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For one thing, being able to be distracted demonstrates our freedom. If we couldn't be distracted from a chosen focus, we'd be enslaved to the focus. Distractability challenges and proves our choicefulness, and tests our generosity. A boring theme reveals the strength or weakness of the gift of attention far more than a fascinating theme. 

For another thing, the fact that we notice we are distracted, and even return from distraction to a chosen focus, suggests occult powers of mind and heart. To sense these mysteries, we need only ask precisely how we awaken to see our mind has wandered, or how we return.

In choosing a focus, having our attention wander, and then somehow returning to the focus, we repeat in little the whole course of creation, fall, and redemption, or birth, crucifixion and resurrection, or the story of the prodigal child who, after untold lostness, returns home to find a welcoming love.

Newsletter of Michael Lipson--September 22, 2026

Please don’t plant me

neat rows of rosebushes

and tulips at attention,

no manicured gardens

or crystal vases of cut stems.

Instead, take my hand,

lead me onto

rain-softened grass

which undulates like a boat

on a summer lake,

lie down with me

in a quilt of sunlight and shadows

among yellow petals, violet trumpets,

a feast for hares and bees,

let’s linger and forget ourselves

until even the tiled sky above

is cracked open by stars

and all that is restless and wild

within us can roam the heavens

howling the moon aloft.

Today the sunflowers are spent, brown, lifeless stalks, and the Stellar's jays wrestle seeds from dessicated heads, seeds that nourish them in these shortening days.

Sometimes I find in me old memories of you.

When I rattle them, I discover inside are dried seeds of compassion, seeds of loss, seeds of devotion, seeds of trust.

I take them in like the communion they are.

Feel how what is hard and dried grows me.

Feel how this, too, is love.

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Summoned by purple

ecstasy of wisteria

and the soft persimmon sun,

I walk down to the orchard,

Did you know a pear tree

is a paradise of limbs and leaves?

Anjou, Bartlett, and Bosc garlands

hang heavy across this palace of light.

Don’t pluck too soon, piercing

skin not ready to yield.

Don’t wait until they plunge to the

ground in the slush of regret.

The moment is always now

laden with sweetness of

labor, sunlight, storms,

and a cavalcade of scent.

Eden’s slow unfolding

asks me to set aside

my rushed and useful life,

to know myself as ripening.

Does anyone speak the language

of Plum or Pomegranate anymore?

Does anyone hear the quiet

spectacle of blossoms announcing

themselves one by one?

--Christine Valters Paintner

:^]

Spontaneously- - - -

As the Earth becomes darker

We need to shine our light

From depths of soul and spirit

To bring cracks of light to the dark night.

The Earth has seasons of darkness and light

As we have dark nights of soul and spirit;

But as the warmth and new birth of spring

Follow the death of autumn and chill of winter,

We can shine our soul and spirit light

To bring hope to a darkened Earth.