the fog breaks

It’s been foggy, as if we’ve been wrapped in a thick, wool blanket of grey, the scratchy kind. My brain feels it too, in waiting and search and looking for direction.  And I think that when you are in that place, all this other noise comes along and tries to get in the way.  All this other noise wants you to believe that everything is a sloppy mess, served with a side of despair, but it’s not.

Everything is fine.  I’m mostly good, just exhausted.

The emotional range of three year old may be great and endless.  Piles may be waiting around, but piles don’t have feelings. And sure, the dreary limbo of February may be in full swing.  Plus, this and that and that too, but…

Still.

Yesterday, the sun melted away that scratchy blanket and filled the great big blue with the most radiant light.  Life-giving, wondrous rays burst through the windows and I drank in every last drop.  I found myself on a bench in front of the frozen lake, with a large coffee in hand.  I closed my eyes, sipping the sweet nectar and relished in the vitamin d. And I stayed until I realized it was cold. 

On that bench, I was reminded that noise is just noise and not always true, but it’s awfully loud if we keep listening to it.  That part of the waiting process is for reasons we can’t explain or identify.   We must surrender to the waiting and turn down the noise, so that we remember what is real and honest and lovely.

And let the sustaining grace warm you inside and out.

 

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of mornings and playing and nightmares

 

For three days a heavy shroud of grey has not allowed a single color from the sunset to shine through, tell me, is it still happening where you are? I do hope so.

Last night, I had just begun to clean the kitchen and the kids were playing so wonderfully, it was nearly silent and I glanced around the corner to find them both playing with separate things like little contented angels.  If you must know, this is what our home is like always and there is a soft glow that radiates too.  Nope. 

So, I was speed cleaning, because of my great love of washing dishes, which stems from years of torture as a child, when I was forced  against my will to clean the kitchen with my brothers every single night.  I believe enough time have past that I can truthfully and safely admit that I would find any excuse to do the smallest tasks possible. You know the kind, “I’ll just go wipe the table off, really well.”

Anyways, it had been about ten minutes and I was sweeping the floor when that boy of mine, who had constructed a train track the length of the living/dining room, he walked up to me, put his hands on the broom and said, “All done broom.”  I just stood there all frozen and he removed the it from my hands and placed it back in its place of storage.  Then, he showed me his masterpiece and insisted, “Mama play train track.”  What was I to do?  I mean, I didn’t want to clean the kitchen anyways.

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We’ve been having a nice quiet morning here.  The kind where I give the baby girl her oatmeal with a bowl and spoon, she only likes to eat with proper dishes, that girl.  And anytime you give her a spoon and some food, you can pretty much secure yourself five to ten minutes of sitting and drinking coffee, an essential similar to breathing.  She does really well and makes a gigantic mess, which, of course is worth those blissful sitting and drinking moments.  I will go to great lengths to sit down and enjoy my food, make no joke of that.

Speaking of quiet, slow mornings, the other day, in the car, I told my husband that the worst imaginable scenario was one that required me to wake up unmercifully early to feed, dress, make lunches, prep children for the day, and get out the door, all under the strict tyranny of someone else’s schedule.  The fact that people have put up with this kind of oppression for years and years makes me sad and “revolty”.  Will that be the deciding factor towards homeschooling? Maybe.

The end.  Happy weekend.

art as a prayer

Today, I’m not handling the great unknown as graciously as usual.  On Sunday, I prepared the last details and then we celebrated her first birthday and for two whole days I had absolutely zero projects in the works.  As ridiculous as it may sound, I might have temporarily gone crazy.  Like, 48 hours worth of feeling lost or confused.

Last night, I searched the nooks and crannies of television and social media and found nothing, but didn’t I already know that. Of course, I did.  After powering through yoga, even though I really didn’t want to and nearly stopped three times. I mean, I did stop three times. It was dreadfully silly.  I soaked in the tub and then climbed into bed to read Anne of Avonlea, where she talked about souls and poetry.  It helped some, almost.

The trouble is, I’m in this mix of distracted and excited, but the unknown is just so very unknown and distracting today.  More than usual. It’s like the Godfather of the unknown. But, probably, it’s just normal unknown, really.

And today it is foggy, like the Godfather of foggy.  A perfect day for thought and reflection and drinking in the sweet sounds of harmonicas and guitar strings.  It’s a good day to feel things, for reveling in the deep, beautiful melancholy of it all.

It’s an even better day to feel things with a paintbrush in my hand.  That is the place where sense comes, because there we meet the Creator and the brushstrokes come together like a prayer, like autumn leaves dance in the wind or like the waves crashing upon the shore. We call and He answers.  And we are left with peace and clarity.

Here we figure out what questions we are really asking and at the same time, the answers too.

In the morning, O Lord,you hear my voice; and in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation.  -Psalms 5:3