such a little thing

I stepped out onto the deck one creaky cold morning last week, and there hung the moon above still pink clouds. I was excited, because of the new camera in my grasp, but I also felt the familiar thrill from simply seeing it. Our disc of reflected light. Our gift as night finally wanes. The hope of tomorrow's sun rising again.

Even if I knew nothing of science and tides, I would still sense that leap inside my soul, of discovery, of sameness, of the new, of this as a gift. It doesn't save me from all that surrounds -- doubts and fears, despondency and dread -- but it beckons me to come to know, to remember. Something is true. And it is humble, because even if no one saw it and thrilled deep inside, it would show itself anyway.

I pondered, as I sought to capture frosty aspects of my world that morning, that nature is innocent.





This understanding is part of my faith -- part of what I'm believing I see while hearing it in songs of nature and in the Eucharistic (thanksgiving-istic) movements I'm making.




Nature only participates in creation as it is supposed to; left to itself it is truly wild. Corruption is the context, due to the choices of humankind, that nature exists in. But nature is not vanquished. So far, anyway, the moon continues to shine into my context.



Though I don't think I have announced it here yet, I've been pondering another very small something, which also looms exceedingly large on my horizon. Last night I was talking with my daughter about it, asking her how she is feeling, as I always make sure to do these days. Victoria said she is having days of more energy now, though not always, and she rarely feels sick, though familiar foods can cause new reactions. She hasn't felt movement yet, but she can tell when she stoops to retrieve a tray or a package at work, there is a definite heaviness, a something.

In innocence her child grows, in dark and in secret. Yet I thrill deep inside imagining the day it will show itself.