Yes, I am home from Tenakee, and was woken up this morning by a black and white domestic bunny rabbit thumping on the back door. He hopped under the greenhouse when I opened it. And last night we went to a wedding, in the warm evening out at the fairgrounds, full– just full– of young people and little children and laughter and dancing and old friends and new, my beautiful daughters and beautiful granddaughters– and I thought, well, all is very, very right with the world.
After the bunny sighting, I let the hens out of their coop and scattered a hand full of cracked corn for a treat, took my walk about the yard in pajamas, the tide was out, the grass was wet with dew, not rain, there is blue sky and sun, and my flowers are all over grown to bursting, and while I know the season is about to change, and this can’t last much longer, rather than grieve for summer’s passing as I sometimes do this time of year, I was suddenly so content. So happy to have found my place in the world and to be so rooted to it. I thought of that Mary Oliver line– “I live in a house called gratitude.”
So, I made my coffee, and sometimes, when all is quiet like now, before the day begins and we get going– there’s the firewood to split and stack, and a bike waiting for a ride– and Chip is listening to his jazz in the living room, I duck back up into bed (I washed and line dried the quilt and sheets yesterday, so our room smells like outside, too) and read while the coffee kicked in. On my nightstand is Mary Oliver’s recent book of poems called Thirst. I read one called The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist, because I know exactly what she means:
I want
to see Jesus,
Maybe in the clouds
or on the shore,
just walking,
beautiful man
and clearly
someone else
besides.
On hard days
I ask myself
if I ever will.
Also there are times
my body whispers to me
that I have.
