It was so beautiful and comforting to see the sunrise this morning. I took a moment to give thanks to whoever/whatever is responsible for this day. I took time to sit in silence with my morning tea, for this day will not come again. The sun will still rise every day but the light and air will never be quite the same. Nor will the petunias and all the living things. I, too, will never see, hear or feel the same as I do in this very moement.
It is an astounding realization of how precious the present moment is. It brings to mind Mary Oliver’s poem The Summer Day.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
onethousandandtwo 