Here we walk as though we are the lords and masters of the earth,
Shrouded in a fog of forgetfulness,
Remembering not from where all things come.
Every delicate breath,
Each impossible sunrise and burning sunset,
Every blade of grass and every curve of every petal of every flower,
Have they not all been given by a generous and mysterious hand,
A gift?
And what of the air that fills our lungs,
The sustenance which pushes through soil or hangs like jewels from bushes and branches,
Has this not all been given too?
We could argue,
Maybe,
That there are things that we have created ourselves,
Things that were not given freely this way,
But from where did our ability to create come?
From where did the possibility for any of it come?
Finally,
As the light pours in,
We will find ourselves swept away by tears of gratitude as we stand and turn in circles,
Realising with heartbreaking clarity that everything,
Absolutely everything,
Is a gift.