My desk sits facing a large picture window where our backyard, acres and acres, stretches out over a gradual incline, topping off at the crest of a hill. Mist has descended down from the hill, almost to our house. The ash tree just beyond the window is finally pushing forth new leaves; ash tend to be very late to awaken from their winter slumber. I watch as the branches tremble when small winged guests make their landings, then groom themselves for a moment, and flit away. The starling on an uppermost branch has quite the morning care ritual; so much tail feather shaking, under-wing preening, and looking about to see who may be watching. Down below in the grass, the dandelions have gone to seed and seem, in wispy globes, to be ghostlike orbs hovering- countless- everywhere. Paired with the dense fog, the morning has an other-worldly quality. A bit eery, but very beautiful, and I am so thankful for the peace and stillness. The children will wake soon, and I hope I can hold onto this feeling to come back to through the day when things get lively.
For a moment, I have a guilty feeling that I should be reading my Bible in these few moments of alone-ness as day breaks. Growing up, I was indoctrinated that the success of my spiritual path required this. But, that never seems to start the day off right for me; it just leaves me confused, mind swirling as I try to make sense of what I read. It very may well not even be the text that creates these feelings- but the fear that was layered through those pages by people who seemed to doubt any intrinsic attraction I might have to goodness, and instead, appealed to my sense of self preservation to convince me to embrace God. But I am not motivated by promises, by rewards, by threats, by punishments- they are all the same thing, an insult to my higher nature, a cat call to base impulse. I am motivated by love, beauty, peace… I find it just beyond my doorstep.
Even the grass seems insanely beautiful with its coat of miniscule dew drops.
This last one, the raindrop falling from the forsythia branch- it feels as though the branch is weeping and just brings tears to my own eyes. It has been a long, hard year and only just this past month, has the hardness begun to yield to something in which I find comfort and a deep sense of peace again- I recognize them as long lost friends. I know there is both bitter and sweet; I am willing to taste both in the feast of life. Feist’s “So Sorry” plays through my head; I feel that I am singing it to the cosmos, acknowledging all the tantrums I threw in the face of difficulties and frustrations. There is no guilt, more a fondness for and humor in the humanity of my response, and a knowing that I am so loved and accepted despite any inadequacies- and perhaps, because of them.