William Carlos Williams was a poet and a doctor. He was known for noticing small holiness in the ordinary. I wandered through this idea after reading the poem “Approach to a City”. So much of life is found in the small and ordinary. Wanting to notice. Wanting to remember. Wanting to remember to notice.
It all comes down to the little things – they get stuck in our consciousness like the poppy seed in my teeth after eating a thick, chewy bagel. Toasted, butter melting, I don't think about the abundance of small seeds until later, long after I have wiped the butter from my fingers and lips. I notice the seed, left behind from my moment of morning bliss.
And the moments seem to tumble into my mind, the small things we remember; the laughter about tidy-whitey underwear – that turns into the best Christmas present. We sit here at this corner or our table. It becomes obscure in the light of day when it is filled with laughter and conversation. But in this moment, the corner is our altar, offering a glimpse of our deepest dreams or gigantic fears – it is a small holiness that calls us, me, to a large compassion, wondering about traveling gently into the world.
And this small holiness leads me to seek a voice that speaks kinder words, walk more gently on the planet, considers how my being impacts the universe – each breathe, each word, each movement or action. Considering how my life, my consumption, my holding and letting go are all a small, minute, insignificant, yet holy prayer, which swirls together whirling and whizzing - into the sky and the earth, into the ears of my family and friends. I go bumping and twisting into the otherwise small and seemingly insignificant - words, actions, consumption and movement.
Small holiness – I see, I feel, I hold - the other, the least of me and my sisters and brothers, walking this vast universe together. Alone, not really, in this place we call home. The chimes singing their song this morning as the wind blows through the cold. I hear the song, see the light, and it is holy.