Like you, I spent the weekend vacillating between profound gratefulness at the life laid out before me to utter despair, anger and heartache over the loss of precious, innocent life in Connecticut. On Saturday morning, I cried as I sat in a coffee shop finishing up a project and reading the latest news reports. That night, we put on smiles and drank wassail with friends. We celebrated my father-in-law's retirement with a lovely party on Sunday afternoon and then lit our advent candles at dinner, read prayers and dabbed our eyes at the pain and blessing. I am not sure how to move on from this. I know that part of me wants to remember this pain and anger and to use it for good. I want to keep a prayer on my lips. I want to be better at savoring the day—the mug at my lips in the morning, the cereal I will pour for Eli, the second bowl for Oliver. The moments of watching Sintayehu push the small, green cart at the grocery store, the afternoon phone call I'll get from Jake telling me he's on his way home. My mom will call today. Our friends will gather tonight. The beauty is in the minutia. By the grace of God, that's where I want to live.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
What a beautiful poem! One to post over my desk...
ReplyDeleteI smiled and wept all at the same time. Thanks Leslie. Love you.
ReplyDeleteI smiled and wept all at the same time. Thanks Leslie. Love you.
ReplyDeletethis post reminded me of ann voskamp's "one thousand gifts" which i am rereading. have you read it? i highly recommend it - so helpful in looking for the blessings all around in the everyday things of life.
ReplyDelete