Monday, September 8, 2014

broken places.

My daughter sent me the most beautiful cups from Anthropologie. 
When I unwrapped them, the handle had cracked on the blue one.  I didn’t want to tell her so when she called I just focused on how much I liked them.

'But did they get there in one piece?' she asked for the second time. 
She’s very direct.
Her response was typical, 'Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?  I’ll get another one and bring it with me when I come!' 
And she did.
It’s sitting here now, full to the brim with coffee and cream and it’s beautiful. 

But after two days it developed a hairline crack.  I think Anthropologie needs to get their act together.  
But it won’t stop me from using it.

And the one with the broken handle?  I’ve planted it with grass seed and set it on the window sill…

After all, the most beautiful things have broken places.

gathering days.42

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

bubble man.

He stood at the edge of the pond in the early morning quiet, a battered white bucket at his feet.  Slowly he leaned down, dipped and straightened.  I watched as a bubble sailed from the rope he held, bounced twice across the surface and took flight.
Another followed.  So wide it would be the span of my arms if I could catch it—I couldn’t.

I should take a picture, I thought.  I could put it on Instagram.
But I just walked slower, and watched--and took another turn around the pond.

I could take a picture, I thought, and put it on Facebook.
But I didn’t.

‘They’re beautiful,’ I said instead.

The old man smiled.

I took another turn around the pond, watching color leap and bend and soar.

And let it soak into my spirit, tucked in the pocket of my soul.