One morning last week when the sun was out (a rare occurrence these days), I was sitting on the deck in a small patch of sun, and this is what I was looking at:
That's my little pomegranate tree. Earlier that morning, this poem arrived:
The Opening of the Day
In the first bleary-eyed, early morning moments,
before my feet even touch the floor,
my thoughts frequently drop directly into a pit
of harsh realities, dragging my heart along with them.
But this was a different sort of morning.
I surprisingly did not have to struggle to haul myself up
into some semblance of acceptance.
Little things came blessedly to the forefront:
- the way the sun came up over the eastern hills,
its first rays streaming down the avenue below;
- the white star-like blossoms on the vine surrounding the deck;
- the tiny red leaves springing from the thin limbs of the young
pomegranate tree, and the green ones on the Japanese maple
- the streaks of pink across the dawn sky;
- the spider hanging from its thread by the window;
- the flickering candle;
- the way the fountain pen, gifted by a dear friend, fits my hand.
This morning, in the time of year the granddaughters call Baby Spring,
these heart-opening ordinary things inspired feelings of peace.
In other words, this morning I slipped into appreciation rather than dread,
- despite the illnesses and ailments of the aging body,
- despite the state of the world,
- despite the fears of what is to come.
And so, I am grateful for the gratitude that replaced
my more customary responses to the opening of the day.
