How time flies (even when one feels that it is not moving!) for it's already Thursday. And for a week that started out alright, crashed to the ground mid-way, it has gone on an upward swirl as prettily as the twirling ribbons on a rhythmic gymnast.
My brain is not working all that well this morning... my words are once again failing me.. and so I have to resort to borrowing the words of another by the name of Dean Blehert... hopefully you'll recognise the small blessings (follow this link to read full poem) in your life as I have come to see mine.
Blessed are the stones I tread,
for they hold the universe together with their faith in gravity,
while I indulge in levity.
Blessed is the weather,
for it enables polite discourse among strangers—
which can lead anywhere.
Blessed are the falling leaves,
for they steep in the wind and flavor it.
Blessed are the tortured,
who endure much so that
even torturers can be good at something.
Blessed are the walls—
they turn space into places.
Blessed are the windows,
for they allow excess buildup of PLACE
to leak off into space.
Blessed are doors,
where walls can change their minds.
Blessed are ceilings,
for when we lie on our backs with our eyes open,
they become the walls within which
we feel safe enough to dream ourselves anywhere.
Blessed are the children,
for though they are much smaller and frailer than I,
they trust me to roam freely.
Blessed are fathers,
who must love deeply to believe this hocus pocus
about how babies are made.
Blessed are mothers,
for our visits to earth greatly inconvenience them,
yet they greet us with a smile.
Blessed are the signs on the road,
for they tell me that someone knows
I am here.
Blessed are the music makers,
for they create holes in time
to be filled up with the words of poets.
Blessed are the lovers,
for they so thoroughly saturate each other with admiration
that the rest of us are free to look elsewhere.
Blessed are the hands,
for where I am too far away
for the hands that would reach out and touch me,
they touch each other loudly.
Blessed is the beggar,
who wakes us from our unseeing
by giving the street corner a shadowed intricacy
that MUST be looked at or looked away from.
Blessed is the Lord God Almighty,
for we must have been taught to say this for SOME reason.
Blessed is my head,
for when I am inside it my thoughts resonate,
just as do my songs in the shower.
Blessed are the readers,
for they make this voice in my head a voice in many heads,
freeing me to find new voices.
Sometimes we wonder if anyone is listening when we speak. Sometimes we wonder IF there IS anyone at all that we can speak to. But someone has gone out on all limbs to prove to me that not only am I heard, I. Am. Heard.
And so my own lil contribution to the poem above would go something like this:
Blessed are the fuzzy bears,
whose fine fur lands amongst the ciggie ash on my coffee table,
as I pluck at his ear while I let my head wonders.
For even tho he has cotton in his belly
he's made me feel a lil taller, a whole lot better
And definitely very much loved!
You know who you are... and truly - all the languages in the world, would not cover what it is I want to say!
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