Imperfect Prose

Baby cries through the night eclipsing my sleep and on the cusp of dawn I hear the children's giggles brimming over in the next room and spilling little puddles into mine, that I feel, I may drown in.

It's 5am.

Yet the light catches the curve of that babies lashes and the sparkle of laughter and through the haze I feel the glimmer warm my bones, my heart, my soul.

We start our day.

Baby nestles in the cradle of my arm squirming and grabbing at paint brushes and pencils.
I swing her around and around and when every effort fails, paints and brushes are abandoned for storybooks and songs on sofas.

We sing 5 little ducks and the sun shines like a smile through the windows.

Girls kick off muddy boots and soggy leaves spatter the porch, they scuffle into the kitchen as I make reminders... and serve up beans and eggs... The dishes pile... and pile...

...and I day dream about knitting!
 Methodical stitches breathing their steady rhythm through the trembling bough of my thoughts.

...the day moves like a piece of music. There are fast paced parts that are hard to keep up with, slow detailed movements that take my whole presence, and some...

I am not much of a conductor and discordance can clatter like the pots in the stainless steel sink.

But every time I take time to listen to my soul, let my spirit conduct us through, I hear only the harmony. Life sings one true note. Like a bird at dawn.

I can touch the outlines of the day lightly as if it were something precious.
Or a piece of clay on the wheel that will collapse if handled too much, cave into muddy creases if pressed upon to deeply.

By tomorrow morning there will be no trace of my fingertips upon it at all.
No impressions will be left.
It seems.
The session of repeats, reminders, chores will begin again as if for the first time.
But with it, maybe, glimpses of the eternal will break through like that morning light.
The one that wakes us from our sleep.
And these small movements will resonate far further than we can imagine...

The work is secret work.

Work of the heart.

Work of the soul.

It works as light works on winter fields of dry clay, moistening them, yielding them, preparing them for the life that will break forth within them.


We return to our portraits. Paint and brush in hand. Each face shines with a beautiful uniqueness. I
 feel the deep blessing of knowing these gifts, these 5 girls of mine.

And as the light wanes I still hold it's promise inside.