when we don't know how to walk it.

OH the mystery of it all - And all that we can do is get out of bed in the morning, clear the sleep from our eyes and put one foot in front of another. All we can do is carry the boxes and the bags, and struggle to figure out which ones are better left to the side of the road. All we can do is plant the seeds we've been given, tell them oh so gently that they have a tree inside of them, and get down on our knees and pray for rain.

And we begin to write it  down - the story of the traveller that planted a rose; how I knew from the very first mention; how she found a way to welcome all of the mystery and questions and wonder -

to welcome the ring of the bell when [finally] it informs us that it's time to arise and shine [your light has come, it is now Morning], it invites us to participate in this vast and unending novel of a father with his kingdom of beggars in love; we cripples with our broken crowns.

Posted on April 24, 2010 and filed under writing-.