Every Sunday I have a habit of beginning our worship time together with a poem. My hope is that it sets the mood and intention of the service. Most Sundays it is very directly related to the scripture and theme of the day. Other mornings it has a more general call to intention for the day.

Yesterday’s poem was by the 14th century Persian poet Hafiz. It is simply entitled ‘Today’:

I
Do not
Want to step so quickly
Over a beautiful line on God’s palm
As I move through the Earth’s
Marketplace
Today.

As I
Dance with
Precious life
Today.

This is one of those poems one reads over and over with a heart full of hope. “Please,please let this be true of me!”, I want to whisper. Or scream. To awake every morning so in love with the world, so in love with the Divine,so in love with my living,is the stuff of poets and prophets and children. It is my deepest hope.

And yet I find I allow every shiny thing that passes my line of vision to distract me from the dance. I follow this and that and trip over the beauty that is right in my path. I stomp on the gently fragmenting line on God’s palm that is this person’s feelings or the bright red leaf lit by the last few rays of a fleeting autumn morning. I forget over and over again to touch with the greatest gentleness each fragile ego I bump up against on my daily walk, each unturned stone that might lead to a buried treasure beneath.

I so wish, like Hafiz, that my heart was always full of wonder and kindness. But instead, I muddle through a day missing so much…..the way the setting sun makes purple stripes on the horizon……the hope in the big, black dog’s eyes as he gazes at me…….the slow arc and pitch of the golden maple leaf as it lets go and falls toward the waiting ground.

The poet sees the Divine in all this and more. I wonder sometimes how different the world might be if we carried more of the poet around in us. Like the psalmists of old, would our lips be full of praise at every turn? Would we be shouting our wonder and awe out the windows of our cars? Would we be found gingerly walking along sidewalks, careful not to step on any cracks or caterpillars or creatures invisible to our untrained eyes?

Perhaps the good news is that each day offers the opportunity to begin again. To pull from deep within the poet that might have been lulled to sleep by the constant activity of our lives. What poet is sleeping within you, calling you to walk gently, listen deeply, noticing the Face of God that is right beneath our feet?

It’s Monday. A good day to begin dancing with this precious life.