It was a dreary day dressed in dampness. The cozy chaos of my corner den tried to comfort me with musty smells of books, and promises of intellectual endeavors. It wrapped me up in the warm hum of a small heater and steamy mug, against the overcast greys. A portioned off crevice filled with photographs and paper scrapes amused me for a moment before the music manifested forgotten memories. Handel's Water Music triggered the scene.
There in the cellar a small room had been hammered together, with recycled materials. My things had been carried down there and dumped. It was for me to clean and arrange. With a heavy sigh I bounced myself on the little bed. Dampness pervaded the raised wood floor and the vinyl paneling and a mustiness saturated the air. As there were no ceiliing tiles thick cobwebs hung from under the upper floor boards, which had criss-crossed supports. There was no door, just a unfinished third wall to provide some amount of privacy to a pre-teen girl. I felt some hot little tears under my lids as I looked at my hands, so calloused for a little girl's. This was a deliberate separation and I felt it in my torso. I swallowed hard and stood. I found a bucket, soap and rags. Before I started there was one consolation, one little present. A small brown clock-radio that someone at a worksite was going to toss. My dad, a carpenter, offered it to me as a conditionary peace offering. I could have it! I could listen to it, but only the channels he choose. Which happened to be the only channel with good reception: Public Radio. As my hands pushed the wet soapy water over the warped planks of wood, they moved in rhythm to Bach's Sonatas. As my arms thrust the rag along the brown lines of the paneling they made dramatic dance strokes to the rise and fall of violins and cellos. I dusted the cobwebs while the strings sung. It was Vivaldi's Four Seasons that lifted my spirit to decorate with a creative flair, taking my imagination far from there.
It was on ever so dark nights that this music was my only friend. A night light was an extravagance. So when the switch was flipped, a blinding darkness swallowed up all existence of reality. Some shapes barely perceptible became monsterous forms. Then pipes overhead rattled and popped violently. The floor boards creaked with a wicked moan. Fights and shouts drifted down with thuds and thrusts. A machine groaned and shook from somewhere in the black abyss. My long skinny fingers crept out from under the wool army blanket and reached for the radio near my bed. Upon finding the little knob, they slowly turned the volume. A soft well-educated voice spoke of concertos and symphonies. (Sometimes there were readings of novels too.) As the bleak dark pressed down upon me I clung to chords and the melodies - strumming my sorrows and sounding my hopes. As it does today.

It hit me like a runaway truck. No easy creeping up on me, where I can fend it off early with extra vitamins and a restful day on the couch. Even now I sit here with a low fever, rough cough, and a constant weariness. But despite all the troubles I found some bits of joy.
*Last night, Katie pretended to be my nurse, bringing me cool drinks and telling me stories. ( I guess when She grows up, she and I will live in a mansion and run a store where we give away our merchandise to the poor but overcharge the wealthy).
*In the middle of the night I wake up to a growling. I am concerned, our dog never growls. Is someone in the house? The growling continues, I realize it is my husband. His cough has made his snore into a growl. Chuckling I go back to sleep.
*This morning after a night of tossing and turning, James greets me. "Mom your hair! You look beautiful. Shake your hair, Mom." A glance in the mirror revealed a rooster-wind blown look. Nice.
*I lumber down the stairs, knowing I have to start some coffee. I find my son, Jacob wiping off the kitchen table and counters. Cleaning! Very nice.
*Many Facebook friends leaving comments, concerns, and prayers. Love.
*Brandi and AJ brought me chocolate cheesecake. Yum.

