Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt – marvelous error!-

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

– from Last Night as I Was Sleeping, by Antonio Machado

Two batches
of oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies.

One box of

double-batch of Zuppa Tuscana and another double of Lentil- Spinach Soup.

Cleaning the
yard, cleaning the house and mopping for the first time in (gulp) “a while.”

These are
the things my husband and I did on Thursday and Friday as we prepared for this
weekend’s two writing events.

It was a lot
of work.


morning the twins’ preschool hours – the time in which I usually write – were
filled with activity.  Late into the afternoon
I scooped teaspoonful’s of cookie dough onto well-greased pans.  Into the oven they went, then onto the
stovetop to cool, off the pan and into a large Tupperware container. 

I chopped a
bagful of potatoes and several onions.  I
sautéed and simmered, while washing an endless stream of dishes.  We had frozen pizza for dinner because I was
so busy cooking ahead.  The twins were relieved to know all of that soup was
not meant for them.

The entire
afternoon and on into the evening I spent spinning from counter to stove, sink
and oven in that small corner of the kitchen. 
At some point, on one of those rounds of cutting and sliding things into
a pot, in the midst of washing and rinsing I felt it – something like a happy
hive of humming bees buzzing inside my chest. 

“I love
this,” I thought.

The feeling
continued on into the next day – through scooping up the piles of “dog dirt”
scattered around the yard, cleaning the toilets and plotting the arrangement of
chairs and tables. 

Then the
people came.

First Andi –
the writer/editor I met last summer
Andi, who inspired our search for a dream house with the vulnerable sharing
of her own dreams.  Andi, who showed me
last summer how simple a retreat could be. 

Next came
the kids – eleven total.    

The kids
were off-the-wall with Friday night fever and a little dose of sass, but when
they started writing things grew quiet for a few splendid minutes while colored
pencils scratched ideas to life.  

with shinning faces they shared their stories. 
My son came to me, leaned in close and whispered his in my ear. 

After they
left, silence crept into the corners of the house.  We tucked the folding table and chairs away
and slept in the unfamiliar stillness that is a house not filled with

more people came, new faces and familiar ones, published authors and people
wondering what they were doing here. 
Everyone carried hope and doubt, everyone had placed a stake in the
ground by the simple act of arrival.

Seated in a
large circle in the living room, I was grateful.  I was not stressed. I was not anxious.  I marveled at the gift of presence shared
among a group for a few short hours.  I
wondered at the way people, when given a chance, open and blossom like bright
flowers; how we are all more beautiful, more gifted, and more broken than we
might ever dare imagine or admit. 

when the grownups left and our kids came home from a friend’s house, the
peacefulness prevailed.  There was a calm
in our house, a quiet buzz of contentment. 
And I wondered if it wasn’t because we’d spent it all, and spent it well
in a way that fit just right for us. 


For each of us there’s work that leads to death and work that leads to life – work that depletes and work that replenishes.  While we cannot always chose between the two –
life unfortunately demands both – finding and settling in to work which gives
life even as it is spent is a gift beyond measure.  Something sweet like honey.

Beuchner calls it, “The place where our own deep gladness meets the world’s
deep needs.”  Others, like Parker Palmer,
call it Vocation – or – “the thing that we cannot not do.”  

However you
put it, however long it takes you to find it, no matter how much must be lost
in the process, do not forget my friends – 

There is a hive inside your heart, 

golden and still.  It whispers 

in the quiet of the night, 

in the
stillness before wakefulness.  

It is no
dream.  It is the gift 

of who you are,
the seed, 

the soil and sunlight, 

the sticky sweet pollen 

that spreads and changes

into golden light.  Listen,

if you can, and you will 

hear its happy hum.      

*   *   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. 

You’re invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less about a small moment of wonder.  Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.  

While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

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