The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
High church. Low church. No church. Morning coffee. Salat times. A walk in the evening. A quiet drive.
What’s your weekly liturgy? What’s your daily liturgy?
We tend not to think in such terms. Liturgy is that order of service stuff for high churches. We prefer the word “routine.” It would seem, perhaps, a more neutral word. And it is. One specifically for church, and the other for, well, everything else.
And yet, if our daily routines hold any kind of sacred whisper, they become the stuff of liturgy. Continue reading