It’s not patience
when the body
(the body in cahoots with nature,
those assholes)
forces you to wait.
But sometimes in waiting,
you get to witness sudden sunshine.
So here you are, starchild,
face flushed and sweaty,
thrashing against the necessity of rest
as the clouds break open all around you
and drench you in unasked-for light.
This poem brought to you by fresh snowfall, two bad knees, a weak right hip, and a foot that isn’t too fond of walking either. It’s also brought to you by Anne Lamott, whose book Hallelujah Anyway I was reading at the time. While we’ve never met and she’s never heard of me, I like to think of her approving vigorously of this poem, about a human in all her stubborn horribleness, and the things she doesn’t deserve and would never ask for, but somehow, absurdly, receives anyway.
I’m not sure I even recognize the ever-presence of mercy anymore, the divine and the human; the messy, crippled, transforming, heartbreaking, lovely, devastating presence of mercy. But I have come to believe that I am starving to death for it, and my world is, too.
Anne Lamott