Waiting to be known

I am sure there are good things that I don’t know yet.  But it’s  hard to find them sometimes in the tangle of lies and deceit.  Or is it that I let the lies and deceit scream louder than the background noise they deserve to be? My addiction to doom scrolling and catastrophic thinking, both generic and learned behavior, completely crowds out the whispers of any good thing lying beneath the surface of the noise.

Some days, in the midst of the noise, I feel that good thing tugging at me insistently, like a child hungry for my affection and attention, but only out of the corner of my eye or the edge of my brain.  And like an exhausted parent, I give lip service to the possibility of the hope it promises.  Yeah. Yeah.  Maybe someday. But the dishes are never going to get done. And my God, are you ever going to clean your room?

Some days the good things that are already known I feast on and try to recreate.Today’s sunrise was a Monet. Yesterday’s was a Picasso.  Tomorrow?  Van Gogh?  Then again, some days, the sun seems to be in the wrong place, and the clouds crowd out the silhouette of the mountains against the sky, and I think to myself….blah, blah, blah.  Just a boring sunrise. How disappointing. I guess I will go weed the gravel.

But some days, in the midst of the seduction of the monkey tasks or hidden in the haze of catastrophe and confusion,  I feel good things are still waiting to be known.  Like that high school crush who was the object of all desire.  Whose mere presence, whose light scent, whose voice alone created a longing to be looked at, to be noticed, to be seen.

The good things want that.  To be anticipated and adored in the waiting.  To be sought after in the crowded hallways and dreamt about in the midst of the dark chaos. To dance too close for the chaperones’ comfort and accidentally brush lips in an awkward embrace.

The good things waiting to be known deserve that kind of attention.  And that is an act of the will that requires a deep practice of noticing.  The begonia in the indoor planter stretching its peach winged flower towards the direction of the awakening sun every morning. The imprint of my finger in the soil leaving a soft hollow where moisture gathers.  The light catching a glass watering bulb and revealing a jade green Taj Mahal.

A remembered voice calling out in the chaos and the confusion reminding me to rest and be still.

The world will always be the world.  Peace will never be found there.  It will only be found in the shy glance of a young girl tucked against her mother’s breast.  The flick of a lizard tail scurrying across the pavers.  Baby birds in the vestibule peeking their heads through the twigs and the soft down.

This day.  This next moment. This next breath. All wrapped in the certainty of Love.

These good things longing to be known.