One day

One day, my mom and I went to Home Depot before Sam's volleyball game to copy some keys.  We approached the check out counter manned by a thin, older but stately lady who became one of my favorite people at the end of our short exchange.  I felt that she was tired, not in a careless way, but a sort of weariness that comes from the weighty burdens and concerns of daily life.  We started talking and she said "I've helped you folks before.  Yes, I remember you."  She then told us that her day had been good, but her morning not so much, not hesitating to share that she had talked to God to ask Him to help her receive motivation and self-control.  The wry smile and shake of her head as she related her inner struggle and relationship with God made me feel like I was talking with an old, well known friend who knew God well and loved Him, though perhaps wanted Him to do things a little differently in her life than He was.  She was so genuine and warm with us, virtually strangers--who would probably not see her again in the near future.  I felt entrusted with a treasure, a knowledge of this woman and of something so wonderfully personal as her relationship with God; a treasure freely given by her and also by Him.

My heart brimmed and flowed over as we walked out of the store.  People.  I love the diversity among us and the common ties of being human that connect us.  I hope I can be more like this woman--giving and kind and a friend right from the start.  Sometimes I feel so conscious of myself that any opening up to others would be simply be too much for my frail self to handle, like I would melt into some puddle of indistinguishable mess.  Even now, writing this to let you, dear reader, (anonymous and ambiguous as you may be) know something that touched me, I can feel my color rising, along with my pulse.  But its not all about me.  I feel like its in sharing about ourselves, we can connect with one another.  Like this lady from Home Depot, we invite others into our lives, and not just by opening the door slightly, peering at whoever is outside and making terse conversation to figure out if they are worth talking to or if they will accept us.  Nope.  That is not how my friend from Home Depot greeted me.  She opened the door wide, pulled me into an embrace I thought was reserved for kindred, and wove herself into the fibers of my heart, there to be fondly remembered and looked up to.  She wasn't thinking about herself or about my reaction.  She simply shared.  In such inhibiting sharing, I'll admit that she stunned me a little bit, but it was gradual and and even welcome, rather than repulsive or anxiety instigating.

I learned a lesson that day.  The joy and disarming power of sharing one's self, of wearing ones' heart on their sleeve if you will.  Not that it is something to be manipulated or used to one's advantage; indeed, such calculation would erase the quiet power of sharing.  Nor is it to be taken too far and let all boundaries of propriety be crossed in the name of giving one's self without reserve.  I think at its best, it is being without guile, being honest, pure, and true.  Wise, but harmless.  I want to be like that more.  Without reservation, but with a healthy dose of discernment,  gladly swinging open the door to those who come knocking.

Light and Water

These are two of my favorite things on this planet.  So vital to our life, so ordinary and simple and constant, yet so beautiful and enriching and just so good.  I just realized the other day how connected they are; that is, how intertwined they are in our language.  The way we describe light is usually in images that involve water.  Bathe.  Filter.  Reflect.  Stream.  Pour.  Flood.  Seep.  And I imagine that other words for water would work just as splendidly with light.  Words like trickle, bubble, and others that just sort of slip from my attention right now.  So cool.

Oh and also, I failed to complete the haiku group by leaving out winter.  My apologies.  I do love winter, with its crispness, clarity, and cold that coaxes us outside to play and then eventually prods us race back home, eagerly anticipating warmth.  Somehow I feel like the constraints of a haiku may not fully express everything about you.  Anyhow.  Here's to you, winter.

Snowfall.  Quiet, still.
It envelops, yet sharpens,
Ladens every branch.