It has been with me for a very long time this heart.
It turned up one day in my breakfast bowl. Just as it is.
And it has stayed. It has remained.
I found I really liked it. It was quirky, unusual and I didn’t ask for it.
It was gift. I have rejoiced each morning since.
I wonder if it will loose its shape with all the rough and tumble –
the jostling in and out.
So it helps me daily to be grateful …
to smile at the quirky and the unexpected.
Today may you enjoy the poetry of E.E. Cummings―
A Miscellany Revised
We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us
is something valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch.
Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder,
spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit.
Anybody can learn to think, or believe, or know,
but not a single human being can be taught to feel…
the moment you feel, you’re nobody ― but yourself ―
in a world which is doing its best, night and day,
to make you everybody else ―
means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight,
and never stop fighting.
We can never be born enough.
We are human beings; for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,
the mystery of growing:
which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves.
You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.
Life, for eternal us, is ‘now’ and now is much too busy being
a little more than everything to seem anything,