Praise be

Praise by my sloppy half-painted nails and half-painted portraits too, faces half sketched, no color, unfinished as our spirit work--too comfortably tucked in our skins to look forward to the moments when we peel away our rotting husks and uncover the glistening pearl of our birthright- to strip everything away and still have God.


Praise be the ruin of my routine. Too much to bear it--have to get out--help me. I'll go for a run when the grass is still wet and come home to take my time eating eggs. Praise be the taking off of my work clothes and the slipping on of loose cotton. Praise be time without responsibility and a half pint of mint, Oreo-cookie ice cream in the freezer.


Praise be the ocean--the whole of it--every drop. Praise be the families that walk by it, the dogs brought back into being dogs in their noses by it and the crabs, and fish that floating seaweed that find life in it.

Praise be growth, both human and animal. Blessed is the 1 pound toad I found crouched below the lip of curb at twilight, his fat throat pulsing and his spread legs barely holding up his bulging body filled with flies. Praise be the foundation in the front yard he hopped towards, and the dozens of doves and sparrows who balance on the bird feeders, and the two fat cats who lounge on the flat rocks.

Praise be the houseplants, overgrown in their pots and creeping over the surfaces, floors and reaching their leaves up to the ceiling. They pull themselves toward the sunlight.

Praise be our homes and our bodies, as important and fragile as snail shells.