On fireworks

Last night, I walked the neighborhood as the booms and ricocheted off the neighboring mountains and hills, while the laughter and shrieks provided variety. It was fierce. It was such a contrast to the countless other nights I've walked these same streets hearing only the night's voice, a symphony of small voices and sounds, broken by the occasional silence. 

Fireworks, an exuberant display, are chance to say, "Here we are. Do not forget us."  The light, noise, smoke and scent fades though. And we are finally subdued. 

It is the stars that I need most though. Their span lasting far longer than I. Although distant, they both anchor and lift me. The night is as expansive as sunrise, but at a different tempo. In near silence, my thoughts are the only distraction. I'd like to continue my quest to silence my chatter, leaving more room for stars, night noise, and the many, almost silent things that only our hearts hear. I want to leave room for being small. 

On Wisteria and other things

Wisteria is in full bloom this week.  As I drove home, I kept thinking what a funny plant it is.  Most of the year, is a straggly thing that grows in the wrong places.  And then, for one brief snippet, it is glorious.
 Like grace.  Most of the time,  we don't even think about it.  We may ask for it.  We might feel like we give it. Or get it.  And every once in awhile, it's so in our faces that we can't ignore it.  It's glorious.
  We're supposed to treasure those moments. And make room for them in our schedules, or friendships, and wish we didn't have to lists.  Not like me.  When I moved into our house, I didn't recognize Wisteria.  I spent two years wresting it out of the ground, and cutting it back.  Now, it seldom presents.  I did that, and I shouldn't have.
It's a privilege to give Wisteria, and Grace, room to thrive, and see it thrive.