It’s been an odd stew of a day. I divded equal portions of time between raking leaves and making last-minute edits on tonight’s edition of Everyday God. Like most stews, the two ingredients complimented each other nicely — the physical exercise against the mental, the fresh outdoors versus the inside comforts of parking my tired body at my writing desk. Both efforts helped me tidy my world.
I never know how many to prepare for — how many prayer meditations to serve up. Last month, it was raining cats and dogs and we ended up with a surprising seven. Today has been a gorgeous slice of autumn. Will that bring more or less? Does it matter? No, not really; I’m just curious. Or as my husband likes to say, I have a Cury Ass.
It will be good no matter who comes tonight. It’s already good. The act of putting a garden to bed or a piece of spiritual writing (or any writing) to bed is satisfying.
And with less loose ends, I’m hoping for better sleep tonight. This morning was another early wake-up call — three something in the morning — I made two hours of edits for tonight’s prayer practice which allowed me to go back to sleep.
Tomorrow I head down to my sister’s to tidy up some more. Behind us is one day’s work and one full dumpster. Now it’s time for our second serving.
The view inside my mother’s shop is opening up — another four dumpsters might get it. But the odd assortment of stuff in Mom’s shop makes Mon’s stews stranger than mine. My sister and I don’t say much, but we laugh a whole lot. I did find a few treasures — empahsis on few.
Who knows what we’ll uncover tomorrow? Sometimes it’s best not to know what’s in another person’s stew until you’ve taken a few bites.
Your posts are such fun because I often read them, have no response, come back, and there it is ~ the wonderful insight.
You wrote, “I never know how many to prepare for….” That’s why stew days are so great – you can always stretch a stew for just one more 😉
Often you surprise me with what you uncover in my writing. The thoughts underlying that particular phrase of words was more connected to my stew then I knew when I wrote them. But it took you to see the connection.
Giving birth to writing and to children are not unlke in that one never knows exactly what they have given birth to. Well, yes of course we know in part; but never do we know in full. Writing lives and breathes as it is read by each new set of eyes.
I merely wrote the words as practice and handed “it on, like a sealed letter, without knowing it.”