Continuing In Wonder


First, from Elizabeth Barrett Browning; buzzing with inspiration:

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing’s small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And, — glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, —
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.[1]

And then, from a wilting H. G. Wells:

There was a time when my little soul shone and was uplifted by the starry enigma of the sky. That has now disappeared. I go out and look at the stars the same way I look at wallpaper.[2]

Between these two horizons of imagination and exhaustion lies the awareness of single person.

Where do you find yourself?

Every common bush afire with transcendence, beauty, divinity, wonder, possibilities … or wallpaper?

  1. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Bk. VII, l. 812–826.  ↩

  2. As quoted by V. S. Owens, And The Trees Clap Their Hands (Eerdmans, 1983), p.46  ↩