We all worked hard yesterday. Of course we all work hard every day, but some days have a special quality about them. I don’t know what causes or triggers it, but we seem to move through the hours like a single dancer, whirling about to a piece of music no one can hear but everyone feels. On those days we absorb bad news (like the death of our large freezer) with facility and grace, a few wisecracks, and a brainstorm session about how to use the body as an underground root “cellar”.
Some days are just crammed full of grace.
A sense of celebration and joy takes hold. Yesterday, when our little spot on Earth finally rolled away from the sun, we made guacamole (with the season’s first garden tomatoes) and tortilla chips, and sat on the patio to watch the evening sky show. Soon one of our summer guest/helpers brought out the guitar and a singing session got underway.
Crickets and tree frogs provided the shruti note for our voices, and song became a blessing to the night, soaring out over our little Bluestone Farm. Gospel laments, folk song, show tunes — braided with jokes and memories — drawing us ever more deeply into each other’s lives, filling us with peace that we carry into a troubled world.
By the time we called it a night, the sky was dotted with the light from galaxies light-centuries away from us. All that vastness and mystery, singing its own melody, gift of the Master Singer.
The Universe is a song-strong place.