Manna Meditations

finding Narcissus by a quiet stream…

Manna Meditations, Day 33

The Stream snatches a slice out of the sky and pins it down in a furrow of earth, so that all the trees lean over to look, seeing the sight of themselves for the very first time:

They stand astounded, caught in this position for a hundred years, perhaps … Just long enough for their lean forms to lock in the shape of supplication, or prayer.

The Stream laughs all day long at their vanity. But the she laughs, too, at the gift of their beauty, which bends always toward her, backlit by blue.

In the face of our beloved, we seek our own reflection.

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Manna Meditations

headfirst into the wonder …

Manna Meditations, Day 29

There are those who travel the world to witness the cataracts …

Niagara.

Victoria.

Angel.

Iguazo. 

But yesterday, I stand on a cliff in my ordinary town, watching the blonde grass plunge in a perfect cascade and come crashing down to the treeline below:

And I am overcome – for the thousandth time – by the astounding beauty of ordinary things.  Everyday places.

I go out hungry for it, day after day…

It’s never failed me yet. ❤

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Manna Meditations

gratitude in the winter dark…

(Manna Meditations, Day 23)

In these gray days, let us not forget to look for the ordinary wonder …

To see beauty in bare lines and broken places, in cracks crazing the sidewalk like fine china:

To see color in subtler shades — the blonde of afternoon sunlight.  The burnished bronze of fallen leaves, shining against wet dark asphalt:

Let us see warmth in the naked white limbs of sycamores, which reach out to embrace each other across streets and lanes, unhampered by their green-leaf summer clothing:

And let us see sunsets — one for every day, astoundingly aflame, the gift as predictable as clockwork:

Ah, Lord.  This place is cold and dark…

And also, it is beautiful. 

💛

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Almost Poetry, Manna Meditations

this is what i am trying to tell you …

Manna Meditations, Day 12

I find the Light
rumpled in the morning sheets–
toss back the quilt and there it is,
rising in the gold air,
catching in the dust motes,
setting them on fire.

Sometimes, too,
I find it caught fast
in a crosshatch of frost on the windows,
or crystalline, scattered
over spikes of frozen grass.

I swallow it in the sunshine
on my eggs at breakfast.

It glints on my glasses
as I read.

Sometimes I could lick
the Light off my fingers like butter —
Sometimes it drips through my hands
and down my wrists
like spilled perfume.

*

But some mornings,
I wake and it is not there.

I am thirsty for it, calling for it,
crack-lipped and crazed
as a fever patient.

In those days,
the shadows fill the room
and the sky is snuffed
& there is no appetite
for eggs
or butter
or perfume
or the Presence.

*

In that day,
carry the Light to me
in your cupped hands.

Kneel at my bedside, Friend,
and I’ll drink from your upturned palms.

*

Hear me.

Oh, hear me:

When we are not alone
(and we are never alone),

there is always Enough.

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