“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

1.01.2016

done. the end of the year of too much.


months ago i found myself searching for the smaller things, the sweeter.  the less.  the softer.  the even more imperfect.  i passed by the overdone, the loud, the too bright.  by thanksgiving, katie had strung the calmest of lights across the back porch, across two of my back windows, just small pieces of color, and i would come home to find home already easy for the evening, the light a welcoming silence. i'd light one candle in the bedroom, two more in the front rooms, and when winter at last grew cool enough, i lit the heater and the cat would settle in front of the flames.  even lamplight seemed too much, too noisy.

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new year's day.

a gray sky, the reflection of a flock of birds circling across the windshield of the jeep.  i turn to the sky to find it, but too late.  the house across the street has been sold, and the new owner has cut down all the camellia trees, their blossoms now gone, my view now open to the yard of the house beyond. a dog streaks across that yard and disappears.

we stand in the middle of new beginnings.  always.  every day, every morning, every moment.  i once believed those new beginnings were blank slates, but i am older and maybe wiser, and now understand the slate is old and has been erased a million times, that the dust of all my days is still there.  i erase anyway.

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6 comments:

  1. Written so very beautifully, Deb. Thank you. I really feel the change.

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  2. this is amazingly beautiful!!!

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  3. thankful for your reminders here always...

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  4. Beautifully said Deb. I have to agree. The slate is old...and that's what makes it wise. And the gift is that we do get to erase and begin and begin again. Happy New Year!!!

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  5. All that dust is what makes us who we are.
    It's the dust left by words, worlds of words... Your slate tells the best stories. Xoxo

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  6. I'm so grateful to start the year here with you. I expected a fresh new slate in my Christmas stocking, but you're right, and wise; the scarred old slate, our palimpsest, is who we are. We get to write new words on it, and that is what's important.

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come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .