When she asked me
to lead the closing chant,
Dolores taught me the tune
and the words, but told me
nothing more. I taught the song
to the rest of our circle,
and we sang it once,
twice, three times, four.
And I signaled the end
with an open hand, raised,
worried that people might
already be bored
with the simple words and tune.
Afterward, Dolores
pulled me aside. “You ended
too soon,” she chided,
“We were just beginning.”
How often do we stop
ourselves before the magic begins,
when dancing, when chanting,
when sitting still. When
running up the long, dirt hill.
When playing legos on the floor.
When loving, when weeping,
when watching the canyon
for the eagle’s wing.
How often do we miss
an experience by rushing
toward completion?
I no longer remember
the words to the song,
nor the tune, nor who
was there. But Dolores’s words
I remember well. We
are just beginning.