Oh I know I waffle.
Teeter ‘tween
Wretched and holy
Restlessness and deep contentment
A longing to rove and the comfort of stay.
Fickle as the day is long
I totter.
The effort’s not so Herculean
To stop wrestling and worrying and simply receive.
Takes only a tiny parcel of surrender, really.
Though the effort required to put it forth
Always and initially presents as impossible.
But why not?
Why not surrender sooner?
Give up the discomfort of the uglier parts of my humanity?
Hand over all these that keep me from You?
‘Cause the thing is,
Without You,
(Because I haven’t invited You –
You, the quintessential gentleman
Who doesn’t go where He’s not invited -)
I don’t know – can’t know, really – anything.
What’s best
What’s too much
What’s too little
Too rich too sparse too indulgent not enough.
Moments of peace and glory, yes.
But unsure, yes.
This marks existence.
Not poorly perhaps, not always.
Tiny thanks uttered here and there
I hope are pleasing
And frankly, hope they count.
And maybe, maybe this is where to begin?
In the childlike posture of thanks?
Thanks uttered at first may seem tentative, inconsistent surely.
But thanks offered is an acknowledgment of gifts received.
And what’s been received in thanks
Begins to overshadow that which isn’t enough.
And the receiving of and thanksgiving for all these gifts
Will be followed by a wide-eyed, wondering, whispering,
“For me?”
wordskeepmesane 