It was kind of an icky day.
An unkind stranger, an injustice that will not be made right. (This merits sentence fragments, I assure you) Nothing awful, just grey and blech enough to hang vaporous over our day.
And so I went all broody and dark for a while.
Sipping tea, letting my kids tear the house apart, then take a (way too long) bath in the middle of the day, near flooding the bathroom. Heaven help me, I even let them break out the paint and glitter, in effort to occupy them while I went about my moping.
I made mac and cheese for dinner, and not the good homemade version either, just the blue box.
I skulked and read poetry and doodled, and said “Sure, whatever.” a lot.
I’m better now though. I’ve gotten it out of my system.
Really, if some petty ugliness is the worst of my problems, I live a charmed life.
At the height of my heavy sighing though, I made this:
I thought I’d throw in some marker with the cutting, just to change it up a little.
The making cheered me up, considerably, occupied my mind and hands, but now that it’s done it seems so sad, that she will sit there, waiting by that window for all time.
(See what I mean? Dark and broody.)
Oh, and should you ever turn your back on a little boy when there is a whole can full of Sharpies within reach, know this: plain old pink pearl erasers work like magic. Big, long, DARK marker lines came right off the laminate countertops.)
So, about that poetry …
I leave you with this one, one of my favorites, and the one that inspired the little piece above:
by Lexie Dean Robertson
I have not known the sweep of far blue seas
Where silver gulls lift wings to blown salt spray,
And suns come crashing through the long grey curve
Of rosy mist that marks the edge of day;
But I have known a sea of rippled green
Where wheatfields stretch beyond earth’s limpid hem,
And I have seen its hot waves kissed to bronze
By winds that whispered undulant through them.
I have not seen the dawn from thin high peaks
Where mountain fingers clutch at heaven’s blue,
And frail cloud vapors spread a chiffoned veil
To make a cruel beauty softly true;
But I have seen a quiet brown-fringed pool
Where redbirds stop to drink as they flash by,
And leaning there I’ve felt my heart lift up,
For its smooth mirrored depths reflect the sky.
I have not flung afar some flaming torch
To kindle valor in the hearts of men,
Or blaze a way of splendor to the goal
Where shackles loose and freedom’s paths begin;
But I have made my cottage hearthfire glow
To warm a dreary heart grown sad and chill,
And I have left it burning through dark nights,
And I have lit a candle on my sill.
I have not merited the world’s acclaim
Here in my little house close by the sod,
But I have walked through open doors to love,
And I, on bended knees, have talked with God.