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SNOW

Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don’t bite till you know
if it’s bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.

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If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come.
– Chinese Proverb –

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Amazing. Thirty days straight of “blogging.” I didn’t promise to do this every day–and yet, somehow I am more whole, gratified, complete when I do. I can’t NOT do it. I guess it is, in fact, a matter of wholeness. I seem to have the idea that “you” are out there…waiting…expecting the next installment and this, among other things, keeps me going.

Short of the usual matters of daily hygiene (I am especially fond of brushing and flossing my teeth…maybe a little obsessed with it), I can’t think of anything that I have done deliberately for thirty days straight. I go to yoga almost religiously–aiming for four or five days out of seven. I also roll out my mat at home, and if I miss a day…well, I’ll practice tomorrow. Years ago I did “morning pages” a la Julia Cameron. I managed to fill a lot of notebooks–mostly with mindless drivel until I got bored. I sometimes give up chocolate or coffee for thirty days or more…sooner or later I drift back into the habit.

Something about blogging brings me great joy. Some days are easier than others…I never know what will come and I don’t know if I’ll keep going daily…Here’s to another thirty days of joy and discovery!

WELCOME MORNING
There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.

ANNE SEXTON

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