Angels are wonderful but they are so, well, aloof.
It's what I sense in the mind and the roots of the
trees, or the well, or the barn, or the rock with
its citron map of lichen that halts my feet and
makes my eyes flare, feeling the presence of some
spirit, some small god, who abides there.
If I were a perfect person, I would be bowing
I'm not, though I pause whenever I feel this
holiness, which is why I'm often so late coming
back from wherever i went.
It's been a trying week, but there's always a light at the end of the tunnel or high in the sky. There's always something to be grateful for. This week it's Mary Oliver who every time reminds me of this, the full moon, and a (painfully) slow return to health for my guy. It's in concerned friends, cooperative kids and extra cuddly cats. It's in mostly laughing (sometimes like a raging mad woman) when I really want to cry. And it's in crying when I need to.