Daily Bliss – September 22

Our feet are sacred because they carry us around.
Our hands, because they allow us to touch others.
Our heads, because we can see, listen, think, pray, learn, and grow.
And our hearts, because they allow us to give and receive love.
All of us is sacred, like the light that shines within.

Everyday Miracles

Miracles wooden sign with a beach on background

Your busy lives do not preclude
the love from above
and all around

you spend your time searching
for a sign, a vision, a voice
a white feather on the ground

while missing the true angelic display
in the hands and hearts around you,
always seeking something big and bigger

while the small miracles
make their way silently,
while the downtrodden wait
for their moment in the sun

the sun shines on us all
sometimes it takes creativity and faith
to allow the light to permeate
the lost and broken days

the signs you seek
may not always seem miraculous
but they are miracles nonetheless

©SpiritLed 2015

Share, Make, Light

Night sky praise

With your hands, build the future
one tiny piece of wire or brick
or drop of paint at a time

With your heart, love the world well
each hug, each kind gesture,
each forgiveness
one step closer to redemption

With your spirit, become the essence
of the world you want to see,
embody the Creator
in your every thought,
in your soul’s flow,

so that Earth in its tragedy
may embody Heaven
on its hill of salvation
reachable, connecting,
a shining light of hope

©SpiritLed 2015

The Leaf

A red-gold leaf floats to the ground, and there
I pick it up, hold it gently,
flat in my palm, a mirror of my own hands,
points like fingers, lines and veins, delicate and strong,

lines that cast the story of the journeys we
make, to the precipice and back and, for some, to hell,
where we may stay a while, take up residence in our suffering,
until we either persevere or perish.

In these lines, on this path, these hands stroke children’s faces, twirl golden strands
between fingers, touch cheeks at night, through tears;
in the dark, these hands, solemn and life-giving,
belong to my mother.

These hands clumsily fiddle with a lighter, shaky and desperate,
light the cigarette, flip this way and that, dangle the stick of burning tobacco–
with an air of confidence, and yet those lines betray longing for one more tomorrow–
as ashes fall, unnoticed, to the ground.

Crackling against my skin like the rough and delicate fabric of the leaf, this path for once
becomes a burden, a stifling presence that keeps me from the joys of red-gold leaves on autumn days.
And so, with the hands we share, I crumble the leaf, release it to the wind, a weight–
long-held–removed, a crumbly, red-gold burden of the soul.

A leaf floats to the ground, and there I pick it up, and there my life begins.

© SpiritLed 2013