ROAR

Some mornings I ROAR. 

I wonder if my kids see me beneath the noise ...

RECLAMATION DAY

Mondays are for reclamation — of my space; my schedule; myself.

After a weekend filled with Friday traffic jams; friends and pizza night; overnights; underwater mornings at swim practice; scouts; science projects; church, and so on and so on, I look around Monday morning at the physical chaos.

Where did my house go? I am one of those who views my house as my sanctuary.

The sight of it at the moment matches my internal space — messy and out of order. I set about to restore my calm. I begin with the external. It’s easier to straighten than the rest of me. Maybe that will follow.

In the girls’ room, I come across something of Zoe's, written in her concise hand. At night she often chooses to write or to draw; instead of the appointed reading.  Her creations are strewn across the bed, the floor. They are everywhere. She leaves a wide swath of fanciful destruction in her wake.

I can’t resist the urge to read her words; her thoughts. I often wonder what goes on in that child’s head. She is God’s own mystery to me; an exotic flower. I sit down hoping to find an inside clue — not so much an intrusion, but as a way to connect. 

My first take, is that she writes well. And her subject matter stems from her daily life. (Hmmmmm…. that's familiar….) I find a reference to me in her story. Now I write about her writing about me. It’s like a literary trompe l'oeil. Does that exist?

In “’A Story,’” by Zoe G,” she writes, “…that was my mother. She’s an everyday military spouse who has a passion for swimming, art, guitar, and some other stuff.”

Wow. I’m an everyday military spouse. I guess I knew that. Though, I’m not sure how I feel about it re-created in Zoe’s thoughts; her words. It seems small. I want to be giant in her mind.

That’s the selfish side of me.

I go about my ritual of physical reclamation. Her words keep creeping into my conscience. I think about me in her story; in her mind; in my own mind.

As my space begins to resemble order, her simple description seeps in to the disorder of my mind, and straightens that right up, too.

It gives me pause. Eventually I get there, though.

Military spouse? Yes I am.

Passion? Yes I do.

HALF BAKED

Oh the rain. The rain ... the rain... the rain.

My ideas turn slippery and slide along the squishy streets leading no where. Into the big trenches, they creep along below most people's notice. If I was a boot, I'd step right into the middle of that puddle of prose and, "SPLASH!"

Thoughts go every which way — maybe they will  leave a mark on someone else's mind.

I spend more time in the kitchen then I would when the sun shines. My family consumes bread fresh from the oven; recipes, which require more time than I usually give. The desserts are endless.

The rain continues, but my cooking streak runs dry.

I attend high mass. I think, "What theatre!" as I watch the archbishop's props come and go throughout the service. He has special detail ushers to place and then replace his mitre —his folding high hat; his impressive staff.

I don't feel very spiritual here.

The archbishop seems bored, or maybe just tired. I think he nodded off after communion. I wonder if he is as weary of his job as I am of this rain.

(Is it a sin to think that?)

(Can a devine calling be considered a job? I think, "yes.")

Will God tire of this rain?