common bush afire

Someone asked me, recently, what I write on my blog.  I wasn't sure how to answer:  recipes?  accounts of rural mundanity?  mid-life angst?  I read one of my posts to her, and she answered her own question:  "You make the ordinary holy," she told me.  And I thought of this poem:

Earth's crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

And only he who sees takes off his shoes;

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I want to be one of the ones who sees, and takes off her shoes, knowing the ground I am on (mundane though it may seem) is holy, afire with God.

I pray to see the fire, and not miss it for the commonness of the bush.