Spring is bursting forth everywhere, and even though it's been rather wet, I've been enjoying the transformation. I hope all of you are taking the time to notice the miracles, all around us and within us, vast and small. As I revel in the unfolding of life around me, I am awestruck by this amazing universe in which we live. No matter what craziness is going on in my head, no matter what drama is distracting me in my life, no matter what sorrows are pulling at my heart, I can always count on the constancy of the cycles of the season, the opening of the blossoms, the return of the verdant fields.
A couple of people have asked me for the words to the Sufi song we sang in class last week. So here they are, ever reminding us to trust the gift of impermanence, and the returning of beauty and grace:
Be fool not, O night, the morn will break!
Beware O darkness, the sun will shine!
Be not vain, O mist, it will once more be clear--
My sorrow, forget not, once again joy will arise,
once again joy will arise!
~Hazrat Inayat Khan
And I offer you this beautiful poem by Walt Whitman. Enjoy the miracles!
Miracles
… I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with miracles.
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with miracles.
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