I am one of the "dappled things" for which the poet Hopkins gives glory to God. Contemplating my freckled arm this morning (yes, I do have that kind of time to waste), I wondered as I have done before, Why this, and not something else? Tan or brown? Yes, genetics, I know, and big deal. But it's the question of one particular soul placed in one unique sheet of skin: this body, from that family, this town and time, I get caught in contemplating. Why did God choose to make me, and you, each one specific mix of shape and hair and gender and nationality? Always on earth I will look through these eyes, and never through yours.
Stare into freckle constellations long enough and your brain turns spongy. --Wait, it's always like that. How does it even work?
Anyhow, nothing to be done but to leave those kinds of questions spinning in their dizzy circles and go do the dishes. Mend the tear in that vest. Walk to the bank. Find the recipe you'll need for tomorrow's potluck.
Each Wednesday in July our pastor, Evan Wilson, has led a study in Ecclesiastes. We all meet outdoors at the Big Haus, the Wilsons' residence and boarding house, eat a potluck dinner in the shade, then listen as Evan tells us the joys to be had in our futile existence. It's great; I will miss it after we finish up this week.
This weekend there's a Zimbabwean Music & Culture Fest on the U of I grounds, during which I hope to soak up all the free outdoor marimba band playing I can stand, and dance till my feet go into shock.
The rest of the time I plan to loaf as hard as possible. Snooze on the patio chair, read the fun books stacked on my printer, watch Doctor Who. Stash these long sunny sleepy hours in my body's bank against that day when no man can play. (Except frat boys.) The countdown to school ticks on!
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| Amazing dappled darlin.' |
Morning pushing through our eastern bedroom curtain glows golden. I wake up thankful for everything my eyes light on, for elements in my dreams, now slipping out of memory, and for what awaits in the day to come.
There is no rush. This is a blessing. No jobs or tests requiring me to starch my resolve or fluff up my social skills. No homework due tonight. No need to task my back with moving house.
Free time! How long has it been since Ben and I had so little to do and so much time to do it in?
Last year, about now in July, I was saying goodbye to the Coffee Cottage kitchen and crew, passing along my baking tools to Hannah the new baker, and my family was entering the last big push to clear out our house and move to Idaho.
(How little we knew about how much we left our friends and family to do, to finish the house so it could be rented! I cringe to think of it, but at the same time, get a flush of pleasure and pride in everyone who helped. An interesting mix of sensations, let me tell you.)
Then we surged through a year thick with work, learning, writing, reading, rolling in bagels. (As it were.) We survived, thrived even. My brain got sharper while my belly got flabby. Much was accomplished.
And so here we are, in a lull. In the eye of the whirling great adventure. We are happy to sit and watch our new plantings grow in the back forty (that would be square inches), catch up on movie watching and easy books.
When August 20th arrives, we should be rested and ready for another academic round. Right now, though, my mind is happy drifting like a beach ball in a pool.
