Holy

 

This morning, while I was thinking I need to write about the fragility of the holy, or maybe the fragility of our perception of the holy,  I saw the iris in the side yard blooming early, two weeks early, and I did not worry about global warming; I reclaimed the word “awesome” and applied it.

I saw that the earth in the cold frame is exploding with spinach and chard that I planted two months ago and failed to thin because thinning feels like murder and a sadness, but I did not dwell on murder and sadness, nor overcrowding; I watered the glad sociability of all those green leaves.

This morning, I looked at the road in front of my home and let pass the memory I will always have of the trail of feathers left by my sweet hen as the bobcat carted her off;  in its place I saw a soft geometry of light, the rising sun limning shadows of living trees.

Then I considered the velvety nubbins budding from the bony forehead of the young buck who sometimes visits, and did not wonder if they hurt him;  I imagined the antlers he is quietly making, their role in the bold and secret matter of deer love.

This morning, I loved the world.

 

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Tags: gratitude, holy, nature, perception, spirituality