One night recently, I visited our family farm. A calf had just been born.
At midnight, I went out to look at the cow again; by this time she had licked her new calf dry. Everything was mild and gentle, illuminated by the moon's mint light. What a beautiful night it was to arrive on earth.
Even if this newborn were a genius, it could never possibly imagine the surprise of the world that was waiting when the dawn would break in a miracle of colour illuminating the personality of mountains, river and sky
The liturgy of dawn Signals the wonder of the arriving day.
Each day is the field of brightness where the invitation of our life unfolds.
No day is ever the same, and no day stands still; each one moves through a different territory, awakening new beginnings.
A day moves forward in moments and once a moment has flickered into Iife , it vanishes and is replaced by the next.
Often a fleeting moment can hold a whole sequence of the future in distilled form: that unprepared second when you looked in a parents eye and saw death already beginning to loom.
Or the second you noticed a softening in someones voice and you knew that a friendship was beginning. Each day is seeded with, recognitions.
The writing life is a wonderful metaphor for this. The writer goes to his desk each morning to meet the empty white page. As he settles himself, he is preparing for visitation and voyage.
Each of us is an artist of our days; the greater our integrity and awareness, the more original and creative our time will become. (John O Donoghue Benedictus)
