The spirea branches that brush the window still bear red and yellow leaves. Beyond them, the fig tree is bare, its yellowing leaves ripped from its branches by Saturday’s windstorm. A few forlorn figs hang in the gray mizzle of morning, dripping rain. Soon, they, too, will fall to the ground.
Curled up on the sofa under a white fleece blanket that has seen better days, I sip my tea and stare out the window at the middle-distance, somewhere between here and Heaven, and a longing opens deep in me for more.
More of what, I’m not even sure. Just more.
More of this moment. More yellow spirea leaves tinged with red. More silence. More sleep. More me. More God.
A full day lies ahead of me, and all I want is to stay here curled under my blanket and read and journal and pray. But I can’t. I must up and make breakfast and dress my twins and get them to preschool. Then it’s school with the older kids, Latin class, piano, cross-country—all good things that auger well for the day ahead. Even so, my chest aches with the longing to simply sit here and stare out the window and be. I long for introspection and mystical communion with God. Even the thought brings a self-mocking smile to my face.
My life is not cut out for mystical communion.
photo by this is emily, Creative Commons via Flickr.