I first discovered the poet Tagore while hiking at Radnor Lake. I came across a bench with a small plaque on the front, honoring a woman who had died in her 40’s. It stopped me in my tracks:

“The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough.”

Succinct and penetrating, a reminder of how easy it is to get caught in the feeling of not having enough time, forgetting this moment, the only moment.

One of Tagore’s most touching poems always catches my heart and brings a tear to my eye:

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.