Hello Day, you little rascal. What have you in mind for this small box called me? Will I feel your early freshness like an inner morning skin? Will I pause to see your skies and hear your laughter in the wind? What music will you play?
Three hours later, lunch. "Ohhh Day, not once did I come out to play, or see your sky, or hear your wind. Too much to do."
Yet now that I have paused, a delightful discovery, I am breathing! Ears hear, and eyes begin to see. Five minutes ago, I didn't know I had a chest, hand or heart. In fact, except for coffee and chore, I and everything around me ceased to exist. Ah, there is the ping of mesquite needles dancing on the roof as this red geranium here on the deck is shocking desert sand.
I slow my breath. How differently I feel; a little more awareness, a little warmer chest. Now comes this breaking wave of sweetness, a place of sacred space -- with a giggle waiting there.
"But Day, some days aren't so fun where tear and pain await; where light and merry heart can share no hope. What sayest thou, then? How will I avoid the inner cactus needles and dodge the snakes on evening walk? And oh, that I don't fall to sleep again where hand, cloud, and all go missing except for chore."
Ah, and Day responds. "I am your strength, your comfort, your balm of Gideon. I am love in spite of worry, I am in your tear but not your tear, and in your fear but not your fear. Cleave the rock, the pain, the loss, I am balm to be discovered and invited as I dress your wounds while reaching deep.
"So, come on -- come with me. I am your magic-mystery tour -- skies will open, spirit-winds do run wild, and laughter does pass over this earth.* We will live and play this day and in my music, you will climb your hills and dance your song. For as you see, I am your rascal Day. I am your seeing heart.
* a suggestion of paraphrase from Tagore's Gitanjali's reflections...
