Sonnets to Orpheus, Part 2, XIV (poem) by Rilke, Translated by Anita Barrow and Joanna Macy

See the flowers, so faithful to Earth.

We know their fate because we share it.
Were they to grieve for their wilting,
that grief would be ours to feel.

There's a lightness in things. Only we move forever burdened,
pressing ourselves into everything, obsessed by weight.
How strange and devouring our ways must seem
to those for whom life is enough.

If you could enter their dreaming and dream with them deeply,
you would come back different to a different day,
moving so easily from that common depth.

Or maybe just stay there: they would bloom and welcome you,
all those brothers and sisters tossing in the meadows,
and you would be one of them.

Ritual of Mindfulness

 The sermon today was about how to take the everyday and turn it into a moment of meaning, when the moment IS the meaning.

V.B. Price, in Running to Wijiji, says the sacred and the profane are sacred. And maybe also: "when you know who you are, you do who you are. 

"knowing and doing [are] not apart;
and where I [am]
[is] as much of myself
as what I [do].

Now is
a holy place."

In this moment, I am feeling like the echo between who I am and what I do is split-second delay. Not too shabby, all told. I am not in sync, but nor am I syncopated. 

There is hope. There is meaning. There is time and patience and the next moment and every intention.