Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath.
Annie Dillard, Pilgrim At Tinker Creek
It was at the end
Or was it the beginning
Blurred are the lines between the two
Rode off into the sunset
By way of the waves
And left us there
He and I
To stare at the ending time of day
Or maybe the start of eveningtide
Quickly the quiet quenched
All that a parched soul
And the waves rocked the two
Shed of distraction clothed in the salt
And all He gave
Creation clothed them in itself
elizabeth w. marshall/writer/poet/noticer
Today is day 5. May your soul rejoice in quiet noticing. The praying mantis on my kitchen window earlier this week was a guidepost. His fragile silhouette, eyes wide open, arms bent with a knowing. He, a gentle nudge, a subtle reminder to bow in quiet reverence. A mantis marked my morning with the mention of prayer, a posture of quietly communing. Listen, can you hear the day calling you, inviting you. The art of noticing surely says come play and see. Come as you are and bow and give thanks for the God-beauty slipped into the cracks and crevices of an unfolding day.
The series is here if you’d like to read the earlier parts of this journey. And please hear the invitation to subscribe, follow on twitter and facebook or just show up when you feel lead. You are welcome here. Under the shade of this place is an old wicker rocking chair with pillows piped in cotton ticking. I’m pouring sweet tea with lemon slices and cold water over mountains of crushed ice. I will be here while you go off to notice. But I am going out for awhile to do some searching and seeking, to look and to listen for surprises in my day. They are calling me to come look, like child. And listen with an ear bent for beauty. Ready, set, go notice.
The sea pronounces something over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out.