“Why is it that when I sweep out the garage
there is a wind that blows dirt back in?”
asked my son.
“Why?”
When the wind blows back our carefully laid plans or the most delicate parts of our lives, what then?
Does one become angry? Depressed? Irritated?
Does one sweep harder and more furiously?
Does one give up the broom to someone else?
I’ve tried these ways and probably hundreds of others and
I’m getting older and more tired.
I don’t think I can stop this sweeping. Not yet.
I think dirt blown back is my teacher and I have sat too long in the back of the classroom.
My teacher says let it be.
She seems to being asking,
“Can you come to love even this?”
with deep inhale, I say, “Yes”.
In this moment, I am held by silence,
And, the wind,
while the debris of my life
swirls and scatters
around my feet
in wider and wider circles.