The wind is absolutely howling around my home,
and has been all night.
So sleep has been light and interrupted as gusts came and went
banging and buffeting.
Living high on an exposed ridge, wind is a common visitor,
and a force of nature that commonly leaves feelings of unease.
Possibly a carry over from years on the ocean when gale force winds could be life threatening.
Possibly because it just stirs things up.
Forceful natural conditions remind us of the ephemeral quality
of things we think are solid and stable.
Reminds us of the temporary nature of so much that we hold as important.
Reminds us of all that could be blown away.
And this morning, reminded me of this beautiful poem.
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
the door is open...
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
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