I guess I jumped ahead of myself yesterday while proclaiming that we were going to warm up and that I would probably remove the blankets from the horses.
Let's see. Did it warm up?
Not really. A biting wind made high 40s seem like mid-30s.
Twasn't warm, and the blankets stayed on the horses.
But it was dry, and that meant some outdoor projects were completed.
I even mowed twigs. The lawn was covered with them from the last couple of wind events.
There are many more to be mowed, but they are in places which are still pretty soggy.
Nonetheless, the lawn is greening up and looking much better.
Maybe I can mow some more twigs today, and maybe I'll remove the blankets from the horses today.
The morning is stunning with a beautiful sun-up and numerous species of birds melodiously making their presence known.
I think we'll have no problem enjoying this day.
On one of my indoor attempts to stay warm yesterday, I enjoyed and appreciated this brilliant writer's perspective while reading it on my sister-in-law Mary's Facebook feed.
I liked it so much that I thought it was worth sharing.
by Anne Lamott
SORT OF GOOD FRIDAY, an old, updated piece:
There is the most ancient of sorrows in the world again, scores of dead children, young soldiers sacrificed by madmen.
None of us knows quite what to make of things, or what to do. We praying people pray for the innocent. Some of us pray for impeachment, but we will have to wait till the midterms, seven months from now, and not to lose our minds in the meantime.
We pay attention to life, so we can see that there is just as much messy mercy, goodness and grace going on. It's the song that never ends. Even amid the evil, the smashing and crashing and terrible silences, the trees are all in blossom, and it’s soft and warm and bright. Spring is pushing through.
What are you supposed to do, when what is happening can’t be? When it’s all too scary and weirdly fascinating and grim, and the old rules no longer apply?
We keep hobbling forward. All we can do someday is the next right thing. I keep remembering an old Xeroxed photo of Koko the signing gorilla, with a caption beneath it that read, “The law of the American jungle: Remain calm, share your bananas.” That’s what we do — ache, love, march, donate, stay calm, share our bananas.
I asked a hopeless friend recently, “What story would help you most? A story about God? A nice story about quirky miracles?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’d like to hear the story about how we don’t know what’s going to happen, and how it all sucks, and that we are scared to death, and we don’t know how we’re going to get through it.”
Like her, I am sometimes depressed and furious and grief-stricken these days. I often feel like someone from the Book of Lamentations, or a tense, abandoned puppy to whom someone has given LSD. The marches really help. So do walks on the mountain. So do the pets, my furry little psyche nurses.
The Christian writer Barbara Johnson said that we’re Easter people, living in a Good Friday world. The problem is, I’m not really one of those Christians who has the right personality for Good Friday, for the crucifixion part.
The resurrection isn’t for two more days. Your mind tells you that it could all be a trick — crucifixion Friday, descent into hell Saturday, colonoscopy Sunday.
But I do believe.
The trees, so sticklike and gray last month, suddenly went up, as in flame, but in blossoms and leaves — poof! Like someone suddenly opening an umbrella.
I am going to pray and work for this nation to resurrect, so our leaders want to be a part of the human family again.
Stephen Miller is family. God loves him exactly the same as God loves babies. I hate this. But that is the mystery of grace. God loves, period. Miller is a dangerous member of the family, worse than a Klansman but I would not let him starve, That’s the best I can do right now.
Maybe at some point, later, briefly, I will feel a flicker of something more. Possibly not. Let me get back to you on this.
I am going to try to pay attention to the spring. I am going to look around at all the flowers, and look up at the hectic trees. I am going to close my eyes and listen.
One Sunday my pastor asked the kids to close their eyes for a moment and listen. After a while, she asked them what they heard.
They heard birds, and radios, dogs barking, cars, and then one small boy said, “I hear the water at the edge of things.” I am going to listen for the water at the edge of things.
I am going to tell my hopeless friend these stories, and remind them of those islanders in the South Pacific where the United States Air Force landed during World War II, to use as a base of operations.
The islanders loved the Air Force being there, all that loud and blinding light from above, landing in a path of klieg lights on their land. They believed it was divine because there was no other way to understand all this energy.
And after the Air Force left, they created a fake runway with candles and torches and pyres, to await its return.
Light!
Let there be light, and let it begin with me. I am going to notice the lights of the earth, the sun and the moon and the stars, the lights of our candles, the lights with which spring teases us, the light that is already present.
If the present is really all we have, then the present lasts forever. That will be the benediction.
Christina Koch, another of the astronauts on the mission, described the phenomenon [of seeing the Earth from Space]
“You don’t see borders, you don’t see religious lines, you don’t see political boundaries.
All you see is Earth and you see that we are way more alike than we are different.”
Let's just call these grocery-store flowers.
They were mighty pretty yesterday as I drove by with my shopping cart and spent some time admiring them.
Enjoy the flowers and Happy Saturday.
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