Beyond the Smudge

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes."  Marcel Proust

not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

These eyes - do they curse breakfast dishes still unwashed or do they greet the ordinary mess with a thank you? 

Thank you 

for bright berried smoothies sipped out of pink straws, two girls beside me, the ones I grew in my body. Yes, they're arguing.  Yes, they're complaining.  Yes - they're making too much noise. But they're here. 

Here - safe. Here - healthy.  Here - beside me.

Thank you.

Do these eyes settle upon the glass door smudged with dog breath & kid prints or do they look beyond the smudge to the sturdy oaks, the chirping chickadees, the singing blackbirds?  The single red leaf that just let go.  

Do I lean in and listen? Do I allow their here-ness, the bareness - the noise - to teach me?  Or are my eyes squeezed shut, tangled in what isn't?  

My beautiful, young friend with cancer. A mother to four. Weak body - no more hair, chemo, radiation - too much time in bed. Too much tired.  Too much pain. Do I ask why, do I curse what is?  Do I trust that the divine has a hand in it all?  

Could holding her hand in mine be enough?

Thank you, hair.  Thank you healthy, moving, breathing, aging, imperfect body. Thank you singing cells.

A big, full, breathe-with-me-now....inhale.  A let-it-all-out exhale.  Hot, steaming coffee, lit candle, big glass of clean water, time to sit and sip this flavor of now, house messy and in need. But still - a house.  A home. 

Winter sunshine. A place to land, shelter from cold. Warm socks.

Thank you, ordinary moment.

Do I despair over what is crooked, backwards - the infinite unanswered whys?  Do I count all that is seemingly broken?  The young family that sleeps on the floor in the lobby of the homeless shelter because all beds are full. 

Or do I, with each new breath, say thank you for their warmth - my warmth, my children's warmth.  

Do I curse others who don't or won't or can't hold out their hand? Or do I choose to hold out mine, everyday - no matter what?

Comfortable bed, cushy pillows, a refrigerator stuffed full, clean pajamas - eight solid hours of uninterrupted sleep. A whole, roasting chicken in the oven. The heat set at 70 degrees.  My children safe in their beds.  This full, deep breath of new.

Do I curse the cold or hold warmth closer?

New eyes.  New moment.

Thank you.

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Happy Thanksgiving blessed readers.  I'm so very thankful for you.