The task at hand is to find God in everything my attention rests upon:
the stray dog’s assured gait on the muddy cobblestone street,
the delicate warmth of building a fire on a cool night in a foreign land,
the way my lover laughs openly into my eyes,
the sensation of allowing my body to sink fully down into the wooden floor.
I am learning that God speaks most fluently through nature
in her easy rhythms and wild emergence.
And so I study the changing seasons,
the sky’s full release during a midday thunderstorm,
the movement of high clouds draped across tall mountain peaks,
and the effortless breeze on a humid day.
I apprentice myself to the rushing boundless river
and I marvel at the ever-changing moon illuminating the dark sky.
How long have I been wandering?
Pulled by something deep within me that won’t let go,
pushed by something unknown yet familiar that will never give up.
Who am I to think that my life could be full of magic?
The real kind, I mean, the kind of fables and myths,
the kind that keeps souls choosing to come back here
for another go at incarnate form in this special realm
where spirit and matter mingle.
And who am I to think that my life could be full of God?
Noticed in the smallest flicker of candlelight across a room,
revealed in the taste of a fresh nectarine pronouncing life from my breakfast plate,
and worshiped in my body’s way of holding me one breath at a time
as I stumble forward on the ever-unfolding path.
Alia Yarrow, 2019