As I move through the rhythms of a richly blessed existence, I find myself suddenly reminded of the fragility of life. One friend's unspeakable tragedy occurs against the backdrop of several friends' joys . . . joys that could quickly (and seemingly, senselessly) turn into the same gaping loss. Life is a wonder, a small blossom of flame full of intricate brilliance and energy, vulnerable to any sudden gust. Nearly every day, I watch little children run into their parents' arms, watch the flash of delight between the large and small beings, witness something warm and sure and precious. I hear laughter, but just now, the air also seems full of Rachel weeping.
I walk to work, noting the handful of leaves still attached to the end of each branch of an almost bare ornamental maple. For the first time in years I feel anchored, present with the turn of the earth. Rather than feeling uneasily left behind as seasons change, or struggling to catch myself on details beyond a personal fog, I feel pretty much all here. Which is beautiful. But I find it difficult to express my profound gratitude and wonder over finding myself in this place. It is new and tender, and perhaps I fear it may fly away. Then, too, I cannot say how marvelous this is without acknowledging the anguish of before.
Someone has said that we must learn to hold the feather and the rock, because both are present in our lives. Joy and sorrow mix, certainties and uncertainties walk together, presence and absence and essence mingle in inscrutable ways. I play with students. We yell jubilantly. We chase over the blue and yellow play equipment. At the back of my heart, from a long way away, I feel the crying.
I walk to work, noting the handful of leaves still attached to the end of each branch of an almost bare ornamental maple. For the first time in years I feel anchored, present with the turn of the earth. Rather than feeling uneasily left behind as seasons change, or struggling to catch myself on details beyond a personal fog, I feel pretty much all here. Which is beautiful. But I find it difficult to express my profound gratitude and wonder over finding myself in this place. It is new and tender, and perhaps I fear it may fly away. Then, too, I cannot say how marvelous this is without acknowledging the anguish of before.
Someone has said that we must learn to hold the feather and the rock, because both are present in our lives. Joy and sorrow mix, certainties and uncertainties walk together, presence and absence and essence mingle in inscrutable ways. I play with students. We yell jubilantly. We chase over the blue and yellow play equipment. At the back of my heart, from a long way away, I feel the crying.
This reader cherishes the image of "a small blossom of flame" -- conveying both an ardent vitality and the constant vulnerability to extinction.
ReplyDeleteI shall keep your friends, affected by loss and tragedy, in my thoughts and prayers -- though one must grant that prayer can seem to have a feeble potency, at best, in the face of certain calamities.
"Where there is Sorrow," wrote Oscar Wilde from prison, "there is holy ground." You remind us of the complementary truth that where there is joy -- if received in a spirit of "profound gratitude and wonder" -- there is also holy ground. Your reflection is beautifully sensitive, even, or especially, in its necessary solemnity.
Thank you, Thomas, for your reading, understanding, and prayers. They are much appreciated.
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