Yesterday was bookended by beauty. I strung a strand of crystals in my window and when I woke up the sunlight cast splashes of rainbow all over the room. "Mom, look! A rainbow here, and here, and here!" Amelia said.
The middle of the day was lonely and monotonous. I was coming off the high of my college roommate's weekend visit. She is a kindred and we see each other rarely. We stuffed two years of conversation into two days, laughing and crying together over life's turns. Her departure heralded the return of normal, and I was short with the kids and out of sorts.
Bryan came home and took us out for burgers, then showed us this trail he and Watson had found the week prior. To the right was Crescent Lake, a little slip of a thing in the dry season and swollen with fish, frog's eggs, and water lilies when it rains. To the left was a fallow, furrowed field that will grow corn eventually. The living hedge along the path was brimming with life—foxglove, blackberry brambles that hid rabbit and coyote dens, ancient towering maple trees, a whole sudden grove of wild rose bushes, and grass taller than our heads. The diversity was stunning. The light of the low-slung sun shone perfectly: Those magical hours between dinner and darkness are definitely my favorite.
A promising beginning and an idyllic ending with a little bit of mess in the middle. Isn't that life?