Each morning I receive a poem by email from Panhala. This is the poem for today.
I like the timing. I was thinking of my grandmother this morning, the mother of my mother, the grandmother I shared with Greg who died this last week, at the age of 57. I was remembering how my grandmother and I would cut out paper dolls together. I loved paper dolls as a child and real dolls too. I loved to play in and with my imagination. My cuts would be a little sloppy. I would be in a hurry, but my grandmother would say, "Anything worth doing is worth doing well." I think of it in these days of multi-tasking and rushing. When one is in the flow, all goes well, and efficiency is the rule, but when one is out of that flow, it seems there can be a great deal of wasted steps, and then time spent cleaning up the mess. I am on the receiving end of that right now, and so it is for me to adjust and recalibrate my level of presence and honoring of what is mine to do. This poem offers support.
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice. You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.