I haven't posted lately due to my need to read copious amounts of Dante (because of course, I am veryveryvery far from my reading goal at the beginning of the summer,) and due to the fact that I am moving back to Waco day after tomorrow. And even now, this is post is half-filled with poetry (but don't stop reading now! :) )
With the stressexcitement of moving back, the frustration I feel with financial aid and all things monetary, the somewhat-imminence of graduation, and a plethora of other worries and emotions, I have taken little time to pause in my spirit. Part of me says "'Pause in my spirit?' Sheesh, like I haven't heard the 'Lookattheliliesandseehowtheydonotworry sermon' before."
But the other part (hopefully the stronger part) of me knows that I desperately need to be reminded that His eye is on the sparrow. And that my worry depletes my ability to praise, to have joy, to love properly...and so many other things.
Anyway, I came across this poem and was struck by the reminder to recognize beauty daily, and to transform 'regular' moments into ones of praise. I had to share. Enjoy it, enjoy this day, for He has made it good.
Morning Song by Marcia Brown
Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.
I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.
Air lifts my gown - I might fly-
This thistle seed I pour
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.
A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?
Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.
You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent
of the monsoon rains.
I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
Just this, each day:
Bear yourself up on small wings
to receive what is given.
Feed one another
with such tenderness,
it could almost be an answer.
With the stressexcitement of moving back, the frustration I feel with financial aid and all things monetary, the somewhat-imminence of graduation, and a plethora of other worries and emotions, I have taken little time to pause in my spirit. Part of me says "'Pause in my spirit?' Sheesh, like I haven't heard the 'Lookattheliliesandseehowtheydonotworry sermon' before."
But the other part (hopefully the stronger part) of me knows that I desperately need to be reminded that His eye is on the sparrow. And that my worry depletes my ability to praise, to have joy, to love properly...and so many other things.
Anyway, I came across this poem and was struck by the reminder to recognize beauty daily, and to transform 'regular' moments into ones of praise. I had to share. Enjoy it, enjoy this day, for He has made it good.
Morning Song by Marcia Brown
Here, I place
a blue glazed cup
where the wood
is slightly whitened.
Here, I lay down
two bright spoons,
our breakfast saucers, napkins
white and smooth as milk.
I am stirring at the sink,
I am stirring
the amount of dew
you can gather in two hands,
folding it into the fragile
quiet of the house.
Before the eggs,
before the coffee
heaving like a warm cat,
I step out to the feeder-
one foot, then the other,
alive on wet blades.
Air lifts my gown - I might fly-
This thistle seed I pour
is for the tiny birds.
This ritual,
for all things frail
and imperiled.
Wings surround me, frothing
the air. I am struck
by what becomes holy.
A woman
who lost her teenage child
to an illness without mercy,
said that at the end, her daughter
sat up in her hospital bed
and asked:
What should I do?
What should I do?
Into a white enamel bath
I lower four brown eggs.
You fill the door frame,
warm and rumpled, kiss
the crown of my head.
I know how the topmost leaves
of dusty trees
feel at the advent
of the monsoon rains.
I carry the woman with the lost child
in my pocket, where she murmurs
her love song without end:
Just this, each day:
Bear yourself up on small wings
to receive what is given.
Feed one another
with such tenderness,
it could almost be an answer.
I was just glancing at Praise Habit the other day and was reminded of the same thing. I love you, dear :] And He's proud of you.