15 January, 2009

fear no more the heat o' the sun

"The cold," a potential frat boy said, "it cuts through your fingers," looking down at the homeless man on the bench, the bearded old man who plays guitar in the early evening on Franklin Street. He looked up at the frat boy and nodded. I saw it as a little act of mercy.

Things are more or less falling into place, but I still feel like my life is drawn out in a thousand different directions, scattered like bits of paper in the street. (We still don't have a house.) Thoughts swirl around and refuse to be quieted. It's only the first week of the semester. I haven't even really done anything significant and my mind is racing, panting.

I think girls who wear backpacks and then carry a purse are silly. And I want to tell them so.

The Lord watches over you--the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. (Psalm 121:5,6)

All I really need is to believe this today.

I wrote this on our door last night, because it felt connected, relevant:

"Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking." (Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway)

Re-reading that book (admittedly for the fourth or fifth time; Emily rebuked me for it) is bringing me an ineffable amount of joy this week. I hope it never ends.

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