My childhood home was in a very windy city. There was a wind chime outside my window, and I hated it. It seemed like it never stopped ringing, and never made a song.
But I haven’t lived in that house for over three years now, and I think we took the wind chime down a little while before I moved out, so it has been a while. Today, I was walking to work, when the wind blew just enough for some wind chimes to make themselves known. In the midst of distant engine noises, a few notes sounded out, and it was beautiful.

The head of my bed is against my window. My window looks out over a fairly busy intersection. From my bed, I can see the cars stop and the lights change.
My eyes are bad. I usually wear glasses, but not when I go to bed. I go to bed, I take off my glasses, I rest my head on my pillow, and I watch the cars stop and the lights change.
When I watch the cars stop and the lights change, I see headlights, brake lights, and stop lights. While everything else fades together, the lights become four times their actual size. They aren’t solid anymore, either. When I look at the cars stopping and the lights changing, it looks like one of those artsy, out-of-focus pictures of lights.
This impediment, this disability of sorts, this insufficiency, this failure of my eyes to do as they should, it turns what I see every night as I fall asleep into artwork. And it’s something I cannot share with anyone else, because only my eyes do exactly this to those brake lights and those stop lights. I cannot capture it just as it is by taking a photograph. It is art that only I get to see.

Too much summer this year.

Brutal, agonizing, lovely summer. Static rainbow-striped umbrellas. Kids. Another sunburn, another beer.

…slowly and suddenly, a shift.

The leaves crowd up the curbs, and the air dries up my lips. My spirits lift with the ends of my hair and the corner of my scarf.

Something’s brewing, somewhere. I want to know where it goes. I want it to stay.

The sun is the same, but brighter. And colder. The work is the same, but better. And shorter. The music is richer. The tea-making, constant. The people are warmer, closer. Hopeful.

One of these days, we WILL have Christmas. I know that now.

Being me, no holds barred.

Whether it be the result of three years or three minutes, there is something wonderful about being comfortable with a person. Knowing that you can say what you want to say and do what you want to do and they will love you. They may laugh at you, they may give you one of those looks, or they may join you, but they know it is a result of you being you, and they embrace it. When they are so comfortable with who you are that you can’t help being comfortable with yourself, too.

Nothing special has happened lately. I can’t think of anything particularly beautiful or graceful to write about. I’ve actually been kind of down.

But God is still good, and He still loves me. That feels so trite and cliche to write, but you know what? It’s still true. In spite of it all, in spite of everything, in spite of nothing.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

And that’s all I need.

An American flag planted high on a rugged cliff in the Rocky Mountains.

Long live freedom.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Radio Lab lately, but after three episodes in one week, I was getting tired. I get so caught up in podcasts and audiobooks that I sometimes forget that my iPod has music on it. A lot of music. So much that I couldn’t even make a guess at how many different artists or songs are housed in that little device.

Yesterday, while running errands, I set my iPod on shuffle and just let the tracks play. It was refreshing: just listening to whatever came on, reminding myself of all the different nooks and facets of my musical interests.

Anberlin. Mendelssohn. Meiko. Ingrid Michaelson. Radiohead. Beck. The Marie Antoinette soundtrack. Four-minute excerpts from A Thousand Splendid Suns.

Shuffle: the audible conglomerate of a personality. The ability to surprise yourself.

Tonight, at a poetry reading, I sat behind a child sitting between his parents. Shortly after I sat down, he reached both arms up above his head to his parents’ heads. He ran his fingers through their hair. He held his mother’s hair up to his face, feeling it in a different way. This simple motion – touching of hair – was love.

Squeeeeeeeeee, clunk.
The way a door with the little doohickey (that thing that keeps them from closing too quickly or opening too easily. I never have been sure what they’re called or what they’re for.) closes – slowly, with resistance, then shutting resolutely – always gets me. Sometimes those doors test my patience, but they usually make me smile. The noise they make seems to personify a struggle. The weight of the door fights against the resistance of the doohickey until it is finally overcome, at which moment the door sighs with relief and relaxes, feeling accomplished.
Sqeeeeeeeeeee, clunk.
That clunk makes me proud of the door.

Sorry to cross-post, but…

I wrote about Good Friday and other things.