vast

Day after valentine’s day. Temperature has dropped and the sound of the wind is just approaching. There is a kind of peace in the waiting and quiet and not knowing, really, how severe this predicted storm might be. It is wildly beautiful outside right now.

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I just keep looking. Feeling the expanse in my chest that can only be described as vast. So vast it almost hurts. I love this word vast. There is no definition that can truly contain it. I just keep looking. Eyes open and eyes closed. Appreciating all the wild beauty inside too….

It would have been easy to get sucked into a place of feeling ‘alone’ yesterday. I could have forbidden myself to look at Facebook and all the ways couples were expressing their love. But no, I was there with the rest of us, a voyeur to a plethora of photos of roses and chocolates and valentines of all sizes and shapes. And then I saw the post of wise Anya sharing the poem of David Whyte entitled ‘Everything is Waiting for You’**, so beautiful, so capable of sending any distracting wayward emotion into vastness. What a gift to find this post!

It was a gift to feel encounters with beauty and comfort inside throughout the day as a kind of joyful spark, sharing couch space with peaceful Nora,

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eating a slice of my own fresh homemade bread,

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being one with the brilliant heat coming from the wood stove,

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roasting a delicious chicken dinner in my giant cast iron skillet surrounded by the color of potatoes, carrots, green beans and brussels sprouts,

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How wonderful to feel how each of these sparks embodied the potential to start a conversation simply by distinguishing itself from the vast number of possible sparks. How sweet that some of these conversations lasted for just a moment, some for a good part of the day, some throughout the night, and some now into this next day. There are no coincidences. It was a good valentine’s day after all….

 

**Everything is Waiting for You – David Whyte

Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

 

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