October 28, 2012

drops of rain

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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