It is a hard art to learn,

catching quiet

by palms raised

cupped in

air shifting location

here and there like

trying to guess the pattern of falling leaves,

and hoping to feel

the soft descent of moments

when silence slips

between sounds.


This ordinary time is

gifted with days,

weeks of mundane grace

routinely following the liturgy

of hours anticipating creation

tuning its prayer and praise to the

rhythms of incarnate love.


I am used to the uproar,

the Holy drama,

the appetite’s gnarled discord

of fasting and feasting on borrowed time,

the knocking of angels,

the blubbering piety of waiting,

appointed seasons for guilt and grief,

tears of joy and disbelief,

the birth of miracles, the passion of virgins,

the mourning of a love so divine.


This ordinary time is gifted in its quiet, marked passing

Christ slips about

calling and baptizing,

sending and affirming,

pour in his Spirit like water

into broken cisterns,

sealing cracks and filtering our senses,

that we may savor the foolish

simplicity of his grace.

 Passing Ordinary Time by ENUMA OKORO

{Photos taken in Capernwray, England}

I’m cupping my hands to hold the wonder of ordinary.  Won’t you join me?