One of the realities of summer
One day it is a blossom
The next a fingerling
The next, almost too big.
Ask me if I’m growing squash
And I’ll likely say yes.
But, really, it grows on its own.
My part is minimal.
The rest is miracle.
Sun, water, dirt, seed –
Become an edible delight.
I can barely keep up.
I am grateful for these quiet miracles.
And the fact they don’t depend on me.
[photo by Joan per cc 2.0]
A list of things that will pass:
- The soft sighs of a sleeping child
- Spring’s cool mornings
- Flowers that wake after a rain
- The ache of yesterday’s exercise
- The strength of my resolve
- The urgent demands of this day
- The current political mess
- The opportunity on my doorstep
- This, this, this, too.
A list of things that will not change:
- God’s love in all of this
At last, I can breathe again. Nothing is too precious or too painful to be outside the realm of the embrace of love. I am grateful.
[photo is my own … already she has changed]
[Thanks to Brene Brown for her work on foreboding joy.]
Any new beginning holds the seeds
Of a tiny resurrection.
Any turning of the corner
Or of the clock
Brings an end
And a beginning.
We mark the big moments:
A birth, a graduation, a retirement, a death.
But it is often the small moments
That mark our souls:
The warm greeting in the eyes of a friend,
The warm hug that follows,
The knowledge that they still hold you
Even when you are away.
My life is marked most deeply
By these small moments of resurrection,
And I am ever grateful.
[photo by Benoît Mars per cc 2.0]
[My thanks to Richard Rohr, who suggests that resurrection is not a one-time thing, but the revelation of the pattern of the universe – that ‘reality is always moving toward resurrection.’]
stern bronze eagle
looking down upon the stair
it is time to fly
[This in recognition of my retirement from UNT, whose mascot is the eagle. The timing is right. The photo is my own.]
My hands are dirty
My heart is muddled
My gift, impure.
And yet …
My space within the world could use a little kindness,
And so, I give my broken offering.
Not perfect, but still a contribution.
My piece, with yours.
The space between us,
Bridged with light.
[photo by Leonie per cc 2.0, with a nod to Lenard Cohen]
There is a tiny nugget of hope within my soul.
I don’t hold it;
It holds me.
And I let it.
That’s my part in all of this;
I let it hold me.
And that’s where the miracle begins.
[photo by Thales per cc 2.0]
When someone sits me down
And tries to tell me what I must believe
I think I see Flat Stanley, standing beside the pew.
It is as if he’d been smashed between the pages of a book –
Only the correct translation, of course –
And now, with things all decent and in order,
We can get on with the rest of our lives.
We can just slip him out when it’s handy.
And put him back when he gets in the way.
[image modified from photos by Temple Moore Trail (pews) and PRO Tito Perez (flat Stanley) per cc 2.0]