Holy Simplicities

Warm rocks on bare feet after the sun's gone down and the air is cooler.

Flat water and a quiet soul with a cup of tea on the deck in the morning.

Flat water and a communing soul with jujubes on the dock in the evening.

Baking cookies, just enough to send some home and ruin supper with the rest.

Blueberries the size of marbles hiding in the under side of a patch that's keeping me quietly occupied for a long, long time.

The loon, silent and majestic, or calling and majestic, aware of but unconcerned with my nearness in the canoe.

The hummingbird, who hovers over me for a brevity, just saying hi and maybe thank you for what we've put in the feeder.

Cross stitch.

Warm water and swimming in it and that overwhelming sense of wellbeing and gratitude that makes me cry as I towel off.

This shady spot on the deck with the lounge chair and a glass of pop with ice cubes in it and the sound of the ice chinking when the pop is finished.

Hanging laundry on a day so hot and breezy that the first load's dry by the time the second load's ready to hang.

Clean and pretty feet.

After swim showers and the time to lavish my skin with coconut oil, including my feet.

Beavers that swim so close to your canoe that you can tell he's looking at you.

Reading and reading and reading and reading.

Waking up to a nap and the screen door is open and the sun and wind and leaves are mingling in the joy of a summer afternoon that has naps in it.

Nothing urgent and no tryanny of it.

The chance to remember who I am separated from what I do.

Father of simple holiness, teach me in all of this. Teach me to see You more in it. Call my heart with Your songs of holy simplicities.

I have ceased my strivings to know that You are God.


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