By second grade I learned to write well enough to make short sentences. My teacher wrote that they were “Very good”. So, I wrote more and I showed them to her. She gave me another sheet of paper which encouraged me. My third grade teacher was less impressed. I stopped showing her what I wrote. That gave her more time to focus on what was bothering her.
I am older now than either of those teachers were and I realize that I’ve been like both of them at different times of my life, sometimes unreasonably patient and other times unforgivably impatient. Looking back. I forgive the impatience in my third grade teacher and hope I can forgive it in myself as well. I understand the many reasons for impatience that torment adults. I hope her life was happy because today she looks more like my daughter than a teacher.
Given all the reasons for impatience, it amazes me that any of us are blessed enough to enjoy any patience. Nonetheless there it is again as a commonplace miracle.
MOTHER SAVES THE WORK
FLOWERS YEARN TO BLOOM AGAIN
LATER OLD LEAVES FADE
Saturday afternoon the snow started slowly. Being warm the flakes became thick. I started my walk catching some of it, missing most of it. I am not aware enough to be aware of everything. I must leave some for the saint’s creative contemplation or the monk’s mindful meditation.
The snow came down thicker and more beautifully as I walked back through sparkling white. I did not expect so late in my grey year to have so many blessings as if my impatience and despair had been forgiven.
GREY SKY WITH WHITE OWL
WAITING IN THE SNOW-FILLED TREE
LOOK–HE FLIES AWAY
If I murmur, talk or sing
Guard the magic with this ring.
Hold the thought and come what may
Let the sacred children play.
Understand but don’t read through.
Spirit will enlighten you.
Then forgive and what we’ve done
May be forgiven. Life’s begun.
Text: Linked to dVerse Quadrille hosted by De Jackson (aka WhimsyGizmo) with the word “murmur”. Because of the lines about forgiveness I am linking this to Debbie Roth’s Forgiving Fridays. I don’t know what this poem means. It just murmured its way here.
Photos: “Icicles in the Sun”, above, and “More Icicles”, below, taken at noon on this relatively warm winter’s day.