With tree branches hastily baring themselves, I drive, sometimes multiple times a day, between our home and the senior "independent living" apartments where my parents now reside. Tim's dad and sister live on the same floor, neither one currently able to use their car, and my folks just sold their van. They all have help to get around and receive prescriptions, but I am handy when needed, and this is good autumn work for me.
Plus, I listen as I drive to Prayers by the Lake, poetic offerings of a 20th-century Orthodox saint, Nikolai Velimirovich (the link shows other books by him). Born in Serbia before WWI, Bishop Nikolai earned multiple doctorates in places like Switzerland, England, and the US, but he loved simplicity and contemplation. I am savoring each prayer for the second time around as it plays on CD, my hard copy of the book waiting at home beside my place at the table (with many other titles, as always).
After a spate of cold, clear weather, heavy fog moved in and remained. Days later, it finally lifted.
While I can't truthfully say I love rain (there are wet, stormy moments I find enchanting, but usually rain is to be endured), I do love the fog. Muted sounds and colors, moisture hanging around in a subtler fashion.
The other morning I rolled our recycling bin past the south side of the house and came upon a yellow rose. It endured last week's frost to blossom under the fog's gray ceiling amid brown thorns.
Love is like a rose amid thorns. It surprises, and it persists. I can't manufacture love, but I can enter into it. I can be drawn outside my door by the way love shows up again unexpectedly in afternoon light on the leaves.
I have recognized there are six essays I've had published, at one point or another, that ought to be appropriate for the collection of essays I'm working on. This collection might begin with Living on Love, something written long ago but still relevant.
Marriage is, after all, a surprise. It's a journey to a foreign land, the realm of the other person. It involves pain and struggle. But light on the leaves is still light on the leaves, a wonder and a gift. I am grateful for 40 years and counting and all the wonders therein.
Plus, I listen as I drive to Prayers by the Lake, poetic offerings of a 20th-century Orthodox saint, Nikolai Velimirovich (the link shows other books by him). Born in Serbia before WWI, Bishop Nikolai earned multiple doctorates in places like Switzerland, England, and the US, but he loved simplicity and contemplation. I am savoring each prayer for the second time around as it plays on CD, my hard copy of the book waiting at home beside my place at the table (with many other titles, as always).
After a spate of cold, clear weather, heavy fog moved in and remained. Days later, it finally lifted.
While I can't truthfully say I love rain (there are wet, stormy moments I find enchanting, but usually rain is to be endured), I do love the fog. Muted sounds and colors, moisture hanging around in a subtler fashion.
The other morning I rolled our recycling bin past the south side of the house and came upon a yellow rose. It endured last week's frost to blossom under the fog's gray ceiling amid brown thorns.
Love is like a rose amid thorns. It surprises, and it persists. I can't manufacture love, but I can enter into it. I can be drawn outside my door by the way love shows up again unexpectedly in afternoon light on the leaves.
I have recognized there are six essays I've had published, at one point or another, that ought to be appropriate for the collection of essays I'm working on. This collection might begin with Living on Love, something written long ago but still relevant.
Marriage is, after all, a surprise. It's a journey to a foreign land, the realm of the other person. It involves pain and struggle. But light on the leaves is still light on the leaves, a wonder and a gift. I am grateful for 40 years and counting and all the wonders therein.
No comments:
Post a Comment