Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on swiftly tilting planet . . .
We visited the nature preserve. The sycamores were shivering, half naked in the wind. My children ran ahead, delighting in every new flower and leaf and bird. I walked behind them. Our yard is full of birds these days. We must be far enough south that somebody else’s birds come here to overwinter. I recognized the goldfinches again a few days ago. I hadn’t seen them since late summer.
This year I am grateful for a thousand little gifts of grace. Those birds, the blue of the sky, the collection of seeds and nuts and pods my children bring in from outside. The trees that change their colors and drop their leaves and the trees that don’t. Warm milk, fresh eggs, grass beneath the soles of my feet. I have never been so aware of the gifts of the earth. Nor of the Giver, who maketh his sun to shine on the just and on the unjust, showering love on those who recognize it and those who don’t. That sun shines so abundantly here. Even as the days shorten and the shadows lengthen, there is time each day for me to walk outside, close my eyes, and feel warmth and radiance.
And so I shiver, like the sycamores, when I feel the wind. Yet even as it blows, I turn my face to the ever-present light. I envision it bursting forth over the blackness and emptiness of space, and flying through thousands of miles to reach me as I stand on a little blue shivering earth. And I think of the light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. That proceedeth forth . . . to fill the immensity of space. Not to touch a few points or throw up a faint glow in the distant corners, but to fill the immensity of space. I saw Eternity the other night, like a great ring of pure and endless light . . .
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Namaste, I say to Him as I finish my yoga practice. My tiny, flickering light salutes the great and everlasting Radiance that is You.