We meet his friends; they seem funny and kind. They stay for dinner. Two days later, her friend, who is spirited and also kind, stays for dinner. I’m glad for these friends of my kids, glad for these shared meals, glad for the laughter and kindness. I watch faces, note gestures, listen to stories. Teenagers, young adults. How did we arrive here so soon?
I remember playdates when they were little. Now it’s impromptu texts which become knocks at the door. Knocks at my heart. Someday, their friends will come to their own homes and I won’t be there.
I watch the light. As I prepare dinner, the cosmos stand tall in the warm sun. I want to make a picture but the light is so bright and I am longing for softness. I tell myself I’ll head out once the sun lowers, once it softens. Except, I forget. Each night this week, I make this note to myself and forget. I want to capture the cosmos in the softly setting sun but maybe it isn’t to be. Maybe, right now, I am meant only to view the cosmos in the still-bright, late afternoon sun. Maybe, right now, it is more important, after the dishes are clean and food put away, to put on shoes and don sweater and head out the door for a dusky walk with my daughter.
A window missed. A window wide open.
Joy is the happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens.
~ David Steindl-Rast ~
I’ve got spots left in October”s virtual gathering, The Quiet Page. We meet Wednesday, October 20. Looking for quiet community and gently guided writing?
This is for you. Click right here for details and registration.