The world seems shaken lately. Everything is shifting and changing before my eyes and I am powerless to stop it.
Yet my smallness in the world is a gift. I have no earthshaking decisions to make, the world does not hang on my words. I only have to watch the sun rise in the morning, and sleep in my home under the stars. And sing my song.
The sun is rising now as I write and a bird greets the cold thin air and grey dawn with singing. I lift my head and listen to his sweet, unconscious joy.
My art is my song. It seems like it might get lost in the cold thin air and the grey light of this world. But I like to think that you see it and lift your head for a moment.
And I like to think I hear your song coming back to me.
LORD, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me. Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child. Let Israel hope in the LORD from henceforth and for ever.