These moments, sun and tightly budded lilacs, the peach tree blossom waxing to new leaf, crabapple flowers and white-tipped bird wings, these moments I am filled. Roar of the heater, running water, song of chickadee and sparrow.

Ooof. A flesh-colored spider just scrambled over the screen of my netbook, reminding me I am not alone. A black fly, iridescent wings, a woman walking by the house, arm extended, pulled by a dog I can't see. I am never quite alone, and I like it that way--flash of light on passing car, windows of houses, the fly, bulwarked by screen, buzzing in protest. Silence pregnant with the small sounds of a thousand lives if I listen closely enough, the creak of floorboard, the shadows of birds.

This morning Martin and I sat in the sun room and read from Phyllis Tickle's Divine Hours. Whether you are religious or not, new traditions unfolding in spring are wonderful, and this is one of ours. We read ancient prayers that seem as if they are being spoken to us newly, written and sung by people vulnerable to injustice, some of whom were fleeing for their lives. While Martin and I are certainly not in such desperate straits, we feel freshly acquainted with injustice. So often we have been protected from these things with wall upon wall of privilege and safety so that a month ago, when our lives stretched out simply and easily before us, these prayers would have seemed flatter and less interesting. But now they are springtime for us.

Today, like millions of people the world round, Martin and I prayed for our daily bread. As Martin reflected afterward, we weren't asking for weekly bread, a couple of extra loaves in the freezer or a whole storehouse just in case. Just enough for today. Enough to fill us. And then tomorrow we'll ask for more. What is the poem I love? Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters, and you who have no money, come buy, and eat.