It's a grubby sort of morning. Puddles swirl with the dye of leaf juices, which stain the windshield of my car and paint the roads in orange and yellow oils. My wooden balcony is slick and dark as I step out onto it with my mug of coffee to survey the view of tattered branches panning mist. After a moment, I turn back inside to lamplight and comfort, radiating gratitude and feeling sure that just that--standing all alone in my little house overspilling with giddy thanks --is useful, is worthy. That sensation is the root of singing, clapping, kissing, embracing, all gestures of excitement and love. My heart was created to do that, to gather in all the gifts my senses can hold and to translate them into the thing I call praise, to add my little heartful to what the world has to offer.

"So", as Mary Oliver says, "every day I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God."