I am standing in the kitchen listening to the sweet humming of my daughter.
She is sitting just outside, playing.  It stops me in my tracks.
There was a time when the singing was silenced by an immobilizing kind of sorrow.
I want to bottle this up and pour it out over the tough and tight and constricted things, transforming them instead into shirodhara bliss.

When these heartstrings are tugged, I am gently coaxed back from the painful past or the fearful future into the sweet blessing right in front of me, right now.
It is the angels’ share … the thing that knocks at the door and says, “Listen.  Look.  Behold.  I am here.  Let me in and I will reconcile you with this moment through the communion of intimacy with me and with it.”
I am incapable of resisting.

The mundanity of living life can distract us from the presence needed to give life to ourselves and to our loved ones.
Does the moment truly exist if it is not perceived?  If it exists, does it exist to us if we are indifferent to it?  Perhaps it exists, because even, and especially, ordinary moments are whole and miraculous, but we miss the divine blessing offered to us by them.
Gwendolyn Brooks cautions us in her poetry to, “Exhaust the little moment for soon it dies, be it gash or gold it will not come again in this identical disguise.”

The smell of the neighbor’s fresh-cut grass,
the way the dog lays on the deck soaking up sunshine,
the warmth of the air coming through the open door,
this simple yet sacred space from which I write,
the look of my daughter’s sweetly smiling freckled face framed by caramel ringlets,
the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees,
and that hallowed holy humming … priceless ever-present gold.

There has been plenty of not-so-great gash, but she is skirting inspiration today.  She is patient and will wait her turn.  I trust her to knock when she is ready.
I promise to open the door and accept her invitation to go out to the field where she’ll remind me that grace is tendered from grief, joy from mourning, singing from sorrow.
Will you meet us there?

2 comments on “Behold

  1. You are a gifted writer and I can tell you are filled with the Holy Spirit as you are pouring out your heart. Praying for you and your sweet girl!


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s