The Reflection of Today
I recently fell backward down a rabbit hole of my own writing, reading further and further back in my blog archive, by days and weeks and years, finally coming up for air somewhere in 2016. It was a reflection, like silvering on glass, that has you looking right at things, instead of looking through, showing here, here’s how it was. It’s a chorus of a thousand words, or perhaps a thousand thousand, that has told of us, and home, and living. Three boys, two parents, and pets that have come and gone, together, in life’s beauty, in its pain, in its trials and its triumphs. When the sharp curves nearly slung us from our seats, we learned to lean. When we were over the edge, we learned to trust. When there was nothing, we found that we had something.
We had life. An expanse of inhales and exhales, stretching beyond where we could see. In the heavy moments, there was the next breath; in the light moments there were ideas and dreams, laughter and adventure, more than enough. Daily, we lived in the benevolence of brokenness, in the hope of another day.
We had a house. A small, thoughtful house, crafted to hold our lives and our story. It was a place for each of us to find ourselves. To create, to tinker, to explore, to try our ideas on for size. To grow up. Up the stairs was a three-boy-loft, with a curtained bunk nook for each - rooms-within-a-room. There was the kitchen that turned out food for five and food for fifty, and a dining table that we could cozy-seat a dozen around. Gathered on the area rug in the living room was the slipcovered three-seat-sofa, an orange brass-caster chair, and the creaky oak rocker with its worn Naugahyde seat. There was one bathroom. One bathroom, five people, and we lived to tell about it. And at the end of the hall was our quiet bedroom with its built-in wardrobes, quilt-covered bed, and a simple desk tucked into a writing nook. From its painted plank walls to its wood-grain floors, to its divided-lite windows, this home generously held all of life in its few hundred square feet.
And, we had you. You precious ones came, stayed, and read. You cried with us, cheered for us, and waited alongside as the words fell onto dim, blank pages in those early morning hours over all those years. You’ve saved them, savored them, read and reread them. You’ve shared them with those who would appreciate them, too. Because what is a gift if it’s not given? What’s a story if it’s not shared? Our life has been more beautiful, more hopeful because of you, and you, and you.
I write as if this was in the past. It is. And, loves, it very much isn’t! Our story continues on. Wonderfully, expectantly, it continues on, with my husband, our golden girl, Maggie Mae, the kitties, Mama and Peanut, and I, in this house. (And when the boys come home to visit, their beds are waiting for them in the loft.) We’re content here, yet our lives have yet to be fully lived. And that’s the beauty, the challenge, the hope of it all. To fully live, whatever may come. Tomorrow, together with you, we’ll look back and see, like silvering on glass, the reflection of today.
If you fancy a gentle fall down a rabbit hole, too, go here, then here.
