. . . and waiting for spring.
In every stained glass butterfly wing and every crafted hummingbird tongue,
in chiffon layers of petal upon petal, anther and stamen, centered strength,
I see your hand,
your art, and I wonder
at those who could praise science and the randomness of process for these marvels.
There is a hunger for wonder, and here it is.
But to praise the source of it all as an impersonal, cruel nothing
rather than an intelligent, creative something—
is to miss the love for the function and to miss intervention for happenstance .
G iving thanks is a calculated choice, not just a
R esponse to warm, fuzzy feelings,
A aroused by a serene environment and an inner personal peace. To be
T hankful involves the seat of your will, not just the seat of your pants,
I ntuition gained by work and intentionality,
T ested over time in murky waters when emotions and motives were impossible to
U nderstand, when it would be much easier to sulk and voice the
D readful, dark components than look for the silvery grains of gold that in
E ternity are the jewels that will last.
. . . here is my Christmas cactus to keep you company. I am buried under a stack of research papers!