Monday, October 16, 2017

And still counting (11,041-11,056)

Sandy and her serving heart
the wreath on Linda's door
leaves, fallen
his arms

David and Anita
shopping with Erin
Marshall's Mom
green apples in the fridge
birthday pie for Lanie

a lovely day at home
Comfort and Joy in a mug
Moonlight Sonata
a sale on dresses

Monday morning drizzle

Erin's watercolors

birthday pie

improvisation--inverted bottom crust to make a top

not too shabby--but the taste! Delicious. And pie for breakfast, no doubt

Love these girls

Happy 15th to the sweetheart who made me a mom and changed my world

Thursday, October 12, 2017

Al chiaro di luna

A recent full moon flooded the room with light. I was sleepless in the glow. Night colors, grays. I got up and went to the couch with a book. I scrolled through Instagram. I stared off long in thought. I grabbed a blanket my dad crocheted and leaned against the back of the couch, curled and held. Lamp light covered me.


"Do you notice halos?" she asked during the exam. I hadn't thought of it, truly. This whisper thin veil thickened gradually. I didn't consciously notice the color fading, the smearing of light. All I knew was that nothing was as bright as it should be, and I craved big light more and more. I thought it was because we live in the woods.

I saw how the letters bled in view, like long and pointed stakes. When she raised the light, I noticed the halos.

Now it makes sense the world seems wanting vibrancy. And now it makes sense, my urge to overcompensate in picture edits, deep saturation.

A friend mentioned, "Once you have the surgery, you'll see the colors you've been missing." And I smiled in anticipation, because I know it will be true. And I know it will be a feast.

Not quite the new lenses I was expecting.


Stacks of books, and a fun favorite called Weelicious Lunches (not compensated to mention)--a delightful find at the library one day, soon became an eager purchase for my shelf. A dinner: white chicken chili. The lime juice brings it home. I added brown rice to the bowls because it was more like soup than a stew.


I drove past her house recently on the way to an appointment. Wreath on the door. Her front porch, sweet and inviting. Like she was home, if I'd just knock. Only she's not home anymore. I passed by later on the way back to my house. Heavy hearted.


Lanie got her piano recital song for May. Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven. I listened to it online, alone, and cried. The second I heard the first notes, I knew it deeply. Slow. Somber. A grief. A surrender. A resignation. An understanding. An end.


In a year when everything feels like it came apart, restoration is not where or how I hoped to find it. Fortunately, I am loved by a God whose hopes and plans are way better than mine, and I can wait upon him confidently. Maybe the restoration is not in holding on, but in letting go.

Monday, October 9, 2017

And still counting (11,013-11,040)

for Erin's heart--how she ponders lasts for my dad and sister, lasts they would have had in their home and not even know it as lasts (she and I think on lasts alike)
for a beautiful October day
Angela, after six years

her guidance and expertise
my kids running through their grandfather's yard
yellow roses, still in bloom
their intense scent
memories of Linda

his Last Quarter sign down
papers signed
the pleasant scent of Dad's house
underbrush aflame in autumn colors
pizza for dinner

a mug set out for me in the morning
good weather for a field cut
podcasts during yard work
Erin's smile and delight at a room rearranged
clean windows

texts with Linda's sister
hugs with Lanie
the hum of the dehumidifier in the basement
a day with Erin at my dad's, sorting through things

a lettuce wrapped cheeseburger
that man of mine
the smell of pot roast after a day away
a full fridge
the difference You make