Sometimes when you’re in a dark place
you think you’ve been buried,
but actually you’ve been planted.
~Christine Caine
_______________
We don’t understand
while buried in the dark,
that we rest planted in holy ground,
waiting for the wakening
that calls us forth to bloom and fruit.
And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.
In the robin’s nest there were Eggs and the robin’s mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings.
….in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves—
nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them—
the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs.
If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being
that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end—
if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air.
But they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it.
~Frances Hodgson Burnett from The Secret Garden
This is shared in light of the current controversy over the value of the newly formed,
in essence “the Egg”, whether it may be financial or moral,
– each tiny part of the least of these –
– whether brain, heart, lungs or liver –
is wonderfully made, whether unwanted or discarded.
The act of creating something so sacred is immense, tender, terrible, beautiful, heart-breaking,
and so very solemn.
The act of hurting this one tiny part of creation hurts the whole world; we risk whirling round and crashing through space
and coming to an end.
~EPG
The sacred moments,
the moments of miracle,
are often the everyday moments.
~Frederick Buechner from The Magnificent Defeat
Morning breaks everyday
sacred, miraculous,
and leaves me breathless
and heart-full.
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.
~Helen Hunt Jackson from “New Year’s Morning”
We awake glad,
breathe deeply of the sacred around us
glistening in the light of a soft sunrise.
Each day is a fresh start,
a gift from beyond,
content to renew covenant
with God and one another.
…anything can be written about. Not because nothing is sacred, but because everything is.
~Billy Coffey
Too much on the internet is “anything goes” because nothing is considered too sacred to be dissected, illustrated, exploited and promoted in as public a way as possible.  Most of it is so cringe-worthy that it feels very risky to click on any unfamiliar link as it may take the viewer into such a dark corner of the web that it feels impossible to escape. Once an image is seen, it is difficult to erase from the mind’s eye.
So my little corner of the web is meant to be in the light, instead of a portal into dark.
Over the years I’ve written about many things that are personal, whether it is mistakes I’ve made, overblown worries, my parents’ marriage, health care controversies, forgiveness, and surprisingly, the page that gets the most visits on my blog: my horse’s bodily functions.
Even horse poop can be seen as sacred…I guess. At least someone must think so.
Some things are just too sacred to be written down, and because I hold them close in my heart, they will stay that way.
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.
Henry Beston
The change of seasons this week offered no gradual transition to ease us gently into autumn– three months of daily sun and balmy temperatures became gray, rainy, windy, stormy cuddle-down cold overnight.  It is a terrible shock to our physiology as well as our wardrobe. Sweaters and jackets that have not seen the light of day for months are suddenly front and center in the closet. Sandals are shoved way to the back once again. Only last week I was still sneaking out to the barn to do morning chores in my pajamas and slippers but now am trussed up in my Carhartts, gloves and muck boots.
Tough as it is reconcile to shorter days and chilly temperatures, I do appreciate the absolute drama of it all. Golden leaves dance up and down in the gusts, as if searching for the exactly perfect landing and forever resting spot. The fallen walnuts inside their round green husks are scattered everywhere underfoot well hidden among the leaves, making navigating are yard’s pathways hazardous, especially in the dark. I’ve never been good at walking on marbles and these are ping pong ball size marbles.
So all bundled up I pick my way carefully to the barn, wanting not to be embarrassed by falling flat on my face and or by watching trees stripped naked right before my eyes.  As they unceremoniously shed their leafy coats to reveal their skinny skeletons, I’m piling on layers on over my…. layers.
I’m treading on their sacred leavings, much like inadvertently walking across poorly marked graves at a cemetery.  It is truly holy ground.
The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn
~John Muir
Barnstorming 