Daily Work

Perfection tells me I can get ahead –
I can keep the kitchen crumbless and sparkling,
the food prepped,
the glass refilled,
the diaper dry,
the laundry washed,
or hung.

The infant tells me time is running out –
the invisible clock hovers
above my head always
the seconds
from 10 to 0
when the baby will cry
and everything will be left undone,
so all work
is frantic and maddening.

The Spirit tells me perfection is imperfect
if it causes all this grief. It is better
to go about one’s work with contentment
rather than fear. Even the monks
have daily tasks to complete – sweeping,
baking, cooking, cleaning, washing, and tending every day.
And so my work is the same;

I cannot feed tomorrow’s breakfast this evening.
I cannot give tomorrow’s bath today.
I cannot read our bed-time story this afternoon
nor sweep up the day’s mess this morning.

But I can take each moment as it comes to me,
embrace life’s disorder,
give thanks for the constant opportunity to love.


Be with me in my
waking, praying, moving.
Be with me in my
speaking, hugging, helping.
Be with me in my
scrubbing, filling, placing.
Be with me in my
prepping, serving, feeding.
Be with me in my
packing, driving, sending.
Be with me in my
washing, drying, folding.
Be with me in my
rinsing, loading, sorting.
Be with me in my
wiping, dusting, tidying.
Be with me in my
smiling, laughing, playing.
Be with me in my
reading, writing, drawing.
Be with me in my
making, wrapping, giving.
Be with me in my
welcoming, greeting, caring.
Be with me in my
holding, squeezing, kissing.
Be with me in my
gathering, chopping, cooking.
Be with me in my
thinking, tending, working.
Be with me in my
bathing, diapering, dressing.
Be with me in my
snuggling, tucking, whispering.
Be with me in my
talking, knowing, listening.
Be with me in my
breathing, resting, sleeping.
Be with me in my
loving, loving, loving.

Peeling Grapes

Who am I

to be blessed with a baby

who loves grapes;

and me, with legs and feet to stand,

hands and fingers to work,

eyes to watch and ears to listen?

The juice runs down between my fingers

as my knife works.  It drips from my wrist onto the white plate

where I wipe the purple skins and quarter the fruit.

Who am I to be blessed with the Time to stand here

peeling grapes?