Beloved,
I did not know your name until I saw your lamps. A row of small clay flames along a neighbor's front steps one autumn night, every window glowing, the doorway swept so clean it almost shone. I stood on the sidewalk longer than was polite. Something in me wanted to be welcomed like that.
I come to you as a guest, from outside the tradition that has loved you for thousands of years. I know only a little. That you rose from the churning Ocean of Milk, seated on a lotus. That gold falls from your open hand. That you go where things are cared for.
And here is my confession. I have been embarrassed by abundance. I learned to apologize for good things, to hide a windfall, to say oh, it was on sale about anything lovely. I thought wanting enough meant wanting too much.
You do not seem to think so. You seem to think that a clean corner, a fresh flower, a full table, are ways of saying yes to life. And that what is received is meant to keep moving. Out the door. Into someone else's hands.
So I am starting small. I wiped down the windowsill this morning and set a few yellow flowers there in a jar of clean water. I lit a candle and stayed with it. I counted three things I already have: this warm kitchen, a friend who calls on Sundays, bread enough to share.
I am learning to receive without shame, beloved. And this week I will give something away, gladly, so that whatever good has come to me can keep flowing on.