I was set to write a few thoughts down last night after Nora fell asleep. We were curled up in my bedroom circa 1982-91 (and a couple of summers that required a bit of rest and recovery between semesters at school.) And, bam, it was the next day. Well, it wasn't so much a "bam" as it was a slow sort of leak into unconsciousness that eventually allowed time to pass without notice, sort of how a tire goes flat. That must be why we say we feel tired. (I know. Many of you will probably stop reading after this point because of that horrible pun. Believe me. I understand. I have to live with it everyday.)
I've been on the road with Mom and Mike and Nora visiting family in Colorado--the snow is falling, so the mountains and trees are beautiful--all lumberjack and fur trader. We've watched 8 or 9 deer across the way on the side of a hill moving up to the top where the cemetery is located--my grandpa is there, another friend lost in high school. These aren't the things on my mind though. What I wanted to say is this:
I can tell He is at work in me, but I can't tell what it's about yet--only that I feel elsewhere. Part of me feels like a dog licking wounds she can't even locate. I am attempting a tight-rope walk between then and now. When reflecting on the past seems deadly. When you're right in the middle of it all, and you can't look back, and you can't look forward, but you need to understand both directions in order to find your footing in the present, to know how to continue. It's a leap to go from feeling like a dog to being a tight-rope walker. Just imagine a dog tight-rope walker. There, now we've got a bit of continuity.