We are always sharing what we love. But if I only ever share what is first sponged clean of sinful smudges, then what I will give to the world will only ever be bleached goodness, with no living fingerprints.
You know you’re in deep when you hear a voice crack so you midwife each other’s coming to grips. Holy truth, when offered, is an inexplicable gift. When I left her I knew we’d made something outside of ourselves that it would take two to carry. And that we would not drop it.
I don’t want to miss them anymore, the moments that comfort us with an otherworldly comfort that equips us to live changed for the sake of every other person in our lives. And for our own sakes.
Have you ever taken a picture of something knowing that your photo will never do it justice?
You shrug on the inside, take the shot despite this, and tell yourself when you look at it next, it’ll be an inside joke. It will have rusted to something nowhere near as lovely as it was.
Yeah, this was the opposite of that.
I just eavesdropped on a man reading a letter to his friend on a tiny little plane, where the act of listening in can hardly be seen as inappropriate. We are seat belted co-captives for the next two hours and ten minutes. I can’t see him, but his voice carries.
There’s a cluster of things I feel holy about which are totally earthy and wholly temporary – except that they speak truths to me about immeasurable joy. Baking is on my short list. Granola making stirs up stories which waft through the kitchen like steaming cinnamon when ever I get out the wide spongeware bowl and reach for… Continue reading talking granola : food that speaks