How kind not to notice...

A lyrical piece

A song that hold hands fondly with this lyrical piece, listen with the reading, or soon after.

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How kind not to notice

The heaviness (from those dark, dark nights) began to feel forever away. So far that not even the echoes could wrap a cloak around me like they once did, convincing me I was better that way.

How

kind

not

to

notice

that the darkness was being swallowed whole by the light. 

I’m always curious about my own impulses when asked to jump into change unexpectedly. My fierce “yes!” woke all the reluctant parts in me. And I remember crying from the relief in the shower and asking God if it was okay that I felt this way. And I remember Him so clearly saying, “Yes!” 

And so God placed me in the German flowers—I never knew so many could exist at once. 

It was a place to carelessly throw time into open spaces (for just a little while), where bread was eaten and broken with just a few, and my love for time alone wasn’t questioned.

And it held me so, in its flowers. 

That magic magic window.

Kind sounds came from outside my window—my goodness, that magic, magic window. I remember imagining one just like it, moons ago. And in real time, from her glorious openness, I sat there, for hours some days, allowing life to remind me of forgotten things.

There was a violin once— and another time, a full chorus line. A box of free flowers was left on my doorstep one day with a note that said, “Take me.” And another day I accidentally found a bottle of moonflowers on purpose. 

I walked the unfamiliar streets over and over, and they felt much like familiar little corners buried in my imagination. 

I was being—in the beauty. 

Resurrecting parts within, 

parts that for a season I thought, Better gone, 

And I felt God near, 

nearer than I’ve ever known. 

Seen, even. 

His love notes, speaking to me. 

Deeply personal miracles, 

yet to be articulated, if ever. 

Although many bear witness to your joy, 

only few will know the deep battles you fight to keep it. 

How kind not to notice that the darkness was being swallowed whole by the light—

until

suddenly

I

did. 

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In putting together this love-letter, I was reminded of the late John O’donohue’s work and a particular piece found in his book Divine Beauty: The Invisible Embrace —

“Is it not possible that a place could have huge affection for those who dwell there? Perhaps your place loves having you there. It misses you when you are away and in its secret way rejoices when you return. Could it be possible that a landscape might have a deep friendship with you? That it could sense your presence and feel the care you extend towards it? Perhaps your favourite place feels proud of you”. —
John O’donohue, Divine Beauty: The Invisible Embrace

Over and over O’donohue’s work has been a gentle steering that takes my thoughts back to the dignity that is found in silence,

back to the wisdom found in stillness

returning my thought life to an eternal generosity that can be found in beauty's presence.

His work unravels beauty's invisible embrace and invites me towards new heights of compassion and creativity.

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Below is a recent piece that might adjoin beautifully to this reading moment if you care for some more —

think process journal,

a pause,

a slow creative exploration.

Part one: My creative process.

Part two is soon coming… it will arrive as a free preview to all subscribers and the full crux and body of work will be exclusively available to paid subscribers. Your decision to upgrade is a gesture of kinship, an acknowledgment that you value what you read here. Thank you for sowing here, for this opportunity to push my own limits and find the words begging to be found, just beneath the words on top.

Love (and flowers)

xo