A Running Collection

Take a day and live in it. Try to breathe deeply - not heavily. Listen to the birds, the bugs, the breeze. Watch. There is too much glory, right here, under my feet. Don't loathe the dirt, the dust, the dishes. Just let them be part of the joy of life. Rest. The colors. The ideas. Paint the tiny fallen pecans. Fishing for okra. String on stick. Play. Socks and shoes. A family walk. Lucy the dog. Waddling lady. Man with banjo. Two on bikes. Laugh. Baths and the story of a wise king. Blessings and children off to dreamland. Homemade ice cream together on the couch. Sleep.

"Every assignment is measured and controlled for my eternal good. As I accept the given portion other options are canceled. Decisions become much easier, directions clearer, and hence my heart becomes inexpressibly quieter." - Elizabeth Elliot. I woke with a very loud heart. A crying out heart. A not at peace heart. Frankly, a sort of anger at the world heart. A fearful heart. A mean heart. I didn't wan't to be mad and gloomy. I just felt that way and couldn't break it. Running, the usual outlet for all of this yuck is out of the question. I can hardly walk two miles without needing a thirty minute nap. This is most frustrating especially as my body softens and swells. So, after an exhausting 1.5 mile walk, I came home and walked around a little like Eeyore with a missing tail. George gladly sent me out on a few errands. Without any clear direction, I headed for Trader Joe's. A safe start - some groceries. As I checked out, one of the Trader Joe ladies walked ...

The chickens were making an awful racket. We were busy chalk drawing numbers and letters and trees and animals on the back porch at 7:30 a.m.. Amelia went to check on them and reported that one looked hurt. Well, dead actually. We've had chickens for five years now. We have raised them from babies and slaughtered them. We have raised them from babies and collected eggs from them. When their lives are formulated and function as we've planned, we roll on with daily feedings, collectings, chasings. Well, when they die and it looks painful, when we don't know why, when it is one we've had for ages it is not the same. She was a faithful layer and a good hen. I get choked up and confused and curious and so sad. Before it gets to hot, we will bury her. I am sad.

Ahh. A silence bubbles up around me. The murmur of conversation at neighboring tables falls like a gentle rain. I am alone. I've worked all day giving advice about how to write perfect year book copy and I've flipped through hundreds of pages of yearbooks with a judges eye. Now alone I focus and soak in the loneness. Sweet tea arrives in a mason jar along with cold cucumber soup. I slowly savor the half cup serving. A twenty second slurp takes ten minutes and I breathe in between spoonfuls. The clinking spoon and jingling ice sing to me. These noises are usually drowned by giggles and requests and bangs and shuffles of this and that. This moment is so tiny on time's line yet it surges through me. I am not known here and I'm soaking it in. Suddenly, the baby pushes with foot and hand and elbow and bottom. I am not alone. My mind is alive. I need a pen. With a few napkins in hand and a borrowed pen, I write it all down. But, the only inspiration is that of the noise...

At the beach – sweet memories rise out of the depths. They surface like a wrecked ship miraculously aroused and setting sail. The names of the shells, the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides. The pull of the current. The fishermen. The sweet, pungent smell pushed through the air along with the sea gulls and ribbons of pelicans. It is a home – a returning home. The children dig and squeal and swim and giggle and gather shells and sing – We have warm skin and golden hair. The boats bounce by, the birds dive for dinner. A sand crab snacks on a beached jellyfish. George Wilder is mesmerized. He sets up an oyster shell to shade the crab while he snacks on jelly slime while Amelia searches for shells I taught her to find. A year has passed and the names roll off her tongue . . . pirates booty, key hole, baby’s ear, conch, lady slipper, moon shell, olive shells. The ocean is in her too. It is retrieved from the depths and brought home in bags and buckets. Loads of bags and buckets. She s...