Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Each morning.

December 21, 2017


It's ironic, I suppose, how much time I spend wishing for faith. I guess, like so many of us, I have this reverse, perverse sense of faith--not the assurance that everything will be well, but the quite firm expectation that it won't. If faith is the belief in something despite lack of evidence, then my rather pessimistic version of faith fits the definition, I suppose. After all, if you're reading this and I'm writing it, then our success rate at this life business, at least, is 100%. 


And then I wonder if it's not faith I lack, but happiness? Buoyancy? Ease? Maybe that's it. Maybe I, and my fellow seekers, simply vibrate and hum at the bottom of the scale? Perhaps we are what grounds the melody, giving it space and footing to sweep higher than we can reach, letting the sweetness and light of the song trickle down. Perhaps we're meant to gather what falls, internalize it, transform it where we stand.


I don't know. I don't know how it works, how the light returns, but it does--every year. We just have to keep getting up, greeting the sun, welcoming it back until it stays.


Thank goodness for cycles and their kind guidance in easy belief, easy faith, and easy grace.










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This Quiet Earth