I received an email from our library today. It informs me that A Thousand Mornings, the beautiful collection of poems by Mary Oliver that's on my shelf, is due back in a couple of days. I'd read the book when it came out a couple years ago, and had wanted to read it again. Because reading Mary Oliver's poems is like sipping a hot, fragrant beverage on a cold, rainy day. It nourishes, comforts and gives you reasons to be grateful. I go online, log on to my library account and try to renew the book. But there is a hold on it. Someone else is waiting to warm their hands with these words. So this afternoon I pick up A Thousand Mornings and begin to read. Marveling all over again at this poet's wise talent for holding up to the light, this ordinary, magical world. I read one poem, then another, and another and on it goes, until halfway through I turn a page, and find myself gazing at a note. In my handwriting. "May you who find this be happy and full of "earth-praise" [an Oliver phrase] all your days..." says the note. I have no recollection of writing it. And for a few moments I simply sit there, staring at the little scrap of stationery, and the words I must have penned for unknown future readers. Words that have somehow, after many moons, found their way back to me on this gorgeous grey-skied day. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised at all. Because isn't this how it is supposed to work? The goodwill and well-wishes we send out into the world are destined to be returned to us. I finish reading the rest of the poems. Close the book and prepare to send it on its way to its next reader, the little note still intact. May you who find this be happy, and full of "earth-praise" all your days...