Fireworks

Almost eight and a half years ago, I counted the hours until I could walk down that aisle in my white dress and say "I do" to my best friend.  In my head, parades marched and gongs sounded and fireworks whizzed overhead and the queen of England stopped by to take tea with me (a fantasy that has yet to come true). 

I loved the guy.  I still do.  

I remember a conversation with a friend about fireworks.  Not the ones that you light, then run like crazy to take cover.  The other ones - butterflies in the stomach, the literal crinkle that walks up your spine when his hand brushes yours, the blush that heats your cheeks when you meet his eyes.  

Blood pounds, pheromones fly.

My friend insisted that love = fireworks.  Without the fireworks, it's just - like.  Friendship.  No excitement.  The sludge of walking, every day, with a nobody.  

Fireworks are important.  Sure, I totally agree.  
But love is so much more than fireworks.

Tim and I were great friends before we even thought of fireworks.  The bop-him-in-the-bicep-hey-good-buddy type of friends.  Then, after awhile, love sorta sneaked up on us.  We got fireworks, yes, but not always.  Certainly not when I first laid eyes on the guy.  We didn't fall in love, like bumbling klutzes who happened to trip over a log and fell into each other.  We chose to love.

I think...

That love can be a thief, stealing in when you're not expecting him.  Sometimes it's a decision made after a heated argument.  Often, it hides in the words, "I forgive you."  It can be a man's wrinkled hand weaving his fingers through the aging fingers of the same hand it's held for fifty years. 

Eight and a half years in, a lifetime to go.

Love is patient; love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 
It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered,
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres.

Love never fails.
I Corinthians 13:4-8a

Seasons of Change

I looked in the mirror today.
The little girl there
Gazed back at me.
She held in her hand
Bubbles, round and unbroken,
Tenuous rainbows of
Unfulfilled dreams.

I looked in the mirror today.
The teenager there
Gazed back at me.
She held a rosebud in her hand,
Dusky crimson, petals
Not willing to spill
The whole story.

I looked in the mirror today.
The young mother there
Gazed back at me.
In her arms slept an infant,
A cherub
On loan for a time
From heaven.

I looked in the mirror today.
The old woman there
Gazed back at me.
Her silver hair framed
A face with
Lines.
The lines told a story
Of bubbles
And rosebuds
And infants.
In her hands, she held wisdom,
Hard-earned
Priceless.

Strategies

My darling husband has three alarm clocks.  That's right - three.  Each one is set to the highest volume, so when the first one goes off, I rocket out of bed.  The kids tumble out of their beds.  I'm sure the neighbors are crawling from their beds.  The only one still in bed is Tim.  He hits snooze on the first one, then again.  Then the second one goes off.  Snooze, then the third one.

Because I'm up, the kids of course want me to change-their-diapers-fix-their-breakfasts-pour-their-milk-comb-their-hair-brush-their-teeth.

I wonder if Tim has a strategy?  Hmm...

Seasonal Mutterings

I love fall.  I love the blue, deep blue of the sky.  I breathe the crisp almost sharp air, filling my lungs until they're too-too full.  Rustling, crinkling leaves.  Apple cider.  Apple butter.  Apple crisp.  Anything apple.  I think fairies could possibly live in the fall.  I don't think they live any other time of the year - just the fall.  The Tinkerbells and the Peter Pans peer in my window and watch me in front of a warm fire, reading a book, with a mug of my favorite apple cider in my hand.  

Here's a quick scribble:

Come, let us go for a moonlight stroll,
Where the shadows are thicker than leaves in autumn,
Than brown leaves strewn across the path.
And you'll take my hand, and
Together we'll walk the paths that
Spirits walked before us,
And left breathy images a-floating behind.
The wind whispers,
And the boughs speak and creak,
The roots ridge the path,
But have no fear, because 
The moon resides here.
It floats among the branches,
Peeping here, glistening there,
Lighting the ghosts and the tree-elves,
Welcoming them to the physical world,
Until we see that the quirky nose of an elf
Is a gnarled stump on a tree.
A witch's broomstick turns into a brand.
Or, you wonder, is it?
Is the moon illuminating what is,
Or what we perceive?
What is moonlight after all,
But a tryst between the world of light
And the liquid of dark?
Where trees and roots and bushes
Co-exist with warthogs and goblins and fairies
And the cackling chatter of swirling leaves
Reminds you of a ghouls' meeting where drinks are served.
Your hand tightens in mine
And together, we walk among them.