Restlessness and heartache give way to long walks after midnight which - somewhere near the top of Watts Hill - give way to rain which - as is rain's wont when not resisted - gives way to joy, the quiet kind that leaves you wanting happiness for everyone. So the night passes, rain clouds passing, and winds reminiscent of October so you come home shivering with damp shoulders yawning. Bears, always bears.
Four days running now peaceful dreams in which one is rewarded for loving Jesus despite their countless flaws. Luminous scars reveal a loving God? One works despite the mail which rises and falls like an intelligent tide, a knowing or watery guide.
We chase history and at night it enters through the window in the form of starlight, in the form of the scent of honeysuckle. Who is traveling, who is wandering so far from home? J. and I watch pheasants work the underbrush and I remember the feel of rifles and I wonder again what I still don't know about repentance.
Awakening is nothing more than giving up the habit of insistence. Curtains move in light breezes, cars break down on the highway, and lungs gently settle into stillness. It is not the fireflies with which we are entranced but rather the darkness they are up against.
See? The emphasis on stumbling is now set aside in favor of trusting Jesus to provide the helpful verb. In the morning Chrisoula holds me and we plot the day as best we can, including what to write, and it is enough, it is more than enough.
I am holding off reading A Pattern Language, but also questioning why. T. pulled over while I was coming back down 112 - I could smell the beer, could see the dull light falling out of his eyes - and he said, "you keep walking this much you're gonna forget what cars are for." A little light suffices as always.
We are taking Macbeth slowly but we are taking it. Horses fill the afternoon while at night I beg for mercy.