snow-walking to widows in paradise.

There are an odd mix of thoughts that lead me outdoors, but they muffle and drift with my first steps into white. How is it so bright this late?—Like all the city lights snatched into a hazy net hanging from tree tops.

I laugh to walk infinity footprints into the snow. Won’t last long, but it is forever for now.

Over the hill, across the golf course is the lake. Or it was. Seems everything is disguised in ice pearls tonight. The song plays—“I’d do anything for you”[1]—and I wonder, “Would I?” Careful not to step into water, wherever it went.

What if “anything” was digging underneath the whiteness? Not so pure once further down, not so soft. Hit ground, hit soul. And it is hard to admit faults.

Maybe I didn’t love as I should have. Where I couldn’t believe how often no one said thank you, perhaps kind-doing would not have expected it. Possible that I could say a lot of sorry’s and still not fully repair. I might have made it about me when they cried, “help.” Might have not done so well. Likely even, that I didn’t. Can I truth it, to better it? Can I do that “anything”?

I walk home backwards to see footprints fresh.

The song finishes—“I did everything for you”—and I remember, “He did.”

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[1] For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti, Sufjan Stevens, 2003

elderflower tea.

“And I'll build a fire, you fetch the water and I'll lay the table.
And in our hearts, we still pray for sons and daughters.
And all those evenings out in the garden, red, red, wine,
These quiet hours turning to years.” –Allman Brown

We sit by the fire, sipping elderflower tea and reading here and there. It is a lovely moment. A lovely life. And yet, there is a little question in the shadows, a hint of sad, or curiosity maybe. Is this life? The one we imagined?

Words go fuzzy as brain goes rambling—what is it that we want, beyond adventure, love, and fireside silence? When we try to fall asleep and think instead, what are the thoughts we keep awake for?

There is sweet looking back: coffee on the beach after sunset, tired lungs on a mountain, laughing over food with friends, the cozy-home days and unforgettable travels. The way our heart loved.

There is sweet looking forward: the new things that scare-excite, the trip, the weekend, the art to create, the deepening of friendship, the walks. All the potential for more love.

There is sweet looking now: tea by the fire, the long thoughts before sleep, work to do, people to care for, the music to serenade every bit of it. Love.

We want that—to see beauty no matter which direction we look at time. Whether “that-which-happened,” “that-which-will-hopefully-come,” or, and especially, “that-which-is-now.”

Is it lovely to us?

Because—we hardly need say it—for all the sweet looking there is much bitter too. And though it feels a near impossible discipline, our way of looking is self-chosen.

Stained glass collects water drops on the back porch and not everything goes the way that seems to lead to happiness. It can be beautiful in the rain though. Hearts, keep praying. May it be joy for all, to see the quiet hours turn to years.