by JAMES BROUGHTON
Another way to bump into wonder
I only ever dawdle or amble or linger or pause.
And in this counter-cultural slowness,
I bump into wonder:
the pansy growing in a crack in the footpath;
the old man walking his dog who simply wants a chat.
I am rarely sure or certain.
I dwell in the grey.
And in my doubt,
I bump into wonder:
the compassion that comes from putting myself in another's shoes;
the awe I feel when I look through different eyes.
I am not intrepid or brave or courageous.
And in my timidity,
I bump into wonder:
when the siren sounds and men and women set aside their lives to aid another,
a deep gratitude envelops me;
when a dying friend empowers and strengthens those around her.
I do not have discriminating wisdom as I am too attached to all that I have and know.
But in that attachment
I bump into wonder:
that I have just the right book for the right person when they most need it;
that I can share my collection of teapots and cups at a friend's birthday picnic.
I have stood at many crossroads
- I stand at one now -
and in my dawdling and doubt and timidity and clutter,
holding the truths that I know for sure (that I am known and I am loved),
I am prepared to bump into wonder.
And I do.
Choices throughout every day -
some important, most trivial or mundane.
I chose the elongated torso with short feet.
I tore strips of fabric for the hair,
and to stitch at random onto the body
with a red running stitch.
The stitch runs off the strips
and intersects with other lines of stitching.
At each and every intersection,
I bump into wonder!