the sacred ordinary

August 28, 2013

some days I’m struck by the goodness of everything, like a season of awareness where my eyes are opened (and now the ears of my ears are awake / now the eyes of my eyes are opened) and my self is suddenly seeing, where food tastes so very good and the colours of it are bright, and the people I know are dear and worth treasuring and the words and thoughts I read are strange and lovely and true, and the world that God has given me to be in is a gift, and a very good gift.

those are days of joy and sleeplessness, where thanksgiving and delight bubble up natural as breathing, as surprise and delight and gratitude that hurts a little in the breath and bewilders with joy because of the sheer yesness that everything is, the sheer bewildering blessing, and the goodness of everything is right there in the things to touch, see, smell, experience, know, feel, taste that God has made things good, in all the everydayness and the truth of everything that exists, in the wholeness of each thing, like sunlight shining through it all from behind, bringing everything to new sight.

it’s a little like C.S. Lewis’ glory, but more homespun and less spectacularly, soul-obliteratingly magnificent. More everyday and yet no less good in its mundanity, in its ordinariness. And some days the goodness, the pleasure of everything is very near my sight, and I am easily given to joy.


my seasons are short; they flare up one morning and disappear into the dark a few days later. The moments of my living are transient, but they always return, if in a different shape, wearing a different face, under a different name (such deliberate disguises, rat’s feet, crows skin, crossed staves in a field, no nearer). Perhaps that’s why I never mapped or chased or studied joy, the way Lewis did; I know it’ll come again with the surety of knowing that children have, when you don’t question things because they simply are, like the rise and fall of the sun, like the fact that you breathe, or that some things make you sad. And maybe some of it is that when you are asleep again, you don’t remember being awake, and it is only when you are awake that you realise that you’ve been sleeping and unaware. And maybe some of it is that joy is the act of delighting in something else, and when you’re trying to hoard it up, you’re not delighting anymore, just afraid of loss.

And maybe it is just that God is good, and sometimes I know it to be so, and the thought gives me delight. Who knows? I shall remember myself blessed while I can, and when I forget I will not remember until it comes again.

(wastrel children.)

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