Our power is out so I’m camped at Steve’s office after early morning coffee at Peets, and a return to home to shower.
This morning I watched people stagger in for their caffeine lift. Two women had pulled a coat on over their flannel pajamas, and as though sleep-walking moved along murmuring coffee, coffee, as they wound their way to their chosen source of renewal.
Before that though, an early morning gift was going outside around three or four to place blankets and pillows on the deck, and resting face up, watch the stars. With all the lights out in our area, I could see dimensions and layers of stars, knowing some were whole galaxies, not just stars. I saw five meteors flash.
All of this meant I didn’t read the news until 1:30 today. I find it hard to believe.
It’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. One man’s son is here also as his high school is closed to honor the day, and, yet, we are observing a humanitarian crisis, innocent people killed. Why?
I come to this poem for support.
Just when you seem to yourself
nothing but a flimsy web
of questions, you are given
the questions of others to hold
in the emptiness of your hands,
songbird eggs that can still hatch
if you keep them warm,
butterflies opening and closing themselves
in your cupped palms, trusting you not to injure
their scintillant fur, their dust.
You are given the questions of others
as if they were answers
to all you ask. Yes, perhaps
this gift is your answer.
~ Denise Levertov ~