Will the gift come tomorrow, or even later?

This dawn, here and present. I inhabit this moment now, Lord, and only visit tomorrow in fantasy.

Today is the gift for which I wait.

(Letter #3,363)

You sit quietly with me, Lord, and I with you.

No words, quiet breath. Unclenched jaw, relaxing grip.

This is the whole of it: exhale. Ground under feet.

(Letter #3,362)

Wind, rain, storm.

And yet your whispers reach me across the plain, here where I huddle, hunched over a candle.

Am I such a skilled listener that I hear quiet even in tumult?

Or is your quiet voice so strong, Lord?

Your small voice carries even into my secret life, Lord. Let me hear and hear again.

(Letter #3,361)

Am I to help others? Undoubtedly. But to do what?

Let me, Lord, help others themselves to then serve others. A great chain from fellow soul to fellow soul. A domino of peace.

(Letter #3,360)

It was a dawn like every other. Yet today the air hums with energy and my pulse has quickened. What miracle is about to unfold?

With cupboard bare, let me feast on surprise!

Who can know the gifts around each corner?

(Letter #3,359)

Awake, I am awake.

Alive, I am alive.

Is there better news possible?

Walk, wide open meadow, willing attention.

I am awake.

(Letter #3,358)

You are already here in this place. Already with me, no matter upon which stone I lay my head.

Rescue, relief will come — it is not whether, but when and how.

Already here, how did I not know?

Thy will be done.

(Letter #3,357)

An oak standing alone, wind whipping around.

A light set sturdy above crashing waves on rocks, storms throwing spray.

You strengthen my back, that I may carry loads for my fellows, that I may withstand adverse conditions and provide relief.

The frightened will find shelter under the oak; the light will guide the tired mariners away.

Thank you, Lord. I am willing and ready for more.

(Letter #3,356)

Let this place be invisible to the distracted ones, the angry ones.

Here, we practice stillness.

Valley, meadow, mountain, dawn.

Here, we practice gratitude for the moment and our place in it.

Candle, cushion, cymbal, gaze.

Here, we practice equanimity.

Ripples and response.

Let me be like water, Lord.

(Letter #3,355)

This place, this ground, let me walk it with bare feet and reverence.

Your whispers and murmurs draw me nigh, Lord. Approach I with care, for the sparrow easily flits away.

Each moment, standing in the clearing, breathes itself.

In. Pause. Out.

Bare feet and reverence.

(Letter #3,354)