Sometimes there sweeps over one a feeling saying ‘that’s how I always felt’ whatever prompts a memory.  It  could be a scent or sunlight or something triggering a wave awakening response long dormant.  Often one knows where it originates  but often the ‘always’ has no beginning at least  in this lifetime.

This following feeling is a comforting one and a loving one to me.  Whenever it comes upon me the memories are good and I wear them like a stretched sweater  .  We are our memories and if this day we look upon our lives as surviving triumphantly in spite of a hazardous journey, bless all memories because you have overcome and are the victory.

I started this entry years ago when waiting for guests and family to arrive for dinner.  This is as far as I got with it but coming upon it now the feeling was fresh.  You have these incidents also, perhaps never thinking them special.  But they are. . . . and so makes you special.

This is a Sunday morning at almost noon and I sit here at my window in my beloved study and look out at the snow piled on the evergreen boughs albeit like sagging angel wings.   The sun comes through the opposite window and the brightness bespeaks somehow a Sunday morning.

Why is there always a different look to the world on a Sunday?   Everything looks somehow different, almost as if there was a visible sign on the day saying, this is Sunday!

As a child on The Farm, with the inside door open, leaving only the storm door with its weeping windows and the sun streaming through, there was the smell of chicken soup or whatever the stove was cooking signifying that this, even this, smelled different because it was Sunday.

So my Sunday in this house smells like Sunday with the beef roast and baked potatoes, as I await the family and our guests.  It will be a good dinner and this is what Sundays are all about for me.

It Is Enough. . .

It is enough. . .  just breathing and feeling
the north wind coming through the night.

It is enough. . .  to stir my senses,
to lift me from my bed to get on with life.

It is enough. . . to raise the dust
out of the corners too long neglected.

It is enough. .  . to lift the dirty and sweaty labors
and point out that in these are the gifts of life.

These are the beautiful,
along with the first snow and the harvest intact and sealed.

And to find a reflection
of what I hold dear in the eyes of an Other.

It is enough.