Welcome Morning

When I am deeply distressed, mourning, or upset, I tend to take greater notice of mundane details. The texture of a chair, the smell of a room or the shape of a table leg. I’m not mourning but I’m empathetic to a fault at times. I’ve been following the Storm Sandy news really closely. I can almost imagine myself there. Having to leave my home, knowing the rushing water will wash it away. Hearing about a neighbor or friend-of-a-friend who was hurt or killed. Trying to calm my family and my own heart. Grief, pain and fear. I’ve been praying for those who are living out the worst of this storm. Even though I am over 2,000 miles away, I’m absurdly confident is God’s ability to traverse that distance pretty quickly.

I slept poorly, knowing thousands of others were probably not sleeping well either. Being in this frame of mind allows me to see those life-details that are so easy to miss. And in turn, I am feeling appreciative of the texture, smell and look of my life. Simple.

Mornings. Coffee. Water. Laundry. Light. Pillows. Clouds. Drawers. Bread. Walks.
I walked into our bedroom and saw Gideon, sprawled out, not a single burden to carry. I thought of this poem. A perfect reflection of my mood.

Welcome Morning, by Anne Sexton

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 chair that cry “Hello there Anne”

each morning.

In the god head of the table I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

 

All this 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.

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