There was a soft wind this morning at 4 a.m. – rustling in trees, sighing over the hills – and I walked through it with the dog, happy and wordless, as if at any moment it might pick me up and carry me through darkness all the way to the sea. In the forest, just shy of the brook, I stopped while falling maple leaves whispered as they settled on my shoulders.
How sweet these moments are! And yet how quickly I categorize them, reduce them to words, squeeze them into blog posts . . . I am like a child who, given a thousand presents, instantly comes up with a list for a thousand more.
How patient Jesus is . . .
There is no life outside of Heaven. Where God created life, there life must be. In any state apart from Heaven life is an illusion (T-23.II.19:1-3).
I am given the Kingdom and trade it for my own wordy dream. It must be that at some level I think I can do it better. You think your autumn morning is beautiful, God? Check out my mad creation skills . . .
When will we see that God is here and the gift is given? Nothing more is needed – not now, not ever. How many more mornings until that one arrives where I do not come back to this wordy body but follow the wind into the light beyond the darkness?
Jesus waits: extends his hand: and still I hesitate. Still I think: one more poem, one more sentence . . .