Now I am bewildered and a bit mind-tossed by the tenuous lives of others whom I love, and underneath the realization that all our lives are just as alterable. So I am not writing good blog posts. Add to this the joy of my mother's visit and endless everyday things: stinky bathrooms and dirty floors and dandelions and children's heavy clothes needing to be swapped for summer tanks and shorts. . .and a short story that needs ever more editing, a computer cord missing so I cannot upload pictures as I planned, keys misplaced and found in a retired winter coat, airports, little girls dancing, macaroni and cheese pans. . .the rolling waters and brisk winds that fill our lives.
I was browsing some Word documents when I came across this bit of a letter I wrote a friend not long ago, so I'd thought I'd let it speak for me tonight:
Often too I wonder when God will "pull out the rug" from underneath me--all the good things I have and the comforts I find in each one--but that is a view to be despised as well. Better, I suppose, to give thanks daily for the good and ache about the bad. All through bad news runs a sense of powerlessness and a certain sense of being out of control, which is appropriate I suppose, considering the state of things. I feel like a mole sometimes, burrowing blindly through a nonsensical tunnel, trying to find light. But underneath, in the darkness, even, there is great comfort, a warmth in the soil, a sense that the light exists even if I can't see it every moment.
