everything we do is an act of poetry or a painting if we do it with mindfulness. growing lettuce is poetry. walking to the supermarket can be a painting. . . .if we just act in each moment with composure & mindfulness, each minute of our life is a work of art. –thich nhat hanh.
i get this.
or, i get this sometimes. in glimmering shards.
seeing the depth of brown in kieran’s eyes as he relates a tale of “foddy” (froggy), little stumbling words reaching up to be a big giant story.
javin’s crawling in beside me in the early morning with a bad dream, & my having the realization that this is it! this is what i’m doing, nurturing & connecting, leading & guiding.
those tender tears that say, “i still need mama.”
the puckery edges of the lettuce leaves i weeded around, carefully, like babies in a nursery.
the weight & depth of connection in a big family weekend: these people look like me, like andy, like my kids, like they could be my kids. there is indeed something weighty about family.
the unreal artistry in thalia’s little-girl-drawings-that-aren’t. the way she captures a squirrel, a kitty watching a yarn ball, a pony, as she sits beside me in the early morning. so unique to her. unhindered & true. authentically a gift.
all these bits are pieces of poetry Handed Down.
for my capturing. my leaning into. my lov-ed-ness.
i want to amp up my getting it.
all the beautiful shards.