This is grace. This is noticing.

Sometimes when we're

looking for miracles, 

what we're missing is

a thousand tiny seeds, 

carried on the wind like weeds. 

Time has gone and stood still all at once. Days have gone yet weeks have been slowly falling away without a moment to place my palms out to slow the movement.  

Strange how in life sometimes you don't know you have walked through a door until you are already on the other side. I have heard once said that sometimes your unaware the of the story beginning until you find yourself at the end. Same principle idea at play. 

Hard to believe its been almost a month from my last post, a month with no voice. It happens. I find myself living in a story that Im unable to know how to begin to tell. Yet today while out for a walk I noted… honestly… every story that I have ever lived wraps itself around me, around my word choice, my actions, thoughts and pray that it brings me closer to Christ. My stories express themselves, my stories will manifest themselves; even if I never whisper a word of my story aloud! 

At times I believe I can wear a mask to hide my story from the world, but maybe the mask I wear are actually really just a way to hide pieces from myself.

Truth is…  

my stories are always stronger than my masks, 

my true self is stronger than any mask!

There is no mask that could ever hide the beauty and deep shinning light that sometimes my voice carries, while other times my very presence tells the story in itself. 

While out walking I arrived to a clearing, horses behind me, a fresh wind blow straight through me as I swing lightly on the gate bar overlooking the hills and residential settlement. 

Gently closing my eyes, the feel of the fresh air against my skin letting me drift back to those Fridays my hands in the soil and the soul healing as spoke to dearest friend as we garden away the day. In those days I was taught gardening and flowers can be a tonic for a weary soul. Its a remedy for the undersightedness we are all prone to, our vast inability to see the small grace invading our urgency to produce and thereby be made worthy. Our inability to see miracles in the mundane. To remember when young in the fields racing through the toi toi, blowing dandelion fluff with puffs that carried wishes up into the vast unknown. And the seeds were beautiful instead of a weedy nuisance. This is grace. This is noticing. 

Oh how flowers demand nothing but to be looked upon and adored. 

They have already done the hard work of being crushed from seed, planted into the broken earth, split open and poured out. The roots united with creation, weathered the sun and rain and storms that leave them strong, beautiful and so much more brighter even if there are a few imperfections from along the journey way. If they then are cut, arranged by some magical loving hands, or plucked by curious hands of a child, or brought in crinkly plastic artificial dressing - they all do their work just by being splendid. This is grace. This is beauty. 

Stepping upon the house steps my eyes drift to the flowers that has been there this whole time. The number of times in and out of the house makes me wonder how often they are actually seen, actually spoken to …. The flowers patiently sit waiting…waiting to be noticed.... that is love and speaks of a gentle care as it waits to bud open. A few unfurled like the tulle of a ballerina's skirt, while the others patiently wait for their moment to shine. When it promised there would always be beauty too, its slender neck bending over the lip of the pot stand, pedals peel back to release a beauty that not only human eye delights in when it stops yet attracts a few butterflies, insects …. just for that moment, just so I would be reminded that we often see what we look for, even when we're in pain, the flower reflected its beauty of our creator when I can't see it in myself, at least I can see it when I open the door!