After reading the blogosphere the past few days, I think there are more than a few bloggers that could use this little pick-me-up.

Begin Again

Every day is a fresh beginning,
   Every morn is the world made new;
You who are weary of sorrow and sinning,
   Here is a beautiful hope for you–
   A hope for me and a hope for you.

All the past things are past and over,
   The tasks are done and the tears are shed;
Yesterday’s errors let yesterday cover;
   Yesterday’s wounds, which smarted and bled,
   Are healed with the healing which night has shed.

Yesterday now is a part of forever,
   Bound up in a sheaf, which God holds tight;
With glad days and sad days and bad days which never
   Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight,
   Their fullness of sunshine or sorrowful night.

Let them go, since we cannot relive them,
   Cannot undo, and cannot atone;
God in His mercy, receive, forgive them;
   Only the new days are our own.
   Today is ours, and today alone.

Here are the skies all burnished brightly,
   Here is the spent Earth all reborn,
Here are the tired limbs springing lightly
   To face the sun and to share with the morn,
   In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn.

Every day is a fresh beginning;
   Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain,
And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning,
   And puzzles forecasted and possible pain,
   Take heart with the day, and begin again.

–Susan Coolidge

In situations such as this, I am generally at a loss for words. Or, if I do have words, they will invariably be the wrong ones. I will say only that I continue to be impressed with the way Joanne handles herself in all the situations she blogs about. (I should also mention that this post is not in anyway for “points” or anything of that nature. It is just for understanding and reflection.)

And, with that, I will close this blog entry with a moment of gentle blog silence bookended by a short prose and a poem.

The Mysteries

The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his face and flesh as dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of Life.

Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows fell aslant, and spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one of sweet repose. It was the mystery of Death.

At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden light that clove the night as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in tender, burning touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was the mystery to which the mysteries Life and Death bow down–the mystery of Love.

–James Hunt Cook

Life

Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me’s a secret yet.

Life! We’ve been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather,
‘Tis hard to part when friends are dear–
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning, choose thine own time;
Say not “good-night,” but in some brighter clime
Bid me “good-morning.”

–Mrs. A. L. Barbauld