Sunday, April 23, 2017

Jane Eyre, March 8

Happy Women's Day. I am up and awake at the Citadel Bank, by the skin of my teeth, you might say. I budged by the grace of God, not my alarm.
The day is looking beautiful. Sunny with long, combed-wool clouds, and sparkling puddles. Not very cold.
Five years ago we arrived in Rome. Yellow flowers were the city motif.
Oh, there is so much I want. Part of what I want is that sharp sensitivity to the world, that tenderness and wonder. The irrepressible hopefulness of the beloved.
Lord, help me not be nervous and brutal. Elisabeth knew how to be graciously blunt. So did Maya Angelou. I'm still learning.

There is this absolutely gorgeous tree across the road, at a house down a long driveway. It's large and fantastically curved, as if it journeyed from some other world. It comforts and terrifies me to find such beauties unexpectedly. How little I know of my own planet. Of my own body, even!
The blush of red at the tops of the trees is so lovely against the blue. I want there to be a word that combines tender, passionate, subtle, and shy. That's what it is. Very Jane Eyre. That gray bird with a bleeding heart. I think we would have been friends. So fiercely friends that we might have died for each other. Funny how we can make our lives so remote that no one touches us this way at all. Not funny - tragic.
But tragedies are often what shake us from our deadly complacency and cool independence.
Don't let me learn the hard way.

Jesus. Please help me know my identity in You. To be truly at peace, at rest, secure. Growing, but not frantic. Conscientious, but not hypersensitive. Confident and quiet and bold. Give me again that whole trust in You, that surrendered helplessness and joy. That janeyre.

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