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<\/a><\/p>\nSunrise after wind & heavy snow on Pine Ridge \u00a0 – \u00a0March 17, 2019<\/p>\n
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Today\u2019s Post: \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>\u201cHappiness\u201d<\/p>\n There\u2019s just no accounting for happiness, And how can you not forgive? No, happiness is the uncle you never It comes to the monk in his cell. It even comes to the boulder <\/p>\n Jane Kenyon (b. 1947 \u2013 d. 1995 )<\/p>\n Monday, January 13 \u2013\u00a0Jane Kenyon \u2013 \u201cThere\u2019s just no accounting for happiness\u201d I\u2019d not met Jane Kenyon until David Grubin caught my\u00a0attention with her \u201cHappiness\u201d in an email back on a\u00a0February 2017 \u00a0morning. \u00a0 Kenyon gets it about understated, even … Continue reading
\nor the way it turns up like a prodigal
\nwho comes back to the dust at your feet
\nhaving squandered a fortune far away.<\/p>\n
\nYou make a feast in honor of what
\nwas lost, and take from its place the finest
\ngarment, which you saved for an occasion
\nyou could not imagine, and you weep night and day
\nto know that you were not abandoned,
\nthat happiness saved its most extreme form
\nfor you alone.<\/p>\n
\nknew about, who flies a single-engine plane
\nonto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
\ninto town, and inquires at every door
\nuntil he finds you asleep midafternoon
\nas you so often are during the unmerciful
\nhours of your despair.<\/p>\n
\nIt comes to the woman sweeping the street
\nwith a birch broom, to the child
\nwhose mother has passed out from drink.
\nIt comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
\na sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
\nand to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
\nin the night.<\/p>\n
\nin the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
\nto rain falling on the open sea,
\nto the wineglass, weary of holding wine.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"