Thank You, dear Lord Jesus. Thank You for this loneliness, which is also awakening deeper parts of my mind & heart & soul. I've just been crying, reading Wendell Berry, "A Native Hill". I resonate with so much in it.
Why do we have a love of place? Why do I have a love of place, more than almost anyone I know? I still dream in Florida, among the bushes and branches. And here, tonight, I went outside as night was falling and was so captivated I couldn't resolve to go back inside. I went in and out several times.
Outside was alive.
Opening and closing the door was as abrupt a difference as the opening and closing of a singing birthday card.
Fireflies were everywhere. Green, yellow, orange. Wind was ruffling the thick, burgeoning leaves, with such a beguiling susurration. A tender, cool, delicious mist of rain was falling, making every exposed part of skin chill and tingle. It was pure sensuous pleasure.
I turned off the deck light and danced, swaying, then turning. Finally it was dark enough that I lifted my arms to spin, and to waltz largely. The damp cool air billowed up my dress and made dewy ringlets of my face-framing hair. I had eaten strawberries and cherries from C, so that sweet tang was still on my tongue.
The treetops kept swaying and speaking, a sad and sweet communion. Being there, feeling Your world, and belonging somehow to it, in it, with it to You - was a kind of sex. Probably better than sex.
Sometimes I think You have spoiled me for romance, because You are so incomparably good at making love to me.
Why do we have a love of place? Why do I have a love of place, more than almost anyone I know? I still dream in Florida, among the bushes and branches. And here, tonight, I went outside as night was falling and was so captivated I couldn't resolve to go back inside. I went in and out several times.
Outside was alive.
Opening and closing the door was as abrupt a difference as the opening and closing of a singing birthday card.
Fireflies were everywhere. Green, yellow, orange. Wind was ruffling the thick, burgeoning leaves, with such a beguiling susurration. A tender, cool, delicious mist of rain was falling, making every exposed part of skin chill and tingle. It was pure sensuous pleasure.
I turned off the deck light and danced, swaying, then turning. Finally it was dark enough that I lifted my arms to spin, and to waltz largely. The damp cool air billowed up my dress and made dewy ringlets of my face-framing hair. I had eaten strawberries and cherries from C, so that sweet tang was still on my tongue.
The treetops kept swaying and speaking, a sad and sweet communion. Being there, feeling Your world, and belonging somehow to it, in it, with it to You - was a kind of sex. Probably better than sex.
Sometimes I think You have spoiled me for romance, because You are so incomparably good at making love to me.
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