The vicar general, shying away from ‘paganism’ hangs back
and sits under a tree reading the guidebook.
I am able to approach the Buddhas barefoot and undisturbed, my feet in
wet grass, wet sand. – Thomas Merton describing his visit to the sleeping Budhas in the Asian Journal
My son comes walking to me, barefoot,
across the wet summer
grass.
The morning light lays soft around him
and in that moment I see how it
is,
how every child is a contemplative,
exposed in every way to the Now.
“This is what you must become,” Jesus
whispers
and I see now how it has always been, God
and his children, barefoot, the morning
grass
cool and wet beneath their feet.
This post is linked with Unforced Rhythms.
I imagine you there … watching his feet brush clover in their dewy pajamas … drinking deep of the glory that is your life … your very breath, and his … and the way it all keeps going … Sigh. Thank you, Kelly. Reading your words is always time well spent. No matter where you take me.
One should always remove their shoes on Holy Ground. And morning grass, where both the dew and His mercies are new… well, I can think of few things more appropriate to approach with bare feet. Love your poetry. So glad we've been connected on this journey.