Hope

It sings a tune without words

Well. It’s not often I open the NYT and gasp. But I did today. It’s as if the conspiracy is a Jenga tower and somebody just pulled out a big stick at the bottom. I have been walking around feeling as if I had sludge in my chest, and this morning I feel a physical sense of relief, and an unfamiliar hope. One thing is leading inexorably to another, the knots are untangling. And Thank God. Because I was beginning to think all hope was gone.

Before all of this, before I kissed the dogs, wandered into the kitchen for coffee, and opened up the paper, I woke with black under my fingernails, and was completely puzzled until I realized I’d been rubbing my forehead. I had washed my face kind of hastily before bed, but ash is a pervasive thing, with an odd oily quality that sticks. Fortunately not to my lovely, smooth, and clean pillow case.

We went to an intimate little service last night. Episcopal churches are not teeming with members these days, and there were fewer than thirty people. It was beautiful, but I almost giggled when after the imposition of ashes, more than half the congregation stood up to sing in the choir. My husband and I lately consider ourselves among the church homeless, but decided to attend nearby—rather than the cathedral downtown where we usually go on big occasions—and were welcomed personally with a warmth and sincerity that touched me. I was trained by my English godmother, Margaret, to many of the rituals of the High church, but I felt conspicuous in this less formal assembly. Being conspicuous is not a good thing in church, and yet, it feels wrong not to make these gestures that I was taught were correct. I need to think about this, and maybe have a conversation with someone more knowledgeable than I am about the right thing to do. On the one hand, I’m pretty sure God won’t mind either way. On the other hand, ritual signals the brain to move into a particular state, and that is not an unimportant detail.

My friend, Julie—she of Christmas tree fame—is a new grandmother again today. And Gardening Soulmate, Joe, is coming to help take down the Christmas greenery—which in this warm weather is turning brown—and to spread both grass seed for the mud and cheer for my spirits, which are already in a better state than they have been for many months. It’s odd to feel so happy at the beginning of Lent. But we take our joys where we find them. It is right, and a good and proper thing.

Wishing us all a Lenten season with promises fulfilled.

***
“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” ~Julian of Norwich

And now for your gratuitous dog photos:

Auggie feels better after his visit to the chiropractor yesterday. I can tell because he’s climbed up on the couch.

Eli found a stuffed elephant on the bench in the bedroom. After taking it away from him twice I decided to let him have it. He loves stuffed animals, and doesn’t usually get one, because Auggie eats them and ends up at the vet. We’ll keep an eye on Elephant while Eli lovingly and non-destructively—if a bit wetly—nibbles his ears.