A thank you

I peeled open my reluctant eyes this morning carefully squinting to avoid the brightness of dawning sun. First thing, I found myself eye to eye with a new book on my bedside table- a publication I‘d received as a gift Saturday. I hadn’t even opened to flip through the pages yet. The title confused me and appeared complicated, daunting. I mistakenly thought the title read The Bridoe of Stars, so I avoided the book thinking I’d need a Webster’s dictionary to figure out the meaning of burdoe before I could even jump into the book. Instead of seeking the dictionary, I propped up my fluffy pillows and sat up, and cracked open the large volume partway through to this:

An offering of time
Lord, I have time,
I have plenty of time,
All the time that you give me,
The years of life,
The days of my years,
The hours of my days,
They are all mine.
Mine to fill, quietly, calmly,
But to fill completely up to the brim,
To offer them to you.

Michel Quoist , France

Don’t know about you, but I fight the tyranny of the immediate- daily, hourly.
This poem snapped me out of “busy” into a peaceful way to begin a day. Oh, yes, I have time to sit in the silence of the morning. Before my children wake up and start banging out breakfast slams of the fridge and cabinets. Before I need to collect the laundry from the night before and stuff it into the machine. Before I unload the dishwasher to load what is waiting in the sink. Before I straighten the scitter scatter throw rugs, put caps on toothpaste, and pull the shower curtain to in the boy’s bathroom. Before I throw library books strewn across the couch into the proper basket. I can sit here under the warmth of my quilt, breathe, and let the quiet surround me like a fog pouring over the mountains.

After a long while in the stillness, I made my way to the forward by His Holiness the Dalai Lama and laughed at myself when I realized from his writing the curly script on the book cover read The Bridge of Stars. I happen to already know the definition of bridge, so I won’t be needing a dictionary after all to figure out this book.

I promised myself to only take in one more poem for today, because I clearly see the book as a treasure to savor with diligent slowness. I want to try on and wear each entry like a favorite loose fitting cotton lavender dress in a closet lined with hangers of gorgeous and comfy garments I’ve never worn before.

On Rising

The beauty we love
Today, like every day,
We wake up hollow and frightened.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Reach for a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Jalil al-Din Rumi, Persia

After reading this poem, I showered yesterday from my skin. “Reach for a musical instrument” translated for me to “do something which will wake me up artistically”. So, I rummaged for a particular song on a CD and danced to the dawn of a new day before beginning my morning chores.

Thank you, Woody for this present.
With love and deep respect back at ya.