It has to do with us, this feast. What we long for, and see, and do not see. “And so the angels are here,” says St. Bernard, whispering, like a child.
Two crows interpose themselves between me and the golden trees – ash, oak – between the blood-red maple and a full moon grown pale in a cloudless blue. Their cries, on the child wind, come as mystery, much like the question Bernard tosses up to God: “What are we, that you make yourself known to us?”
from October 2, Guardian Angels, The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris
I stopped blogging yesterday when serial guests began arriving; when life and hugs and crayons and walks in the woods and earnest young children chunking rocks into the stream and running wildly with Maggie down the dirt road and teasing and laughing and holding hands kicking the toe of our sneakers in the cool dry sand took over and became the ineffably lovely ground of my being. When Buck told me I was the sweetest woman in the world, and he was going to find me a merit badge declaring it to be so. Was ever my smile wider than on this day? When the littlest amongst us presented precious drawings declaring her love in the full-hearted way of the innocent and never yet hurt?
I vow to be her band-aid for life as best I can.