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I haven’t much to say today, so I’m going to pull a Melissa
and give you one of my favorite poems.
I first heard David Whyte on the carride home from my annual
women’s meditation retreat perhaps 5 years ago. My friend, in her new and
exciting Mini, maybe even with the top down, decided we were a little too
altered at the moment to listen to music on the drive down the mountains of
Napa, and so put in a CD of David Whyte. I’d never heard of him. Or his Irish accent. Or the way he repeats his own lines when he recites
them, the way he pauses to savor and emphasize words. But, I did that day.
The next time I heard the poem recited, it was in the
hospital, maybe a year and a half ago. The same friend brought a slightly battered, second-hand copy of the David Whyte book named for the poem. The nurse that
day, with her Hawaiian flowerprint scrubs and her own Aussie accent, saw the gift exchange and exclaimed her own
love of David Whyte. So I asked her to read this one aloud to us, and
reluctantly, shyly, she assented. It was so still and lovely in that room then.
When you get a chance to hear him, do it. Till then, reading
will suffice.
            Everything
Is Waiting For You
            Your
great mistake is to act the drama
            as
if you were alone. As if life
            were
a progressive and cunning crime
            with
no witness to the tiny hidden
            transgressions.  To feel abandoned is to deny
            the
intimacy of your surroundings. 
Surely,
            even
you, at times, have felt the grand array;
            the
swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
            out
your solo voice.  You must note
            the
way the soap dish enables you,
            or
the window latch grants you freedom.
            Alertness
is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
            The
stairs are your mentor of things
            to
come, the doors have always been there
            to
frighten you and invite you,
            and
the tiny speaker in the phone
            is
your dream-ladder to divinity.
            Put
down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
            the
conversation.  The kettle is
singing
            even
as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
            have
left their arrogant aloofness and
            seen
the good in you at last.  All the
birds
            and
creatures of the world are unutterably
            themselves.  Everything is waiting for you.
                    David Whyte. listen. (start at 1:19; so good!) read.

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