Morning

I'm sitting out on the deck this morning in the sunshine.

There's a light breeze. 

The trees are leafing out. 

I'm listening to the birds.

The sunshine is on my face.

My front yard is exploding with tulips and cherry tree blossoms.

I feel quiet peace, and love, and gratitude.

Thank you, God, for my life; for every last experience that has made it what it is.

I'm grateful for the reality of things beyond what I can see,

grateful for the journey and finding my way,

and grateful for all the beauty that brings meaning to my life.

I'm grateful for the good, the hard, the sad, and the beautiful. 

It's all part of the same thing.

Last night I read this poem for the first time.

Kindness

(by Naomi Shihab Nye)

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

It is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

Too lovely not to share.