It was last year that corn pudding was baking in the oven and Lauren was wheeling upstairs to shower. Her foot was healing, as was mom’s, and I was basking in the warmth of home. This year I was far away again; trading in home-cooked deliciousness for a turkey pretzel stuffing I couldn’t have dreamed up tastier. Levi was there. It was the first turkey we had shared in 10 years. Back then we we were angst-filled and uncertain; yesterday we were happy and full. We went back to watch the game and Levi fell asleep on the couch. I knew he felt safe, and for that, and so much more, I was thankful.
There is a call to prayer in the city center. It is eery and foriegn sounding.
I have just read Stan’s email saying that Aunt Christine has passed, and I cannot help by think that death is the most foreign and eery of earth’s call.
It has been one of those months when the bad news piles up–car wrecks and motorcycle crashes, illness and passings. It wears on me to be far from my family in such times, but the distance also breeds perspective. On Saturday I went to see Andrew Bird play in a gilded theater downtown. It was a dreary and drizzly night; perfect for a concert alone. Andrew Bird does so many things well, and writes so many songs beautifully. But one in particular left me so happy I cried–happy that it was true, so I could call my mother the next day and say, I’m so glad you’re alive.
It is rainy here, like it always is–grey and wet,
a stream in vertical.
The food has been richer than normal, leaving my belly grumbly and wondering,
“where did the all fruit go?”
For the summer here indulges the light and in the lightness that abounds.
But in the winter the gloom descends and we feast on that which warms us from the inside.
This past summer there was a BBQ in a fancy home on a fancy island that I did not attend because Gillian Welch was playing in a beautiful venue where Greg’s grandmother used to watch picture shows. Today, while sick in bed, I watched Ms. Welch again sing on Austin City Limits and was reminded how much I need voices like hers in my life. So many of my days are spent in silence–silently tasking, silently going to and fro. But there is a divinity in the pausing, and the listening.