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We give thanks for the daily gift of Warming and pray to remain open to its life-bestowing nurturance—Within it we thrive and share with others.

Happy Thanksgiving

This morning, words are like soap bubbles that self-extinguish before releasing their fragrance. Such is my experience sitting at my word processor, waiting for significant images to surface from my psych: they don’t—Perhaps trapped in last summer’s spider webs that had filmed the backyard railing.

Hollowness yawns, taunts me, even exhorts me to return to my novel where real words create pre-World War II Berlin, Germany, each paragraph replete with artistry I long to emulate. That’s where the real action is, so I tell myself.

Yet, I’ve a blog to compose. I will wait.

My emptiness rankles. I need help. I pray.

From within, something quickens—a tiny seed, so tiny that it’s almost impalpable, but it’s there for me to work with. I have to give it time. I will continue waiting. Then it surfaces:

The words are not mine, but a gift to renew my spirit—And yours, as well.

Covid seems to have a mind of its own—a stripping that flattens initiative, that dissects energy into unseemly burps, that short-shifts plans into uselessness, and impales spirits upon re-runs. Nothing seems to work the way it used to. Patience thins like threadbare overcoats on city pigeons perched upon window ledges.

A bleary scenario, to be sure, but not unlike November’s stripping, also in process.

No longer do winds tickle leaves from branches; they rip them asunder, strewing bits onto gables, creek beds, and wooded paths. Swirls of yellowish-browns skitter along sidewalks, bed down in gutters, spike in woody hedges, mass atop listless perennials. A solitary flame-tree cackles at this despoliation, until its own during the next windstorm.

Juvenile squirrels frisk around tree trunks, then gawk, stunned. Canadian geese meddle about like staid sergeants on a murder case. Swarms of blackbirds swoop and caw, echoing distress. Our world sighs in muted grays and browns as death stalks in between the next breath.

There is something to learn here if we are willing. It’s about acceptance of what is, including the cyclical nature of change. True, Covid has bruised every institution, modified communication, left a swath of the ill and dying upon our planet, and altered esteemed values—substantial losses, admittedly. But whoever said that we were more than human? That suffering wasn’t wrapped within everyone’s birthright?

Wounded as we are, hushness envelops us with the grace of waiting for what we know not: There will be some form of greening, if we are still and watchful.

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