fabric of my days

Let’s say my time is fabric.

Sometimes I am the scarf draped over the small altar where I sit for centering prayer. The scarf is a gift from Jess, a friend I’ve known since I was two. The scarf is rarely disturbed, and then only by the cat on his way to the windowsill. A creature purring insistently enough has full license to interrupt my meditation.

At times I am the cozy, colorful patchwork of writing and reading and inhaling my favorite scented candle. I bought this quilt for my own self in a lavishly beautiful mercantile shop in Philly.

At times I’m the gorgeous runner our friend Mary Anne gave us. It repels liquid, so it looks good even when it’s been on the table for weeks. I aspire to that sort of work-a-day beauty. Crumbs aren’t a problem. The space is both sacred and quotidian.

Some moments are important and yet ignored. Some moments are handkerchiefs or napkins. Some moments are curtains framing the day.

What about the hours when I’m at the beach, fluttering in the wind?

The time could very well blow away – I might hardly notice my own joy – unless I hold tight to the corners, unless I plant myself down for a while.

My favorite time is when I am a flag: free and wild, yet securely tethered. I’m sailing in the wind of Spirit, wide open.

I’m resting in my own elegance.

I am the child of the wind, aren’t I? Still, I’d never claim the wind as my own.

Whether I’m half-mast or flying high, I stand for something. Even when I am weathered, I carry meaning. May I offer it with no expectation of being saluted or even noticed. May the meaning be true.