I woke up this morning to the sound of birds making a racket outside, and the dim morning light catching each unfolding pale green leaf on the tree branches. It feels almost unreal beautiful, as if it isn’t true.
I don’t know why the things that aren’t feel like they are (like a dark interior mist almost palpable), and the things that are don’t always feel like they are. God, for example. I dont’ feel like he is real all the time. But then that same feeling is, when I am drifting off to sleep, how I feel about my own being (as if I’m not real either). Or the wind, or the birds singing, or the sunlight. All of it is too fantastical, to beautiful, too good to be true. But it is.
Gah, I need to get out of brooding and books and ideas. This is a romantic poem aimed at Nihilists, but anyways:
For our God hath blessed creation,
Calling it good. I know
What spirit with whom you blindly band
Hath blessed destruction with his hand;
Yet by God’s death the stars shall stand
And the small apples grow.
The stars shall stand, and the small apples grow. And the kiddos, who have known only love, and so who are certain that Daddy/Mommy/Grandma/Grandpa/God/TheUniverse all love them and is a wonderful and just and kind place: