How we struggle to receive. Yes, ‘we.’ Presumptuous of me to impose my own particular spiritual struggles onto anyone reading this, you say? Probably. But as probability goes, I bet it’s a good bet. The energy that comes with acute production and perceived achievements—for me, academic writings, a book, lecture-notes and leading-teachings—seems all there is these days. My soul seems ever attuned to the next mountain, the yet-considered way to show worth. So will I become blind to a week’s splendor at the Shore?
Why continue to solve this problem by obsessing about it?! Open the door...
A poem of remembering arrives from a friend.
The sun rises, shimmering its light across the lake.
And this, after an evening’s hazy moon lit up the waves
With an expansive warmth and holy invitation.
What more does one need to see abundance offered, every angle?
A group of local ladies convene their morning meeting.
Business as usual—knit and purl, cable and twist, perhaps a rib.
“Using up my sock-yarn, you know. This is for an unusual mother.”
The gathering smiles and sighs with approval, amusement.
Efficient recycling. New ages of maternity.
The birch trees spread their golden hues,
Across the sky and upon the weathered floor.
Leaf-peeping is nearly past, but just enough for late-bloomers
To enjoy, to breathe in, to sneeze, and to smile.
A beloved canine awaits freedom from her padded cell
For cleaned room, new paths to smell, and much straining
With excitement. Reminding her pet-parents what a
Blessing abounds, all around, every angle.
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