Sometimes, without asking, we are gifted grace. It could be the strumming of a guitar from a neighboring house some lazy afternoon, it could be the first sighting of a butterfly after a harsh winter, it could be a shared glance across a crowded metro coach, it could be the morning sun seeming to bend to greet you as you step into the street, of entering a lift and recognizing the song seeping out of someone’s earphone.
These are dollops of sundrops left on our soul’s doorstep, almost to remind us that there is much more to life than only it’s mangled drudgery.
But the tragedy is that in our misconception to liken life to a race, we ignore these minuscule benedictions invariably strewn in our paths. And we miss out the chance to experience life’s stranger-fullness, which says you take care of the big things to steady your ship, but if you ignore the little things you will go through this world empty.
And then there’s the karmic law of grace. What you give is also what you get back, often in multiples of abundance.
Are we the one with the glance? The progenitor of a secret note, the one who secretly funded a dream, the one who moved the curtain so the winter sun finds its way to the body of a loved one, the one who canceled a meeting to hear a little one’s incredibly important tale, the one who doesn’t remove a bloodless arm from beneath someone fast asleep?
In our willingness to go on a limb for a loved one or a stranger, we are plugging into the blessing of a mysterious force, the power of a spiritual community, a universe which always gives back.
Because love in its purest form is finally service, it’s our ability to find the finest parts of ourselves and make a gift of it. And this is invariably the unwritten history of our lives, which comes back to us, as a story of survival - and often to lighten the deepest darkness of a stranger’s life.
I get out into the dark morning
unusually elated, as if breath
is benediction enough.
There are streaks of light, random,
like life itself, scattering themselves
into incomprehensible pieces.
.
I have silently left one world,
wondering if I will be whole again,
with something inside not wishing
to leave her warmth and continuous
invitation, a shelter she seeks but
always ends up giving.
.
I was curled into her for so long
like millions on this earth with someone -
but I’m in love with her,
and however crowded that sentiment,
it definitely must count for something
somewhere.
Hear the poem:
And these, which I love:
Come When The Heat of Noon Has Still Not Dimmed