Mornings Like These

Whirlwind may be my favorite word. Or at least the one I use the most. This life, whether it consists of days hidden in a book, fingers entwined in needles and yarn, singing, dancing, mourning, yelling ... However we spend them, we look back and they are whirlwind. Moving, spinning, making this story that is only ours.

This day is gray and windy - I no longer trust what is "supposed to be," trusting in the knowledge that it is always unseasonable. Always. My house is cool and silent, leaving me with reflection and a need to bury myself in poetry. Annie Dillard, Emily Dickinson, Sandra Cisneros, women whose words are deep in my soul.

It's been Project: Celebration around here with zoos and circus and parties and plays. The gluttony of pouring lime Tostitos crumbs into the bean dip to eat with a spoon. We celebrate family and friends and the whirlwind of life and then we know that life still has pain and worry. We hold onto hope and love and sometimes give in to despair. And despite it all there is just so much gratitude. This life we've been given, we know it's inherently good. This world we live in is full of beauty and love.

So today needs Emily Dickinson, wild rice, perhaps a pear, and definitely -without a doubt - Bono. 

THE LOST THOUGHT.

I felt a clearing in my mind

As if my brain had split ;

I tried to match it, seam by seam,

But could not make them fit.

The thought behind I strove to join 

Unto the thought before,

But sequence ravelled out of reach 

Like balls upon a floor.

(Emily Dickinson)