Everyday Heaven

What if it’s alland onlyfor light?

On a cold winter morningwhen the sky is blue,a crow passesand you look up. This is life.

I can see the wind moving through the treetops.I can see the sun trapped in a shard of ice.What is it, then, that I see when I laugh, when I cry,when I kiss you on the cheek and close my eyes, smiling?

I turn out the light, close my eyesand listen to you breathe—that same breaththe world takesin the darkness.

I met a piece of driftwood,smooth and light. It told metumbling on the wavesdoes that to you,if you let it.

Every fall the trees lay their blanket of love .Every spring the bulbs raise their blades of hope.This is how the world works, despite it all.

Could we live like this, our livesbound in duty and honor,freed by the chains of love?

Sometimessome small thingsare biggerthan I can know.

When I die, bury mein a field and plantwhite and blue asterson top of me so everydark autumn I’ll remind youI’m still gladly living.

Often it’s enoughfor your warm bodyto warm mywarm bodyand nothing else.

One minute not so long agoI heard a bird sing. I lost myself and foundsomething bigger.

Every daythe same old,same oldmagic. There’s a lot of routine to having a puppy. Rufus thrives on it. If I’m not careful, each day is Groundhog Day. But Rufus helps me remember there’s wonder everywhere. It might be the same routine, but Rufus finds joy in every patch of light, each waving leaf. It’s a…

Onlywhen we allow ourselvesto be intoxicatedby a leaf in the sundo we live.

Dwellin the patch of lightfor it reminds uslove is.

All of usare thrown into this lifewe didn’t ask forbut want to keep. So we learn(finally and perhaps)that all that’s left to dois love.

What ifeverythingimportantis foundin thedandelionclockthe momentbeforethe windblows?

The starflower blooms in the forest.You might walk on by—but if you do,you’ll never know love is everywhere,even in the darkest of places.

Dandelion seedslike angelsin the sun. We might notalways see itbut the truth isevery seedand every leafpossesses thisheavenly glow.

The thing about spring flowersafter a winter turned insideis they capture youso, for a second,you lose your selfand find the world anew.

Love shows its face when you least expect.Such as when you find a beetle on its back,legs striving to reach the home of soil,and you gently nudge it right-side up.No chocolates, no flowers. Just striving in the dirtand knowing what being is.

What ifwe saw the worldthrough the eyes of the world,if we saw what’s best for the worldis best for us,if we allowed ourselvesto be smaller, to be nobody,to be a walk-on partin the world’s lovely play?

Down deep in the dirt,the soil browning my palmsand filling my nails. I might decide to eat lunchwithout washing my handsso as to consume the universe.

When the rain stops and the sunshines I step outside and countthe sprouting seeds amid therotting leaves—and fall in love.

All I want is what I got. The warm smellof yesterday’s grassThe birds singing.A fly. All I got is what I want.

Can we consider it an honourwhen the phoebe choosesto build a nest under our deck?Can we be a place of safetyand of love? Can we live togetherin this land called home,under the same April sun? Can we be good?

Often it’s enough to watchthe wind-waved boughsand see life in every cell.

How easily I forgetyou are everythingand everything is youand all is well.

Wait long enough,watch hard enough,lose your self,find another self—in the wholeloveness of it all.

What if everything is heldin the silent spruceand the wren that arrivesfrom the east?

Soon it will be summerand the sparrow will sing.It knows, however, the gapbetween the notesis where the music is born.

On this still morningthe chickadee calls home,his ancient songas usual as the sunrise.

What, asked Bird, if we are simply mirrorsreflecting the wholeness of the world?

One day you’ll learn, said Bird,the world works perfectly just as it is.All you need do is play your part.

Don’t be afraid of the wolvesthat howl over the lakefor they eat the deerthat eat your Hostas.

There’s a cemetery in Pariswhere they don’t cut the grass,vines twist free and flowerssway over mossy stones.I like to think the dead are smilingwith so much life around them.

Inside my chest is a gaping holeof uncertainty. Sometimes I liketo fall into it, knowing I will becaught by the gentlest of love.

Staring at a squirrelstaring at me. The world looking at itself.In love.

The bird fliesand takesmy breathwith it.

Let me breathe the same breath as the chickadee,walk the same path as the deer,feel the sun, the rain—and smilebecause I’m home.

When everything is already hereand every part is part of every thing,we tread quietly and plant, lovingly,in the whole soil of the kind world.

If we dare stop for a secondand let the cold seep inwe hear the world and realizewe are most alivewhen we die to ourselvesa little.

The rain sweetened the ground,…

Those moments when the sun is on the birch…

Communion in the moment…

When summer warms the browning grass…

One leaf quakes…

You can hear heaven…

I feel most alive…

My shoes glooped in mud…

It’s always curious how a brief glimpse…