Friday, January 25, 2013
Selfie on a Friday Morning
Provo is an ice skating rink.
Yesterday morning we had rain. As it fell through the soupy, warm inversion air it hit an especially frigid cold pocket below and turned into ice. Rain-turned-ice was falling from the sky and it splattered and spread all about the ground.
I went visiting teaching last night with my pregnant companion Gretchen. As we went from house to house I worried she would slip and fall. She has Floridian legs, used to the grass and sand, toes that don't freeze, knees that don't know the crunch of ice as they hit the ground. But she managed and I was impressed with her cautious confidence.
Our visiting went well into the late, foggy night. We started at Shannon's house where it always smells like a rich dinner of spices and makes me consider my own diet. Then to Rebecca's house, decorated with her patchwork quilts in bright colors and cheerful patterns. Last to Zina, who teaches us with her cache of enlightening thoughts about life and religion. It was at Zina's house we found ourselves unable to leave, wanting more. If ever I have known a prophetess, it's Zina in her power and compassion-laced conviction.
I took Gretchen home, stopping as we always do to cover our lives, check in with each other and share any details of need. Gretchen has been a Godsend to me this past year. I've found great peace in hearing her history and wisdom. I offered over a dozen times to walk her to the door--like a daughter with her elderly mother--elbow to elbow, but she resisted. So I drove on.
At home I wobbled across my frozen dew drive way. I thought about all the people we watch skate back and forth across the bustling road we live on. All day long we watched people gingerly navigate the slippery sidewalks, some choosing to glide, some falling, some using excellent balance techniques--like trapeze workers on the circus tight rope.
As soon as I hit the pillow my mind was out, and would've liked to remain that way if it weren't for those nasty nightmares you get when you are four years old. I saw lightening in the sky earlier in the evening and in my hopes of teaching Anson how magical the world can be, I told him about the flashing sky with the pink clouds. Before he fell asleep he had convinced himself it was an beaming alien space craft dumping pink toxins into our lungs. I quickly saw my errors and spent the whole night in bed with my children, warding off aliens even though I had long-promised they don't exist.
This morning Chup protected me from my beeping alarm clock, inviting me to sleep in a bit after a restless tour of night watch. I woke up remembering I had chopped my hair off last week. In a matter of seconds I went from long, blond locks to short wispies in my natural color--welcoming the few gray strands here to stay. It was totally my choice, something I decided to do for the health of my hair. But is it possible I am mourning my hair a little? Could I have a touch of PTSD about it? How does my mind find time to care? Where is space reserved for the bigger problems of life?
But I didn't have time to process that much--mornings are my work hours.
And I sat down to blog.
p.s. Proof of Provo being an ice skating rink.
BYU campus (around the corner from Retro House):
Come say hello to me this weekend on twitter, facebook or instagram!
It's a party! Neon Trees at Velour! Yahoo!