Possibly Time
It is a grey day of rain and coffee and lamplight. A day when the daffodils by my side are the only splash of sunlight, and somehow that's alright and fitting. Today is one of those with a wistful feel, more suited to a goodbye than a hello, though not a sad goodbye, just one that has to be. So I find myself thinking about change, not deep thoughts, just the usual round of memories and projections:
This lamp can be left when we move. I need to go through that box and get rid of those papers. I should probably pack those sheets separately, perhaps with that pan. Will there be a porch for the green-glow table at which the Man and I have spent so many evenings sharing coffee and conversation?
There is the smell of clean laundry and fresh flowers in the living room, the scent of comfort mixed with anticipation, and the cat is curled up on the couch, not realizing that his time here is running out (but what does it matter to him? the couch will come with us and the throw pillows and the blue hoodie he loves to cover in grey fur).
My world has been caught in slow motion, one day blurring into the other. I wake up, and the sky outside is still yesterday's sky. It's an oddly surreal sense of waiting. For what? March expires and in comes April with perhaps spring, but more likely a continuation of the same cyclical thinking that's getting me nowhere, and I have the urge to make something, anything, happen, even if it's just to get out of here for a day or cut off my hair in a desperate attempt to seize control of a world that is not mine to manipulate.
It's a conscious choice to surrender to truth, to take captive each thought, to know that if nothing else is happening (in my sense of the word) at the very least His mercies are new every morning (that is some measure of change) and that this squealchingly slow time is, as always, held in the palm of His hand. If He makes the sand move slowly through the hour glass, who am I to complain?
This lamp can be left when we move. I need to go through that box and get rid of those papers. I should probably pack those sheets separately, perhaps with that pan. Will there be a porch for the green-glow table at which the Man and I have spent so many evenings sharing coffee and conversation?
There is the smell of clean laundry and fresh flowers in the living room, the scent of comfort mixed with anticipation, and the cat is curled up on the couch, not realizing that his time here is running out (but what does it matter to him? the couch will come with us and the throw pillows and the blue hoodie he loves to cover in grey fur).
My world has been caught in slow motion, one day blurring into the other. I wake up, and the sky outside is still yesterday's sky. It's an oddly surreal sense of waiting. For what? March expires and in comes April with perhaps spring, but more likely a continuation of the same cyclical thinking that's getting me nowhere, and I have the urge to make something, anything, happen, even if it's just to get out of here for a day or cut off my hair in a desperate attempt to seize control of a world that is not mine to manipulate.
It's a conscious choice to surrender to truth, to take captive each thought, to know that if nothing else is happening (in my sense of the word) at the very least His mercies are new every morning (that is some measure of change) and that this squealchingly slow time is, as always, held in the palm of His hand. If He makes the sand move slowly through the hour glass, who am I to complain?
