At some point last week I remembered that I had a blog. It's been several weeks, nearly a month, since I've written. At first I thought, well, I don't have anything to write. And then I thought, oh, well, I'll write later because I'm not feeling so much like writing now. Now I wonder if anyone will even read this one, as it's been so long. And I find I don't really care about the readers, but I'm drawn back for the words - words that have been swimming in my consciousness, catching bits of light now and then like baubles hung in my grandmother's window.
I'm reading so much and living so intensely. I found myself weeping over the passages in Exodus about slavery, weeping for the tender way in which God constructed his laws to protect the poor and helpless. I've driven into a sunset whose brilliant colors were muted by a wispy, almost invisible cloud line on the horizon and thought how perfectly that fits how I see God's brilliance right now. I've taken a walk on a fall morning after a night of rain and felt poetry drop into my heart, like a little gift that blossomed and grew. My skin bears numerous scars from the yard work during our service project day where we cleaned up another widow's yard. The angry red welts looks so much like my soul feels, that I smile at them like they're old friends.
In Phantasties, by George MacDonald, the narrator traveling through faerie land notes that the irony of sorrow is how it carves out hollow spaces in our soul where we can experience a uniquely deep and abiding joy. You might even say that we can only experience joy to the extent that we have lived well through sorrow. I have whole new unexplored caverns in my soul carved out by sorrow. Joy is poking around, trying the new spaces on for size. We'll see if it takes up residence.