The heart of pleasure

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon and I stretch out in the room with Holly Hobbie wallpaper.  I tire quickly of following the patterns of girls with bonnets and wish again to be outside.  The window to my left is cranked open as an invitation to the summer breeze that blows through.  I'm suppose to be napping, but at eight years old I can hardly appreciate the luxury of it.  My feet instead find protest in the injustice of not being able to run through the fresh cut grass that is waking all my senses.  I am missing the cold shock of it, and the green stains that cling to curious toes.




I hear the hum of the mower continue for a long while, and when it stops the calls of the outside reach me more clearly.  I lay for an eternity watching the sun change shadows on the wall.  The entire time I am regretting the missed opportunity of feeling that warmth across my face.  Outside I am vibrantly alive, and in this room I am merely existing.

Many mornings of my childhood found my bed empty before dawn.  I would wait for my friends on Harbury Drive to join me, and if they could not I would explore on my own.  I was the character in my own make believe life be it spy or chef, mother, florist, or member of the Swiss Family Robinson's.  I would climb trees and dig tar from the steaming cracks of blacktop.  I would flip rocks to find slugs, and drop sticks down sewer holes just to see how many seconds it would take before they break bottom in that dark space.

That girl would get lost in nature and also found.  She was connected to something bigger than herself, and in that she found joy.  Sometimes I see her.  Sometimes I feel her.  Always I know her.  There is a sense of peace in these moments of her finding, a sense of pure and innocent pleasure.  I am a living, breathing being in this world that was created in the most extravagant display of intricate, artistic expression.  It is here for me to enjoy and we are treasures for one another.




The sun sinks low on the horizon and all of these colors take possession of the sky.  My soul sighs at the magnificence of the dying day as my eyes unwrap the gift of its last unspoken words.  I tell my children to take notice, because every day miracles are still miracles and who are we to refuse the sight of such beauty?  I appreciate the world differently now as I pull off the lens cap and reach for the changing moments.  I'm never quite satisfied with what I see on the screen, but then I tell myself that you can never truly capture heaven here on earth.

There are hints of it, heaven on earth, and I am learning that we all find it differently.  The painters paint, the singers sing, the mothers nurture, the preachers preach, the farmers reap, the nurses heal, the friends listen, the poets write, the fishermen cast, the dancers move, the orators speak, the potters spin and the whole earth is filled with the beauty of hearts that have found love.  God created the world and saw that it was good, and we were created as explorers and lovers of his art.  We are made in the image of God, the embodiment of what he calls very good and in our pleasure we feel God's.

Comments

  1. Quite possibly my favorite writing of yours I have read so far. :)

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