Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Monday, December 12, 2016

Sacred gardeners

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”
                                                                         Marcel Proust

I can be thankful for many things

Sometimes I forget this
I might wake up thinking of the corporate takeover of America by Trump
I might wake up remembering that right now, physically,
Everything hurts, and what doesn’t hurt doesn’t work

I can go negative in half a breath

But if I slowly take the rest of that breath
And look around

I see my home, which I love
I can look out the window and see Mt Joseph glowing in the morning sun
I can watch the sun rise over the Seven Devils
And see the clouds catch fire

I can hear the horses greet me as I go out of feed them
And I can get horse kisses

And I can look at the destruction in my living room
The telltale signs that there are people

People I love, and who love me

And I can sit in the middle of the mess
Shoes, and pillows, jigsaw puzzles and cards
And remember people far away, like my daughter and her family

Who are still a part of this moment

And people no longer here, my mother and father
So long gone

All those people who been gardeners of my soul
And have made it, for all the weeds and barren places


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