On the morning of Thanksgiving
I simply must practice inner stillness first,
before the frantic begins.
I need the reverent stretches and bows
of sacred yoga.
I need the silent sitting,
palms open in the lap.
This is not about being religious.
This is answering a real need
of being before doing, again today.
Soon a quiet sense of treasuring my wife arises.
She is my greatest source of gratitude.
May I not forget to keep pausing
to cherish her today
once the frantic begins.
Through the window
I see brilliant yellow leaves
illuminated by the morning sun,
some of them falling to the earth
one by one
a silent parade procession
each taking their turn
letting go and falling
floating toward final home.
Boisterous television parades and commentary will soon beckon,
interrupted by incessant shopping ads,
and a heavy newspaper is waiting at the front door.
The ads in there will quadruple the “news,”
and the “news” will simply recount
whatever is terrible and sensational anyway.
The real news
before the frantic begins
is how my roots are drinking deeply
from quiet gratitude this morning.
For more stories like this see Monks in the World: Seeking God in a Frantic World.