There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon.
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
— Jane Kenyon
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon.
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
— Jane Kenyon
The weight of the world and the hurt and the dirt can make you disturbed, but I heard, when I wrap my arms around you, every mistake we made crumbles.
Yesterday I baked a cake. It turned out ok.
Today I was really concerned about a friend. I was really appreciative of my boyfriend and his respect for our relationship. I ate some really amazing granola. I had a terrible Jiffy Lube experience. I had a wonderful experience with my own mechanic. I decided I was boycotting Jiffy Lube. I took my brother gummi worms after his surgery. I ate mexican food with my dad. I drank a beer that was bigger than my head. I answered a whole category of pop music questions correct on Jeopardy. And one about the movie Stardust. I got really excited about Valentine's day. I had really random and good conversation with Matt.
Today was an abundance of life. Does that make sense?
I'm going to read my book now. (The Geography of Bliss) It's funny, so far. I really like it. I highly recommend the first two chapters.
And what makes it better for me is that in Switzerland the author stays with his friend Susan who is a writer from New York. Immediately upon her description, I know it is Susan Gilman - author of Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress! And it most certainly was! I love it when my little reading world comes full circle...
"The American way is: If you've got it, flaunt it. The Swiss way is: If you've got it, hide it. One Swiss person told me, 'You don't dress or act like you're rich. Of course, you might have a four thousand dollar espresso machine in your apartment.'"
I'm not gonna lie saying everyone's gonna be alright and fine until we die. But what else can you do, but hope and pray and save and we'll get by.
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