Six years ago about this time, I was at Sunrise Springs, New Mexico, taking part in a National Writing Project professional writers’ retreat. While I was there, I jotted down the following:
Out here on the veranda overlooking Sunrise Springs
I’ll just write for me …
But I don’t know what.
I don’t know what because not a sorrow
Disturbs my peace.
My soul is fat,
Blessed beyond measure
Because this heart
Feels no hurt that God cannot heal,
Weighs no grief that hope cannot bear,
Knows no longing that love cannot satisfy.
So be it sufficient
To write about idle things, like . . .
Shimmering aspen leaves touched by the sunswept breeze.
Glistening trinkets splashing in fountains,
Dancing on ponds,
And ripples scurrying shoreward
Beneath over aching boughs of willow and cotton wood
Under a cloudless canopy
Of blue mountain sky
As I write,
Thank you, Lord, to be so blessed.