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There are days where the world spins right, all painted with beauty. Days when the smiles and silly and growing things are enough.When the feel of your desk solid and the tea warm make your heart sigh gratitude. There are days I am content and worry takes a backseat to all His goodness poured out right now. Days I can glimpse the golden gleam of childhood and feel the dandelions brush my cheek just the way they used to. Moments in this uncertain swirl of life where I remember we are always safe in our Father’s hands. When I see gifts everywhere and they are enough.
I don’t yet know how to forever linger in this wholeness, but it feels like coming home. We have been trying to find a new roof over our heads, somewhere to call our “own”. All we found was confusion sprinkled with disappointment. And yet as I return to where He has placed me, it feels like coming home. Joy to paint a wall, plant a seed, see my children run and play, create and grow. We live surrounded in beauty, smothered by a fallen world. Still I long for that tiny backyard, sheltered under one sprawling tree. I miss the honeysuckle bush sweet and how I popped its’ fruit between my fingers. Breathtaking gardens are visited, nature I never dreamed of is witnessed . . . but nowhere to be found is that green park rolling out between friendly trees, fairies dancing amidst the neighbors’ flower beds, elfin folk hiding round rocky borders. It’s childhood I seek.
Amidst all the diapers and responsibilities, if I can be a bit more Mary, a lot less Martha, my children hand it back to me. Between the add your sums and sound out your letters we stop to paint the world right with blue, yellow and red. We try to slow down the relentless march of days with lunches spread out on sand. Time is washed away in waves, while crabs are caught – me just hoping they will remember the golden light of innocence the way I still do.
“We write, we make music, we draw pictures, because we are listening for meaning, feeling for healing. And during the writing of the story, or the painting, or the composing or singing or playing, we are returned to that open creativity which was ours when we were children.” – Madeleine L’Engle (she calls it wonderful racketty creativity 🙂
4-28-12 . 85mm . indoor morning light . painting pine wood derby cars, baby man’s first paint adventure
