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from clusterflock
Today I met my mom at Pete’s for two eggs, bacon & coffee and conversation. Every time I do this I end up talking with her for at least three hours, or sometimes three and a half (like this morning), and doing things like walking around downtown and ending up at a table in Market Square, talking for a hundred hours. I wish I was making money so I could take her somewhere awesome for breakfast, or dinner, and do it more often. This mom that I have is really great, and is still a spring chicken. She is amazing, and I am lucky to know her.
Then I came back home and drove to paint at one of Jordan’s houses and cut in the bathroom, reaching into the narrowest gaps and acutest angles, breathing too (many?) fumes and making dust tracks all over the newly refinished floors, gorgeous dark wood. I listened to Sullivan Street on repeat and am still listening to it, now as I’m down from the shower and up from my teal armchair where I’ve been writing a small letter to someone. I was listening to it the other day, too, in my car, and Luke came up and said something about it being enough to make you melancholy for the whole day. I’m not melancholy, though. The rhythm is driving me forward and I’m thinking about joy, how it can be like a boat coming into harbor.
My hair is getting long … I noticed it for the first time in the shower, because it was falling down all wet over my shoulder and I don’t really wear it down very often. My hair getting long is in the same category as the clouds today as I saw them through the upper-story windows at the duplex — they were blurry at the edges and lying in long swathes, blues and purples. I wanted to take a picture and be like the person who runs the LitttleBeats blog … and realized that it’s unusual that I can see that kind of beauty. This kind of beauty doesn’t break mirrors or really get photographed all that often, but it’s my favorite kind, and it makes me feel better about not being classically beautiful, because I can be like this: noon clouds or sunrises or the light coming in low over fields.
I have to say here something about how Crystal and Britta prayed for me last night, and I guess that would be: they did. I want this all my life long, to pray and be prayed for. We went up to their apartment above Pasta Trio in the Old City and looked out over the city, watched them make pasta, talked about ulcers and debt and church, and then interceded. This is powerful living, and I want it.
Now it’s evening … I can’t make more biscotti because I don’t have eggs, and I can’t have any milk because I don’t have any. And there’s no way I can have anything else, because everything else is rice and Ramen noodles and cans of black beans, and who wants THAT. Lucky I’m not hungry … lucky I got a letter on my car windshield today … lucky I’m awake and saying yes … lucky I’m taken care of by God and am learning the sound of His voice.
