Despite never having asked for
—and my often attempts to shirk—
this state of being and occupation,
I am a vessel from which Christ
overflows. Not of the immaculate sort,
but a simpler kind, which serves as a
thurible swinging along sidewalks,
incensing passerbys with an aroma
not my own.
Despite that fallen tendency to collapse
myself and my world into something small
enough to be thought, his image and signature
are radiantly written in all that lives and moves
(even the stones quiver with their vital role to play)
although we do not take the time to marvel
at the Word's work, the calligraphy of being.
We think the glory is somewhere else and
it couldn't possibly be us. But we have much
to learn from the unmoving and unwavering
mystery of the flowers, who have no legs
with which to leave their native soil. The bud
never asked for petals to flaunt.
He was simply there,
between the stalk and the air,
and in just being there
he blossomed.
We are where we are,
between whence and whither
and when we are open to the
to and fro we can be like this.
But we are always blooming
bliss by nature of our being,
where the saddest and loneliest
are such because they write
epics no one reads. Our longing
to blossom and to overflow
is not so much in some kind of life;
for, by living any kind of life
we already do. Rather, it is to
erupt in taking notice and giving
thanks for what we have and are.
All of us are there and
—you might be startled to know—
it's always been here.
If only we'd break off from busyness
and break forth in bloom.
