tender joy on a quiet day...

Last night I dreamt that one of my daughters was dying: a none too subtle invitation to embrace every day that remains with integrity and intentionality? Most likely - and a quietly disturbing reminder that my own days are numbered, too. It wasn't a violent or tragic death, in this dream, just vivid and inevitable. As it unfolded, she was much younger and there were a variety of scenes where we simply walked and talked together. The particulars were not at all dramatic. But the stark finality of was agonizing/

Many suggest that dreams involving a child's death suggest an end of an era. That feels real although I can't exactly say why. I am currently writing a song based on a line from Frederick Buechner - "listening to my life" - so maybe that's what I'm doing. I have become keenly aware how easily I can fritter away parts of every day. Resting and solitude have their places, and many days are ripe and filled with life. But could it be that my soul is inviting me to honor the fact that there are fewer days before than behind? When I awoke, I wanted to reread this poem by Melissa Shaw-Smith again: 

Presence
The year has rocked this world to its roots.
What if for one day each being put down
their burdens, their words of hate, their inhumanity
and breathed in the presence?
Stopped fighting for history, for fears, hopes, dreams
and stood facing the morning sun
letting the warmth of the moment
and the next, the next, accumulate like dust at their feet
Listened instead of spoke, acknowledged truth,
embraced silence. 

What if for one day each being acknowledged the fear
and let it go? Suspended beliefs
opened their arms, drew strength
through earth, grass, rock, sand
Found the sparrow singing from a lone bush
the small heart-shaped cloud
Felt the currents of air wash of them, mingle
with the breath, and let the seams unravel
borders blend, walls dissolve
and be
one.

While sipping tea outside later on, it slowly dawned on me that on this gentle birthday morning: my soul-mate had arranged for us to see David Bromberg this Sunday, a dear friend had sent me a delightful birthday poem-prayer, another precious friend had reconnected after a too long absence, my children sent notes of love and remembrance and some within my L'Arche Ottawa community had reached out to me with affection and peace, too. It was, it seems, the realization of the poem. And I thought: what a tender joy!