Slipping Away ...

The evening draws to a close. The gentle rustlings of the bedtime routine signal the coming calm of an evening stretching out toward sweet slumber. Suddenly ... BLAM! BLAM-BLAM! BLAM! "What is that?" and all come running. In shock, I peel myself from the ceiling and look incredulously at my computer. My blog stares back at me from the familiar screen; I double check to be certain. Next, I check the playlist. Correctly uploaded for my blog. Hmmmm . . . how did that blasting music find its way onto my beautiful playlist? Just what was that song? I retrace a few steps and find that a song I heard on another blog, a lilting and beautiful piano melody, had several versions available to select from the playlist log. I failed to secure the "piano only" version. So, I apologize to any of you listeners that may have experienced a JOLT from my blunder.

Once my nerves return to normal and a restored calm descends over my sitting room, I ponder the swirl of activity that engulfs me right now. I came into this peaceful little nook to write just a bit but the music intruded with cacophonous clamor, drawing attention to the many little errors and slips and snares that have crept into my days. Earlier, Rachel sat moping in a chair waiting for someone to find a free moment to help her with her pinata. "Everyone is so busy!" she whispered while staring out the window sadly. I stop cold.

The words of Anne Morrow Lindbergh recently saved in my "pondering place" come washing over me:

For it is only framed in space that beauty blooms. Only in space are events and objects unique and people unique and significant -- and therefore beautiful . . . Even small and casual things take on significance if they are washed in space, like a few autumn grasses in one corner of an Oriental painting, the rest of the page bare.

My life in Connecticut, I began to realize, lacks this quality of significance and therefore of beauty, because there is so little empty space. The space is scribbled on; the time has been filled. There are so few empty pages in my engagement pad , or empty hours in the day, or empty rooms in my life in which to stand alone and find myself. Too many activities and people and things. Too many worthy activities, valuable things, and interesting people. For it is not merely the trivial which clutters our lives, but the important as well.

(Gift from the Sea, p.114-115)

I turn and gaze at the calender and the flurry of activity spread over the next couple of weeks: Elizabeth's return to university, Lydia's wisdom teeth removal, music lessons, dinners with friends, our 24th anniversary ... So many necessary and wonderful events scrawl in various scripts across the pages of our life. So much to do? In so little time? Where lies the rest and the peaceful moments of prayer? Somewhere along the summertime path I managed to color in all the empty space. Today I clearly see the need to bring out an eraser and smudge away the inked spots enough to uncover a moment for chatting over tea and applying starch to newspaper and reading a newly-penned poem. My bookshelves and baskets sag with the weight of unread treasure and I am the poorer for it.

The solution lies in the margins of my life. I desire a spot to doodle or merely watch over the shoulder of a doodler. The summer sun has shifted whilst I have typed and commented and met all of you. The days shorten just a bit more with each sunset. I feel a bit out of balance as we approach the changes on the horizon. So, I shall be posting a bit less frequently, but hopefully with a smoother cadence. My enthusiasm to meet with all of you has grown, but my zeal to produce a new post each day has dwindled. I find I have so little time to go visit all of you and greet new people when I am obsessing over spacing issues, pic uploads, and such. A brief break every now and again to refresh and read and stretch a bit will render me greater pleasure and much more joy as I balance home and blogdom.

With my 24th wedding anniversary at hand I think it a fine time to pack a picnic into a hamper, tuck a book into my pocket, and make off to our private fairy woods whose only source of power rests in my imagination and the might generated by the smiles of those I love. I shall return soon with fresh adventures to impart, books to discuss, recipes to share, theories to test, and so much more of the stuff we call "life" here at Wisteria Cottage.

* * * * *

A patter of ballet flats accompanied by the swishing of swept-past ferns signals she has slipped away . . .