
Compass heading of
This object holding my
Spellbound gaze,
And as always the
Precise needle of
Creation points the same,
“Son, the bearing and
Path for you to
My farmhouse lies
As the croaking raven
Flies — north by
Northwest.”
Morning
Click for meditationRegarding "Morning"
I was sitting on a barstool
At the kitchen counter, and beside
Me was one of my little
Granddaughters. She was
Spending the day with us, and her
Visit was starting out with
A bowl of oatmeal and
Some toast. She noticed two
Roses which I had picked
The day before from my garden,
And she reached forward
To touch them, or better
Described, to caress them.
What a gentle moment
In a world which is filled with
Such beautiful events – if
Only we would notice them!
Gifts or blessings are
Given to us constantly, and
All that is required of us is to
“See” them and to
Accept them. Creation
Works in ways which are not
Our ways…we are
Given much in our Pilgrim’s
Walk to soften the
Calluses on our feet.
Leo Carroll
June 28, 2018
Two
Garden
Roses
Red and pink, a
Little girl’s
Inquiring fingers
Feeling
Them and
Caressing…a
Porridge
Bowl and its
Purple
Spoon set to
The side,
And love,
Sweet
Love, at
Breakfast to
Abide.