June twenty-first

Before the Thunderstorm, a haze like smoke filled the heavy air. Mom and I went for a walk. Leaving the air conditioned house was like walking into a fiery furnace: Oppressive, the heat on this first day of summer. Halfway out on the loop we saw the lightning... waited... heard the thunder; started to walk briskly toward home as the wind picked up.

I had been waiting for this: North Carolina summer thunderstorms -- and was a little disappointed not to have had any. But as we crossed through the woods behind the house and arrived at the back stoop, big drops fell as lightning cracked close by.

On the front porch I watch it, laughing: Rain, buffeted like clean white sheets on a line, so thick that the other side of the lake is masked as with fog -- only marked by the neighbors' light. The thick cloud passes by, curtain opening on late-light-illuminated clouds beyond. Now, I only hear the wind in the oaks -- feather leaves rasping together like a million dry and calloused palms; see the slowdance of the lanky pines -- silken needles stabbing the air; sense that the rain has stopped falling -- only the downspouts sing as the water-full gutters empty themselves.

This is my last night at Mom and Dad's house for... a long time. For me, the storm is a hoped-for treat, a parting gift received with open arms and smiling eyes. For many here in Sanford, storms are now a source of anxiety, terror; but I was not here for the tornado. My memories of thunder are sweet: of childhood summer eves on the porch with Dad, trying not to get wet from the wind-blown water; of going out to play in the last light of the day after the humidity has been nullified -- so heavy that it up and decided to fall from puffy clouds; of waking up in the dark to listen to rumbling, safe in bed.


I've grown more accustomed to traveling; I've not gotten used to having my heart in two different places -- split between continents, languages, families. It would be easier to ignore one and embrace the other--

Again I come to it, this tension in which I'm called to live, all of us are. Physical AND spiritual beings. Bounded by space and time. Invited (forced?) to LIVE -- on a tightrope, in the gray (there is no black and white in most cases). It's a circus act -- one must keep the right amount of slack in the line without letting loose; constant adjustments required.

How can we learn to enjoy the tension?
To live in the present?
To lead lives of moderated passion and prudence?


The deep-toned resonation of a wind chime reaches me on the rocking chair, following her invisible waves through the calm breeze. Rain's stopped again... or has it?
Thunderstorms make me want to write. Low thunder passes with a sound like an airplane (...or is it that an airplane sounds like thunder?), but the rain may stay. Tomorrow we'll drive to Charlotte, say goodbye for the months (year? more?) to come, and I'll board a cloud. Then, rumbling across the sky, I'll pass from one home to another.
I will live it, this division, this split affection, this tension; so I might as well enjoy it: every moment.

 

 

 

This morning, waking up in the comfort of my parents' home, I wondered why I haven't felt like God is speaking to me directly during this time of vacation, other than daily reminders to put my hope in Him alone, and to enjoy life each day. Have I not given him time? Has he been desperately trying to communicate to me but I am lost in the pages of some other author's book? Or driving between cities? Or sleeping? Or watching birds squabble over seed? Or staring at the wind in the leaves?

Probably not. He usually speaks to me when he wants to, asleep or awake, driving or reading or watching the world. And maybe he is speaking to me, about rest and enjoyment and freedom in love... and other things I haven't even realized yet.

as watchmen wait for the dawn...

Blue days happen everywhere.

Sitting by the lake at twighlight, lines from two songs collide in my mind:
the everybodyfields: "I can be lonely here; I can be lonely anywhere"
enter the worship circle: "Though I feel alone, I am never alone, for you are with me, you are with me, O my Lord. You take all those who will come to you..."

God meets us on the down days.

And then a verse of my own creation:
I thought that my searching was over,
that my waiting was almost through.
But my searching and waiting and hoping
will be ever, and ever, in You.

And one from the Bible:
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord;
O Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy.

If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins,
O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness;
therefore you are feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I put my hope.
My soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.

O Israel, put your hope in the Lord,
for with the Lord is unfailing love
and with him is full redemption.
He himself will redeem Israel
from all their sins.
-Psalm 130

I'm grateful for

Friendships that pick right up where they left off years ago

Fireflies

Family that loves me, even if they don't always understand me

Driving with the windows down

Good roads and cars (and airplanes) that make traveling to see family and friends quick and safe!

Childhood memories

So many things that stay the same even when everything changes

Blue sky, flowers, the beach, wind in the trees, birds, fresh strawberries and peaches, mountains... summer sights and smells and sounds and tastes!

Innumerable blessings poured out upon me by my loving Father.

Fish

Between the upper and lower falls at the Graveyard Fields, I saw a rock-colored fish. After our hike along the gentle trail, Mary and I were squatting by a pool created by some boulders damming the water flow down the mountain. She wanted to stick her feet in it before beginning the trek back, easing her swollen ankles.

Behind us, the white water rushes down the almost-vertical rock face: which turns horizontally; upon which we now sit; which continues beyond and below us, with a ribbon of a brook through the middle. On either side, the still-young green of late spring masks branches and rocks and birds and all manner of things unknowable in these woods.
But here, on the broad river of stone between the verdant, wooden shores, there is only Fish.

Twice he jumped to try to eat an insect hovering above the surface. The winged creature flew on. Betrayed, again, by his fins, his scales, his water-breathing. I crossed my legs and watched the Fish. How had he chosen this tiny pool? Had he come over the falls? Could a fish survive such a battering, this side of the frying pan? For how long has he been in this pool? For how long can a pool so small sustain him -- can he grow there? Will he squeeze past the boulders and tempt fate by going down the rest of the mountain? If he depends on catching insects to survive, he won't last much longer...

We had walked the path, cut through the middle of rhodedendron forests, where the monotony of wood and leaf is shattered by silent bursts of color. We passed through fields that the 1925 forest fire had cleared, and over the crooked fingers of the stream we were following. Before we saw it, we heard it: the waterfall. First there were the lower falls, beautiful but small, pouring down the naked mountain. Stepping across the broadly-diverted water -- mere trickles across so much even, down-sloping, soil-less space -- we continued upward, until the upper falls were in view. I know that the mountain laurel always sees it. It does not take the maple tree's breath away. When it rains and there is more water, the fern is not impressed by the sight. But I made a rock sculpture. An ebenezer, said Mary. And we truly enjoyed it. And we just WERE. I just WAS. I just am. ...be...


Mary's baby is swimming like a small, but growing, Fish in his own personal pool.

The rock-colored Fish has sunny speckles on his sides. He lives in, and breathes, pure light rippled by water. He moves slowly, precisely, through the cold water collecting above the Fish-colored rock.

Mi Negra!

We have a new dog! Yesterday we went to "Manimal" clinic and picked up our new girl! She looks almost exactly like Rocco did, but has a girl face and softer fur. She's a lab mix, and is around 7-8 months old. At the clinic where we got her they've been calling her "Negra", so I guess the name is sticking!