If Only


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If only chocolate were cruciferous, and

coffee were vegetable broth.

If only tap-tapping at my computer were aerobic, and

Facebook Scrabble were resistance exercise

for muscle, as well as mind. If only

cabbage were strawberries, and

sprouts were Snickers bars.

If only scrolling on my Cloud Reader were strolling in the neighborhood, and

faithful blogging burned the same number of calories as the hilly trail I have abandoned;

then, I would be free—pain free, fat free, guilt free, and

fit enough to write the next successful weight loss best seller.

If only . . .

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Recipe for Joy


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Separate the yolk of happiness from the white of circumstance.

Gently whip the white till soft peaks of surrender form.

Fold in equal parts birds, flowers, and sandy beaches, marinated in forgiveness and gratitude.

Place in a warm, slow sunset (or sunrise, if a sunset is not available) till it tests done.

You will know it is done when you put in a bit of trouble and nothing sticks to it. If anything does stick, top with a generous play date with grandchildren and let joy expand in the warming glow till it finishes baking.


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I Wonder


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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 mind,

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.


All around.

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 .

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