No one knew the name of this day;
Born quietly from deepest night,
It hid its face in light,
Demanded nothing for itself,
Opened out to offer each of us
A field of brightness that traveled ahead,
Providing in time, ground to hold our footsteps
And the light of thought to show the way.
The mind of the day draws no attention;
It dwells within the silence with elegance
To create a space for all our words,
Drawing us to listen inward and outward.
We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.
Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.
So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one.
"The Inner History of a Day" by John O'Donohue, from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings. © Doubleday, 2008.Art credit: "Sunlight through a window," photograph by creolumen.
One of my favorite poems. Who can resist the "eucharist of ordinary things" or "being betrothed to the unknown"? Certainly not me, I have given up having answers, but I don't give up my questions. And the ordinary things are what keeps me in place, in the world, grateful for their connections to people I love, something I can hold onto.
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