Time to connect the dots

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!

Amazing dappled darlin.'