The rain might come, and I will likely choose to move inside rather than dilute my coffee, drench my clothes (or even dampen them with discomfort), and smear my ink. The clouds and sun this morning are not decided on who will have the greatest showing. Honestly, I don’t mind. There’s something magical about a bright cloudy morning. Yes, the gray feels bright, alive with magic and mystery, promising I do not know all but that I might make a discovery or two if I’m willing. And the glow of the irises, in their myriad of color and hues, rise wisely and courageously above the rest, determined and hopeful in their old-fashioned dress.
I thought of my grandmother moments ago. This day of the month, I spend in prayerful retreat, listening, tapping into the wisdom within. There is typically more silence than words. My grandmother was mostly silent. Her lips closed, sometimes tightly, I wondered what she was thinking. She’s been gone many years now, and I can only guess at her thoughts; I cannot know all that she had known in her life. As I come to my own fullness of being, I wonder if some of my thoughts were like hers. I wonder what she might think of things I might say or do. Would she be proud? Would she cluck her tongue in feigned disapproval and a wink of her eye? Would she be silent in painful disappointment? When would she think I was ready to know the Truths she knew? For I believe she knew much more than she told me, and it seemed she was waiting. Perhaps she was waiting on me, and I wasn’t ready. Perhaps the wisdom I’m learning daily partially comes from her. She does hold a dear place in my heart and soul.
The mystery continues.