Some days are for digging deep, for hunkering low to the ground, for waiting for the wave to wash over. These days are for riding it out and for toughing through it. These are the days passed on automatic, floating through waters of ordinary. They are sacred in their own way, holy in their own right.
But some days are filled with so much fire that all that dug-up dirt from ordinary seems to shine like diamonds. On these days, when my soul is white-hot, I want to rake my fingers through those dirt diamonds and to scrub my hands in all of their broken beauty. I want to sink, feet-first, into the black sands of the earth, to bathe in its purple gardens, and to swim through its linen air with ribbons down my back. Leaning pines call me to swing from their lofty branches while I sprinkle love like dust, and watch as sunflowers grow out of the dusty rubble. On soul-hot days, I want to dance beneath black rivers and to burst like light out of grey shadows. I want to cup my hands around the little faces of my flesh and to blow cool wind on their pink noses while their joy scatters like dandelion whiskers. A day like this slips through eager fingers so quickly that it is best not to cling too tightly, but to simply enjoy the magic of its passing. So I lace my hands behind my head and fall back into the deep, billowy richness of a day such as this.
There is certainly something sacred about the rhythm of the everyday, something spiritual about the practice of ordinary. Assuredly, these are days for deep living. But on days such as this, when my spirit is both thirsty and quenched, when my soul is both ablaze and at peace, when even the dirt shines and the dust grows sunflowers … these days are for more than deep living. Yes, these days are for coming alive.