A single icicle on the clothesline. Broken shovels we nontheless use, clearing the driveway and paths back and forth. No more empty kisses!
Remember dating? The sky lowers, snow falls, and the house becomes quiet at midnight, me sitting in the kitchen with cold tea and ten thousand sentences. Sophia arranges her books by color, the shelves rainbow-like, and from time to time I visit her and stare in amazement at this new way of bringing order to the world.
We live with deadlines, always. This ongoing suffering servant narrative. Praying the rosary driving, unconcerned with why.
The Cosmic Turtle of Divine Love hibernates a lot, and we can't truly understand His gifts if we do not also share in His rest. Acceptance is the answer to all my problems save one? This heart that cannot shake its adoration - indeed, its idolization - of Currier and Ives.
What about Stafford bothers you so much? In so many ways made unwell by the label "Catholic Worker." When he gets around to asking what is it about him that makes women prone to cheating, just affirm the usefulness of the question and otherwise stay out of his way.
Updating my mother on what the Pope is saying and doing. I am the author of the only blow that's going to land on me! And yet I do long to be held in ways that so far nobody has held me.
Something kenotic, something helpful. The end of our dissolution at hand.
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