Sunday Morning Reflections

Self-created meme with a verse I wrote this morning

Sunday morning reflections, penned this morning:

So much unfolds on its own accord, without cause for input or advice. We could pitch a fit and throw it in the direction of so many a thing, but it would be akin to trying to flood the world with a garden hose. Absurd.

How much time is wasted on matters we have no sway over? How much hardship is generated by shirking responsibility over that which is entirely in our own hands and of our own making? On both counts, the answer is: a lot.

The combined daily total of world births and deaths a lot; the amount of times I’ve apologized in my 39 years a lot; the number of stars in the sky a lot.

Remember, a bird has cause to sing and a flower to unfurl each on their own time. If we were to attempt to take over the sun’s job as conductor, the world would be flung to the wolves for rapid devouring.

My morning writings bear the brush strokes of my current influences. And since right now I am reading Mary Oliver, the grace of birds and flowers are finding their way onto the page.

And this simple exchange gives me ripe pause.

We often think of children as sponges and adults as stubborn, who become more set in their ways as they age. Yet, are we not just as susceptible to input?


The answer emphatically is yes.



Sunday morning.
Dark and early.
Perched by my living room’s picture window.
A mug of tea on the sill,
with just enough sight to write by.

I look out onto the world,
and pierce my vision
through the bankruptcy of light.

All I see is goodness.
All I see is beauty.
All I see are sweet people doing their very best.

And it’s not that I am ignoring the rest,
it’s that I am bearing direct witness
to what moves it all underneath.
It’s not that I am out of touch
with hardship and strife,
it’s that my eyes don’t deem
those elements to dominate
the global landscape in epic proportion.

In the world I see,
the goodness, beauty, and sweet people
far outweigh what needs fixing.


Gosh I just love this little house,
with its warm character and
unassuming charm.
In the soft folds of predawn,
it thrums with a cosmic pulsing,
which sounds precisely
like our Hotpoint fridge
running faithfully despite its advanced age.

Bird wings and instruments
adorn the walls and shelves
and floor space.
Intentional dim lighting
casts a glow of craftsmanship and ease.

A sanctuary need not be large in space
to be mighty in resonance.


I just finished my morning sit and opened my eyes to find that the sky was the same color as the aged snow on the ground, and also the book jacket of Mary Oliver’s “Devotions” situated on the coffee table.

How grateful I am to be both a writer and a Buddhist practitioner, for I am wonderfully afforded the gift of paying close attention to what matters.

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