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Easter 2014

new_england_sunrise

Every day is holy . . .

When I walked this morning at 3 a.m. owls were singing both north and south of me, their throaty cries traveling across the landscape faster than trains. Even as I drew near their shaded bowers, they continued calling, as if in love, as if longing for a relationship only the other could give. The world unfolds continuously around us – the gift offered forever revealing itself to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. Pine trees silvery in waning moonlight, plash of beavers warning bipeds from the pond, light thumping of deer as they bound away into the bracken. Oh my beautiful companions, whose every step and breath make possible my own, every day is holy or no day is. What rises is always rising, and what lives can never die. We choose accordingly and live with the light so chosen. Coming home I found rabbit tracks near the daffodils. Chickadees sang their two-note spring song, watching me from the backyard birch tree. How happy I am against such long odds, as if God were simply awareness given over and over to what is.

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