Something very interesting is happening in my life right now. It's as though I have emerged from a fog, or a forest so thick and dark that I could no longer identify individual trees and canopies, much less where I was going or -- for that matter -- whether I was going anywhere. And it's not that I've suddenly broken through to a mountain's edge overlooking a golden valley or some other inspiring vista. I'm still thick in the trees, but now, I can tell the path is well-marked, signage everywhere, and while I have no idea where it's going, really, I'm truly enjoying the journey.
My heart is tenderized and open.
Which is part of why, when listening to Anne Lamott talk on Saturday night about the writing life, the parenting life, the daughtering life, and the faithful life, I felt gut-punched over and over again by identification and -- through identification -- liberation.
Part of why, when having dinner with friends I haven't been in the same room with for two years (despite not living even 2 miles apart) on Friday night, I could feel our great big new house brimming over with love.
Part of why this morning -- just this morning, maybe -- I am awed. Too awed to write about anything else. Too awed not to write. Awed by mystery, awed by miracles, awed by serendipity, awed by friendship, by family, by two years without chocolate chip cookies (a travesty to maybe half the world, and oh, dear, dear, God, such freedom for me), awed by animals, by trees, by flowers, by music, by the internet. I am awed by the beauty -- in every sense of the world -- of my daughters and the gift of watching them, accompanying them, guiding them, as they grow. I am awed by the luck of having found Skip to spend my life with. I am awed by the way terrible trials and tribulations can be transformed and redeemed into gifts to self and others with the toolkit of courage, honesty and the willingness to make it -- let it? -- happen.
This is a strange, amazing world.
It's a little awe-full.