The talk at church this morning was as much about Hurricane Sandy as it was about communion, almost. Facebook was full of it (as usual). After lunch, I hard-boiled the eggs, filled water coolers and five gallon buckets, baked a gingerbread, and, feeling a little crazy, invited a friend's family to come for supper.
Outside the window, the sky was overcast but calm, the windchimes far from frantic, yet.
Our last-minute social plans fell through, and we gathered around, just us, for our usual simple Sunday night fare: popcorn, fruit, pretzels, cheese, trail mix, and - just for tonight - my gingerbread & applesauce.
Night fell quietly, and Sugar & Spice laid aside their earlier squabbles to play Mancala. Nice & Lil' Snip made their own peace, and built forts out of the sofa cushions. My Farmer strummed his banjo thoughtfully and I peered over my book at my lot in life, spread out across the livingroom.
I'm low today, a little. Ungrounded, adrift. It anchors me to watch my children play, to hear their happiness, to bear their fighting, even. They're mine. They came from me, and God knows where they'll go.
A night of family shores me up, fills in the cracks of dryness in my soul.
The rains begin, outside.
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