Saturday, April 7, 2012

have a blessed easter, all

Here is a vintage postcard from Santa Cruz - there is the wharf, the harbor, the boardwalk and the river. There isn't so much lush forest anymore right down to the beach. In fact, the card reminds me of hearing tales of the pre-logging Santa Cruz when we go to RedTree Properties camp outs with Dad. Ah, local history. Anyway, it reminds me of home - quaint, retro, mod, earthy, organic, relaxed, beautiful Santa Cruz and my family, who are having Easter brunches here and there without me.  So here is my night-before-Easter poem, which speaks to my heart each sleepy, worn night.

God Speaks, by Charles Peguy

I don't like the man who doesn't sleep, says God.
Sleep is the friend of man.
Sleep is the friend of God.
Sleep is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have created.
And I myself rested on the seventh day.
He whose heart is pure, sleeps. And he who sleeps has a pure heart.
That is the great secret of being as indefatigable as a child.
Of having that strength in the legs that a child has.
Those new legs, those new souls,
And to begin afresh every morning, ever new,
Like young hope, new hope . . .
He who doesn't sleep is unfaithful to Hope.
And it is the great infidelity.
Because it is infidelity to the greatest Faith.
Poor children, they conduct their business with wisdom during the day.
But when evening comes, they can't make up their minds,
They can't be resigned to trust my wisdom for the space of one night
With the conduct and the governing of their business.
And if I wasn't capable, if you please, of looking after a little,
Of watching over it.
Of governing and conducting, and all that kind of stuff.
I have a great deal more business to look after, poor people,
I govern creation, maybe that is more difficult.
You might perhaps, and no harm done, leave your business in my hands, O wise men.
Maybe I am just as wise as you are.
You might perhaps leave it for me for the space of a night.
While you are asleep
At last
And the next morning you might find it not too badly damaged perhaps . ..
Put off until tomorrow those tears which fill your eyes and your head,
Flooding you, rolling down your cheeks, those tears, which stream down your cheeks.
Because between now and tomorrow, maybe I, God will have passed by your way.
Human wisdom says: Woe to the man who puts off what he has to do until tomorrow.
And I say Blessed, blessed is the man who puts off what he has to do until tomorrow.
Blessed is he who puts off. That is to say Blessed is he who hopes. And who sleeps.

Good night to you! He is Risen!

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