Manna Meditations, Day 35
Manna Meditations, Day 35
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. ❤
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.
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
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.
Oh, hear me:
When we are not alone
(and we are never alone),
there is always Enough.
Manna Meditations, Day 9
See the rain, if you like …
Or see the raindrops spangling each twig and leaf … the whole world bedecked in jewels.
Manna Meditations, Day 6
Slate-colored sky. Slow patter of rain.
My eyes are hungry for beauty, and as I first step outside, I wonder — in all this gray drizzle — where on earth I’ll find it.
But beauty isn’t made for eyes alone, even if (for me at least) my eyes are the most ravenous part of me… So I put my camera away, and I walk.
There is an old art to what I do next, I’m sure.
I wander rainwet streets, listening. After awhile, my ears sharpen, grow sensitive: rain tapping gently on bare branches, or crackling crystalline against frozen grass.
A little longer, and the sound begins to take on color, too: platinum. Pale blue. That faintest edge of lavender.
Suddenly I realize there’s birdsong — green wet notes stabbing through gray.
I lift my head, and as I do, a single raindrop strikes my lower lip: a silver bell of sound. A sharp ray of light passes straight through me, flaring like a flashbulb in my chest.
My hungry eyes consume all this — the sound transfigured to light, the rain translated to song — and I walk home, all the neurons tingling.
I’m alive with wonder, speechless and slack-jawed with praise. ❤