Time

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Family Words

We've spent a whirlwind few days driving out to visit Offspring the First and Offspring the Second for Thanksgiving.  They look well, and were so very much themselves - witty, ever so slightly sarcastic, bright and thoughtful and... just so grown-up.  It's a wonder, to have nearly-adult Offspring. They are such marvelous people. It's a pleasure to sit in their company.

One of the best moments was when we broke out the Bananagrams. Herself played against Beloved Husband, and then against Offspring the First, and then all of the Offspring played against one another. The very best part was watching the Offspring - it brought great joy to Herself's heart to see them pull all sorts of lengthy, obscure, and unusual words out of their letters.  Such a tremendous delight to see how all of the Offspring use language so well.

Ah, words, How we love them.

Herself's words. 

Autumn

Duck!

I'm Sure There's Room In Your Sweatshirt For Me

Little Things

Today, Herself stopped by Cherished Friend's house briefly; she's asked him to look after the ancient and surly cockatiel for a few days while she is visiting the Offspring. (Even though he's up to his eyeballs in lists and moving plans and such, he agreed to do so - just one more demonstration of how he manages to be kind and thoughtful in the midst of his own complicated life.)  She brought him a small container of miscellany that she hopes he will find useful as he transitions to his new job and home. She explained what it was, and for just one millisecond, a word or two stuck in her throat. She paused to let the moment pass. It is not yet time to allow sadness into the sunlight.
-----
The cookbook she lent.
The DVDs she borrowed.
A dishtowel, a storage container.
The little things, through which lives intertwined at the edges, are returned to their original owners. And the realities of the future become more concrete.

We remind ourselves, though, that there is one thing that cannot ever be returned, and we find comfort therein:

Time.

It has been a gift.

And we are grateful.

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.

Unscriven

There are times when writing is an agony:  drawing forth each word is akin to drawing a splinter from where it has lodged deep under the skin, or drawing the body forward one more step in the last miles of a marathon. Millions and millions of phrases are at one's fingertips, yet no combination is remotely sufficient to convey the depth and breadth of the tumult within the soul. How to describe the pathos, the rapture, the fire that forms the core of our humanity?  All we can do is lay bare our inadequacy, and hope that the things that remain unspoken, are nevertheless understood.

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.