On the Brain, Part II

The other theme in my mobile photo library.

More daffydills

When the carpet cleaners parked me in I made lemonade, so to speak, by taking a walk to the park. I asked this little tuft of grass to let me make a ring out of it, and to prove its undying devotion it complied, the whiff of wild onion upon being twisted and torn its olfactory equivalent to "Oh, happy dagger!"

A meeting in the basement? On a day like today?

I started blogging after I discovered the first violet this time last year and, as usual, couldn't keep quiet about it. For years that first blossom has become synonymous to me of our hope and God's faithfulness.

Last year the first violet caught me completely by surprise. This year my blogiversary came and went, followed by the first day of spring, and I've been keeping my eyes peeled. This has resulted in some clumsy walks and a discovery of quite a bit of dog poop in my neighborhood, but my hope remains deferred. No purple head peeks out by the sidewalk, the tree root, the bush.

Still, my hope is in Him and He's faithful, whether or not those sweet little reminders appear. Silly of me to look for the sign instead of the source.

Anyway, spring seems to have arrived without the violets.

On the Brain

Browsing my iPhone photos the other day, I detected a theme.

Mmm, authentic enchiladas.
Sure was nice having the Delgado family in town.

The only thing better than a café miel at Quills...

...is a café miel at Quills with Kristen.
(She's looking a tad grainy here -- no fault of her own.)



After living in My Own Place for six months, I finally bought a kitchen table and decided the inaugural meal warranted commemorating. In case you're wondering, that's a mug of homemade baked beans, and the jar of milk is the closest to farm fresh I can get.

This meal made me think of Gramma, for no other reason than that I sprinkled my eggs with herbes de provence gleaned from her kitchen cabinet after she passed away last summer. It occurred to me as I enjoyed my little supper that Gramma would have been an avid Craigslister had she known how to use a computer, and she would have been proud of me for talking the previous owner of my "new" table into selling it for $40 instead of $50.



Java doesn't brew my favorite coffee in town, but they do serve it in my favorite misshapen turquoise mug.



This is peanut butter and jelly. Literally.
It made for a good midnight supper after a long day of work.

Rainy Sunday afternoons are for coffee, cookies, and parables.

And also red shoes.



"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
- T.S. Eliot

First Day of Spring

"Our Lord has written the promise of the resurrection,
not in books alone, but in every leaf in spring-time."
- Martin Luther

"Daffodils were sunbeams in a previous life
and will be lemon cupcakes in the next."
- me

bee tee double you

Happy blogiversary to me!

That Darn Thing with Feathers

"Hope is the thing with feathers," chirped Emily Dickinson, "that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all."

There are days, good days, sunshiney spring-is-here-at-last days, when I sing hope's praises alongside Emily, as well I should.

There are days, grey days, drizzley winter-may-stay-forever days, when I want to strangle the thing with feathers to silence its incessant song.

You irritate me, little bird. You tantalize me with your promises and frighten me with your risk. You're unabashed, Emily says, by the sorest of storms or the chilliest of lands, but I'm not interested in storms or chill; I'd rather stick cynical thumbs in my ears than be lured out to sea by your sweet song. Emily insists you've never asked a crumb of her. From me you demand my final meal. You're not safe, you unassuming feathered thing, and if I sing along, I may be disappointed.

But sing I must, like it or not, because I've read the Book and I know the outcome and I see that I am called to join the chorus because I'm loved by a God who doesn't just offer a hopeful option or wistful thinking or blind optimism but is Hope, my only hope. To run from hope is to hope in myself, and that's a chilling thought if ever there was one.

He does promise, after all, that those who hope in him are never disappointed, and of course it's true --how could he ever disappoint? It's the "in him" that makes the difference, since he's the one, the only one, who never fails.

That's the pitch I'll tune my heart to.

Sooner than hoped.

But definitely not daffodils.

Happiness is...

...an open sunroof.

Prrrr

Winter may remain for a time, but rejoicing comes in the spring.

Daffodils are not far off.