But children rarely listen, and
storybook characters, never.
When they see that confectionary
cottage
their entrance is inevitable,
like the mosquito bite you swear
you will not scratch and always do,
and always make it worse.

Before you know what kindness
really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.

We need to start doing things that don’t accomplish anything in particular immediately. This is urgent. This will not wait until you are retired. (Just last week a retired volunteer said to me, “I really have to take a sabbatical. One of these days I am just going to disappear for a month.”) It takes practice, and if we don’t start young, it will be hard to learn later in life.

I can still see her face. She looks up at me, head bent over, hair partially covering her face. I don’t know if Jesus turned water into wine, she says, tentatively, as if I might not be interested.

How deep our sleep last night in the mountain’s heart, beneath the trees and stars, hushed by solemn-sounding waterfalls and many small soothing voices in sweet accord whispering peace!

A friend of mine from Maine says that down east there are five seasons: summer, fall, winter, spring, and mud. Mud is the season between winter and spring, the season of melting snow when winter’s icy grip loosens its hold…but doesn’t quite let go.