sunday, love and snow

Bodhi and I have had a sweet day, just the two of us. We shared breakfast, a little cartooning together, a snowy walk to our unchurch-church, a snowy walk to our neighborhood coffee shop to buy him a little slice of banana bread, a snowy walk home catching snowflakes and then lunch together. At lunch, I asked him to say a prayer, he said "I don't know any". I said, "That's okay, just open your heart and listen. Maybe your heart will have something to say". He closed his little eyes and grew quiet before his eyes flashed open again, "My heart said one word Mommy, LOVE". I said "Love is the perfect prayer".

Now he lies napping in his bed, growing so fast that my mama heart aches to hold him while I tend a warm crackling fire in the hearth.

To all of you on Sunday, I offer this prayer: "LOVE, Amen".

Comments

Traci Hendrix Hart said…

You've inspired me, Angelina, to start a blog. I love your photos, your observations, your impressions of...everything. And so, I am summoning the courage (and follow through!) to do so, as well.

I have four posts so far. Like me, it's a work in progress.

Much love to you,
Traci

January 18, 2011 at 4:45 PM

Coraggio

When everything looks bleak and the darkness cramps against the cold, it takes courage to simply look out from imagined isolation toward the wide horizon of beauty available in every moment. It takes courage to lean into the sea of life and trust the tide. When weary limbs no longer support us, it takes courage to trust our inner buoyancy and float. It takes courage, in the face of darkness, to remember the light and sit in all our apparent blindness and listen, silently, to the still, small whisper within. It takes courage, in that dark hour, when nothing else remains. Eyes closed. Eyes opened. A glimpse, a memory, a fleeting vision of a light so bright it blurs the borders of things seen and things perceived into a comprehensive wholeness of being. It takes courage.

tree digging

Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...

grief

Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the ...

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