Anyone who knows me, knows that I hold Madeleine L'Engle in the highest regard.
And, if you think that she just wrote A Wrinkle In Time, look again at the 60+ books that she authored.
Some of you know that stuff has been going on in my life for the past year. Everyone has stuff going on. And, sometimes that stuff gets the better of me. And, then, I remember this poem. Madeleine included it in one of my favorites books--A Ring of Endless Light. She attributed this poem to Sir Thomas Browne. In her book, it's etched on the wall of the room that the kids sleep in at their grandfather's house on the beach. It has always been a secret desire for me to wallpaper my walls with words. Maybe I will.
If thoust could'st empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,
And say "This is not dead."
And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou art all replete with very thou,
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes he says "This is enow,
Unto itself--'twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me."
It reminds me that being very full of me doesn't allow room for anything else. And I think that real living only happens when I am open to receiving whatever the universe wants to throw my way.
How's everyone else doing, today?