A Poem For Sunday

A deli­cious poem, I found on Andrew Sullivan’s The Dish at the Atlantic Monthly:

Please bring strange things.

Please come bring­ing new things.

Let very old things come into your hands.

Let what you do not know come into your hands.

Let desert sand harden your feet.

Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.

Let the paths of your fin­ger­tips be your maps

and the ways you go be the lines on your palms.

Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing

and your out­breath be the shin­ing of ice.

May your mouth con­tain the shapes of strange words.

May you smell food cook­ing you have not eaten.

May the spring of a for­eign river be your navel.

May your soul be at home where there are no houses.

Walk care­fully, well loved one.

Walk mind­fully, well loved one.

Walk fear­lessly, well loved one.

Return with us, return to us

Be always com­ing home.

Ursule LeGuin

I’m work­ing on a piece for my  arti­cle in the Huff­in­g­ton Post this Wednes­day.  This poem echoes the themes I find myself explor­ing:  the idea that we’re all prodi­gal sons and daugh­ters, try­ing to find our way back home.  And it’s only when we think we’ve run out of the char­ac­ter qual­i­ties we need for the jour­ney, only when we’re truly pressed up against the wall, that we truly dig deep and dis­cover who we are.

This is where I find myself at the present moment.  The jour­ney is steep, the climb is chal­leng­ing, and I know it’s the way home.  I hope you’ll tune in to my blog on the Liv­ing page of the Huff­in­g­ton Post this Wednes­day and help me answer this ques­tion:  Does Life Always Con­spire For Our Great­est Good?

Let’s have a discussion.……