how boring to be human

i am glad that,
as it turns out

i live a life
bedazzled by mystery….

•

sometimes
walking the beach
my imagination swirls out
over diamond-touched
waves….

sometimes
tangerine
miniature roses
outside my front door
seem to give me three tiny smiles
as i walk by….

and i love them so for blooming….

is this not normal?

•

i am one of many….

one part of a vast web of feelers….
people who anchor love onto the earth
and can’t stop themselves doing it….

•

i am glad
that someone else’s suffering can keep me awake at night….
glad to care –

glad to try to learn....

these are the things that make me pray in the black night:
love,
love,
and love….

•

and whatever else
these whispered blessings do –

you can at least know,
on the next night that you turn and toss
with your human worries,

that somewhere
people are sending out good wishes –
even though it’s three a.m.,
and most likely they wish they were asleep…..

•••

even if i appear crazed,
even if i sob and can’t see myself through another moment,
because i’ve had to say goodbye to some goodness
or other….

even if suffering threatens to pound me into
a thin veil of myself,

i am glad….

because somehow
this makes me see
more deeply
into the great mystery that i live –

•

i admit, i can’t understand
what causes a child to be born….

or a seed to sprout forth a tiny rootling….

even science hasn’t found those exact neuro-bio-chemicals….

yet i know that science and i at last
must stop measuring –

must resort to metaphor
to explain the inexplicable….

•

really, nothing is completely, neatly explainable,
fun as it is to try….

seeing this, i can revel in the miracle
that suffuses and comprises this world….

even if that miracle is death….
or freewill….
or other things that hurt me….

•

because,
in the end,

each moment connects me to the greatness that is you,
my friend….

as we lie here
completely exposed to the universe….

•

on quiet evenings
i can hear the world
turning underneath its bustle –

its sweet music quivers faintly
through windows thrown open
to warm autumn air….

on evenings
when it seems
like anguish
may etch itself into my face forever….

i remember the thousand miracles,
and i am glad to see the mystery --

how boring, otherwise,
to miss all of this grandness….

________________
©2010
Beth Anne Boardman