These are the days that inspire her to write.
She spent her morning in the shadow of the sun; spent her afternoon feeling its gaze and spent her evening watching it go down. Everything bathed in the light now suddenly curling back into its folds of gray dusk.
It would be too easy to spend her whole life like this – sitting on the couch, barefoot with cello and piano music singing in her ear. There is a cold salad on the seat next to her and her notebook lies open – the words bubble out: “garden and daffodils. Tulips and frying pans. Speak well and speak softly. You cannot take the whisper of your life back. It is a yellowed tulip-browned with age and weather. Dream deeply. Dream of heaven often.”
She wrote that. It is her scribbling book. She carries it everywhere and writes what she thinks and sees and learns. On the other page of the book, she wrote: “books to buy – Placemaker. The Barn.” And on another page: “I will make him draw near and he shall approach me, for who would dare of himself to approach me? Declares the Lord. And you shall be my people and I will be your God.”
She went on a barefoot walk today, just before sitting on this couch. She walked until she reached the side of a lake and watched the children dig into the sand; watched the dead fish wash up on the shore, its glazed eyes staring blankly at the sun. She watched the dogs go by; beautiful collies, curious labs and one dark brown dog that had lost its back legs and was using some sort of wheel thing to compensate. She wondered what his story was and how it would feel to wheel something like that around for the rest of your days. The water lapped close to her toes. Occasionally, when a big boat would speed by, the lapping would grow more intense until it was sharp and fierce. But it never reached her.
Back home, there was laundry waiting to be washed, cinnamon rolls waiting to be frosted, flowers waiting to be sniffed, and a new plant waiting to be hung from the ceiling. But here. Here you were being touched by the fingers of the sun. She could be here forever.
But she walked back and watched people watch her. She watched two girls, picnic hampers in hand, glance down at her barefeet, and she wondered what they were thinking. It wasn’t a crime to go barefoot. Girls always looked at everything. They have a knack for using their judging eyes to penetrate your being. But everyone should feel the freedom of barefeet. It is truly a wonderful feeling. It would be even better to climb on a horse with said barefeet and go galloping across the prairie. But alas. There are no horses here and no prairie to gallop across, and even if there were both, she likely would go bouncing madly instead of gracefully galloping. She is no horsewoman, though her passionate ego said she could ride with the best of the pony express if it ever came down to that.
Books in one hand and shoes in another, she watches people casting lines into the water and hoping to catch something. Since the quarantine, people have been out more, she thinks. It is good to see people doing old fashioned things like canoeing, fishing, walking, and picnicking.
God brings good out of everything. He does. She has seen that over and over again in her life. He is trustworthy, isn’t He? Can’t He cause waves to pull and fall back and His sun to go on shining, even though there is no explanation for why it does so, except for that He commands it? He causes the robin to sing its cheerful song, the one that wakes her up in the morning. Doesn’t all of earth sing and shout and clap its hands in some way to make music and joy and praise to the One that created it? Isn’t this joy?