Good Worn Shoes
Yes. Shoes off, glass of wine, the smell of night. I haven't been keen to write in a while, and it feels like straining myself into an old dance move. Letting go of the all-brawn and no heart approach is always funny though, because once I get into that groove, it always leads me back to God. Beauty and the wonder of little things draw me along the same sweet blindfolded line every time. It's a tad frustrating, when the only words that convey the unspeakable are little scents of memory caught on the wind. Nothing really concrete, we seem to be ants on the branches of that live oak. Scuttling under Spanish moss and through rivets in the bark, catching an inkling of what the greater picture might be. But if it were that easy, no writer would stand out and tell us the things we need to hear. No prophets. No crazies.
So I'll sit here and tell of nothing to the cadence of crickets tuning up for the birds to sing the sun above the far off hills to the east. And maybe, you'll get something out of it, and maybe I will too.
I met a new dog tonight. Marianne had her friend Hillary at the store tonight, and Hillary brought Noah, a mutt of some recognizable making, and some not - with every inch an amiable and curious young fellow. He looked to be at least part Rottweiler, with his brown eyebrows making his black face the picture of a surprised cartoon. It was good to meet Hillary, and Noah. So one-dimensional is a dog, the easiest of friends. I used to think that verse about entertaining angels might apply to my dog, and I still wouldn't count it among the impossible. A creature to teach the learnable unconditional love, and to simply enjoy it with the learned. Honest eyes.
There is peace. In the midst of peace on this side of the grey rain curtain of the world, there is peace yet still. Goodnight.