The blue light of dawn - which the is the light of which we are all composed - arises now. One can be grateful for candles, and the shape of mountains, and the sound of snow sifting in wind through the pines. This life and no other.
Slowly one learns to be grateful, and to see the gift as what is given. Giving? That, too.
Often when I wake in the morning there is a sense of having traveled great distances, never unaccompanied and often outside time. Yet there is nothing to do but allow Christ to do it. Did I mention gratitude?
One watches the stars fade from the sky, and rabbit tracks emerge in the snow. The blue light of dawn - which is the light of which we are all composed - comes as a blessing. Always ask what continues.
Reheated coffee, familiar texts, Latin roots. The sound her shirt makes falling to the floor, a sigh outside of hunger, and kisses, always kisses. I put more wood in the stove and go to the window to see if the cardinal will visit.
One learns not to take the red bird of the heart for granted. Prisms reveal the vivid beams of which any light is composed and I am never not amazed. We are dust motes in a secret chapel, we are lovers in a clearing that only we can find.
And so on and so forth unto always. Oh you who lighten my unbearable delight.
Thank you Sean,ReplyDelete
your words going straight to my heart, and feeling embraced by them.
Thanks, Maria . . . .ReplyDelete