Each day asks this of us. That we forget the one before.

Each day asks this of us. That we not hold too tightly to the sight of flowers that bloom so unexpectedly all over our yards, our streets, our city. To the daubs of joy that suddenly saturate our awareness of just how lonely we've been for color all the long gray winter. That we allow these things to come and to go in their time. That we not grieve as the once vibrant petals wither and fall, scattering and collecting, unceremoniously, in the fence corners and the gutters.

That we love and let go of beauty.

Each day asks this of us. That we forget our endless disappointments, our not-so-quiet rage. That we hit whatever reset is required. That we turn and face it, put on our makeup, polish our shoes. That we grind the coffee and adorn the oatmeal. That we approach uncertainty unflinchingly, unjaded. That we turn yesterday's cheek, unclinch our fists, offer an open palm.

That we believe in it. As if it had never, ever let us down.

Each day asks this of us. That we rediscover ourselves. That we forget everything we knew about yesterday. That we wake up in the same bed, eat the same food, put on the same clothes, look at the same mirror, and see these all as brand new. That we wash our faces and change our socks, always asking who these things belong to.

Each day asks this of us. That we remember our cells are reimagining themselves faster than we can change our minds. That everything, absolutely everything in our universe is on its way to somewhere else, something else. That it is not possible to stand still.

Though we sit on pillows and strive to quiet our minds. Though we simplify and simplify and simplify. Though we journey to the desert. Though we strip down to nakedness. Each day asks this of us and more.

Each day asks this of us. That we look the same way upon the flowers and the snow, the clouds and the sun. That we enjoy all the things that are there and not long for what is not. That we love the heat of midday as we do the sunrise and sunset. That the dark sky hold as much sway as the full moon.

That we understand spring’s parade of pinks and whites and yellows will be gone by the time these words are read. That we not mourn the clean comfort of snow-covered mountains as their luminosity fades to earth and rock. That we abide the rolling coastal sheep grounds, as they surrender their lush carpets to the summer sun. That we accept that the vibrant immediacy of redeeming passion that rises to meet our deepest desires will also slip from memory’s grasp.

That we forgive the fact that all this and more will disappear.

Each day asks this of us. That we open our hands. That we let go of what we are clinging to, to make room for the new gifts it has for us.

That we accept that there is nothing to lose and nothing to gain. That there is only what this day has brought to us. That there is no hoarding, no saving, no burying in the yard. That there is not more in the back. That regardless of what we are told, there is always enough to share.

Each day asks this of us. That we put salve on our bruises and sew up our heartbreaks. That we record the victories and put the trophies on the shelf. That we clean and oil the chain, put new air in the tires. That we put in a fresh ribbon and stack clean sheets.

That we be willing to entertain the idea that disappointment and desire deserve unfamiliar names. 

Each day asks this of us. That we show up. And nothing more. No hiding beneath the covers. No resting on laurels. No reaching for back issues. No sitting on the bench. No calling in sick. No need to save the world.

That against great odds we must make ourselves understand that we cannot find love by tracking its scent. That the bra she left in your bed, the scent of his shirt, our dog-eared dairies, the photo stream in the cloud -- each of the things that are too precious to name -- we must somehow comprehend that we found them because we were there at the time. Not because we were looking for yesterday.

Each day asks this of us. That we live it. That we breathe while there is air to float upon. That we move while there is earth to hold us. That we not grieve our too crooked paths. And that we not shirk from the beauty of being.