There are little clouds bunched along the hills, they remind me of spring lambs, but not the fate of spring lambs. Long conversations about how tree stumps factor into ecosystems so maybe stop grinding them for aesthetics? Jack, the blind appaloosa in the pasture, tosses his head, his white mane briefly wild in wind-blown rain. Remembering visits with King David, and last night’s with Jesus, and the difficulty inherent in balancing the complex reality of those dialogues. We are tougher than we used to be, we are like made of stone.
But wait, is the metaphor using me or am I using the metaphor? War again, a grief that has haunted all my days since I remember, always laughing at me, mocking my resistance, my arguments, my anger and frustration. In winter I briefly miss the crickets who sing in the barn, their song reaching the hayloft where in summer I write and dream of a long rest. If monotheism has to answer to anyone, it’s to women, can we please not fuck around about this? Fried eggs, first in weeks.
One makes a list of things they are grateful for, adds a last item nobody but God is allowed to see. Learning something about hearts, about openness, about joy. Drinking cold green tea from a mason jar, remembering camping before the kids, how happy we were in the forest bird-watching, and swimming at night in the warm lake, the loons both giving welcome and prophesying hardships to come. Shadows move quickly across the landscape, as if chasing something. No more watercolors please!
At a late juncture making peace with lines and circles, being the intersection of both, especially when they are being forgiven. Who asks permission anymore? A week of punishing myself passes, and all that remains is sorrow and loss. Remember tobogganing? Making pancakes at the altar, which is to say, making pancakes because the altar is everywhere, especially when you’re making pancakes.
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