First week of freedom drawing to a close. We have made happy rhythms already, and the house is humming a little more sweetly than it has of late. I gave away a carload of Things and have rearranged the Things that are left, giving us space to move, brew, bake, prune, stretch, play, croon, write, read, draw and think more fluently. But there's more fat to trim, always.
We've settled into our screened-in front porch- a breezy, quiet place for coffee, wine, books, and observing the activity of our street. Neighbors trans-alley have unexpectedly started a vegetable garden, and shared some greens with us when I offered them compost. (They didn't want it because it wasn't organic.) The Motorcycle Moses across the street tokes up in his garage with the young hooligans.
We've had so much leisure this week, Matt said.
It's been like a dream! Insofar as I've been completely inward, I said.
And I am glad that I have. Everything must rest quiet in order to grow. But: On some days I fear the inwardness and quiet, because I know that things die quietly too. Or worse than death, they grow crooked and sallow, self-smug with no way of knowing it.
There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.
All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the LORD weigheth the spirits.
Very dramatic for the first week of summer... It's a theme that's been wafting around darkly for me this year, especially during Lent, and I cheerfully examine it now.