i really wanted to write a poem today. about a Thanksgiving tree. but when we tried to string the lights we discovered small branches on the bottom and big ones on top and i barreled into the present with a stomp, as branches flew out of the tree onto floor order.
abandoned by all but two stalwart tree artists, I guided the branches into a mathematically perfect tree and stretched out each arm ready to receive. then i giggled and thought perhaps the tree should have been left as it was, decorated to be a robot or some such thing. maybe next year.
then the little and the not-so-little hands placed the ornaments and this is where I must find my place to come in, in harmony, as keLi so beautifully exhorted. sometimes my heart despairs about the things that I do that have not meaning. like I want my tree to be ALIVE! and just like the substance of things unseen is the most precious thing, the things placed in these reaching arms can be precious, because it is precious to him.