Six feet apart and grinning

Daily Devotion - April 25

I will send a brief message each day (except Mondays) 

while we are pausing gathering in person.
- Kara

  

Spring has EXPLODED in the Twin Cities.  We are doing our best to social distance, giving each other wide berth, but we are all craving, longing to be OUTSIDE.
Humans are suddenly everywhere.

Today is a day to feel joy because it's contagious.  We are not WITH others, but we are NEAR them - bikes, rollerblades, strollers and so many walkers.  The motorcycles are out; the dogs are abundant. Hammocks hang double high hither and thither.  It's 70 degrees. So we're out in shorts, sandals, bare feet, masks covering grins, or bare grins - six feet apart and grinning. It feels hopeful.

Suddenly we are wishing we owned a frisbee. Suddenly we are digging out the old, dog-chewed football and finding some public-feeling grass under wide sky.

It's Diane's 75th birthday today.  And the whole Parkway is celebrating.  Thousands are honking their best wishes.
















And if today is still hard, or newly hard, or hard again, peace to you.
It's ok for it to be hard.  We will hold hope for you.  And when it's hard for some of us and you're feeling the joy, you will hold hope for us.  We take turns. That's how it works.

Here's a spring poem from Mary Oliver. Because the birds are everywhere today too.


Such Singing in the Wild Branches
by Mary Oliver

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that's when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them
were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last
For more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.


CONNECTING RITUAL:

Perhaps, today at dinner, or at bedtime, whatever time that is in each of our homes, we might pray in this way, and so join our hearts:

That your glory blazes at midday warmth
coaxing buds and humans out into the sun
that the glory of the everlasting world
shines in this world
growing from the ground
and issuing forth in every creature,
that glory can be handled, seen and known
in the matter of earth and human relationships
and the most ordinary matters of daily life,
thank you for assuring me, O God.
Thank you for revealing glory 
the ordinary gifts of this day.
Amen.

(adapted from J Philip Newell, Sounds of the Eternal)