There have been words and phrases twirling around in my head.  Ideas and descriptions that press me for exhibition.  But alas, they blow through my sails before I am able to pen them down.   As it is, I feel like a mariner set adrift ready for the wind.  The breeze has turned cool and smells of change.  I feel it within, like a furling in my blood.  A weathered crewman, I am already braced with faith and prayer;  Knowing God's Holy Spirit is my compass, navigating me through perilous waters.   
 Here I wait, with the waves gently slapping my wooden sides.   The sun shines clearly through the window while a small fellow plays pirate from the top of his bunk bed.  He sits up there shirt-less with his mencing stuffed monkey who is wearing a shirt, giggling.   With a pirate yell, he hurles a yellow duck at my head.  I fire a pillow back from my precarious position on the floor.  He bellows a laughing "Argh!"  His little ribs bursting under his skin with each chuckle.   The monkey takes a bite of his plastic banana before jumping - being thrown and Karson's hearty laugh fills the air as I toss it back.  The stillness of my vessel waiting to be moved, is forgotten and lost to the making of memories.  The sails can wait to be hoisted, I want to play pirate a little longer.

   Tonight on my knees, as the sun finished her shift and I said 'Amen', I looked up through the white framed window.   The blackened Oaks, barren and shivering stood against a mournfully blue sky.  So solemn and sad after a day's beautiful display.  I felt my prayer must be spread across that sky, having escaped and slipped through the knarled black fingers of the trees.  A leaf drifted by the pane. 
The beauty of God's hand filled me with comfort and assurance.   Even I, the smallest little nut, is His to plant.

  There's a rumble in my belly.  I am perched on all fours, digging my paws in to the shaggy neutral brown ground.  My mane has flipped down over my keen eyes, but it is no matter, for I hear my prey dragging his wooden trains over their puzzled bamboo tracks.  Silly man-child, whispering choo choo, oblivious to the danger just outside his door.    Crouching down in the known position of all feline predators, I lick my chops and suppress a giggle.  To be fair to my victim, I growl a warning before my deadly pounce.  Silly man-child laughs to disguise his fears, he knows he is about to be eaten.  "RRRRROOAARRR!"
  I leap toward the man-child, Karson.  His fortress of toys are of little protection against me.  I grab his skinny little legs and run my vicious tickling fingers up his ribs and under his chin.  Silly-man child laughs and giggles!!  He better stop, so I tell him "I am going to eat you up, because I am a lion."  He laughs more, and  tries to wiggle free.  It is no use.  I decide I should teach him a lesson.  I blow a raspberry on his belly.  'RRooarr!" The Silly man-child has me giggling, and I am powerless to hold him.  He runs swiftly.   But no matter, I bound after him.  "Roooaar."  He laughs in triumph, as I chase him around the dinning room table.   Finally this old circus lion lies down with a defeated "Humph."   Then that Silly-man child climbs on top of me and throws his arms up, victorious.

*If I could sing
    I would sing for you. . *
The Sun stretches her weary arms across the morning,
   and I am wishing for your embrace.
The Dusk bats her long eye lashes across the afternoon,
   and I am remembering your loving glances.
The Night curls his toes under the evening's blanket,
  and you are in my sleeply dreams.
The Dawn raises his foggy head over dew drops,
   and you are a drink for thirsty lips.
  *If I could dance
        I would dance for you . . *


*

    It is a bit of a trek through the scenic urban decline of our town to Irwin Elementary, my boys' math-science magnet school.  The sun glistened, gleamed off the hood of my black Yukon, with tinted windows, shiney chrome, and the thumping of music.  Right now, you could call it my  'gangster' ride.  After a poopy Monday like today, I felt a bit rebellious with my bling-bling sun-glasses, gold hoop earrings, and shiney lip-gloss.  My foot was a little heavy and my head bobbed with the threading beat, down Pontiac street.  I was rollin' solitare on my way to Parent-Teacher conferences.  For just a moment there's a high of being in the driver's seat.  For a minute, there's the thrill of power and control over my own direction.  But traffic thickens as the road comes to a bottle-neck turn around.  My speed slows as I pass between the  Pair-a-Dice establishment and train coupling station.  I braved my way through the yeild and around a stiff curve, while beastly jalopies aimed for my side doors.  But I'm tough, cool, and I knew it. 
  The turn-about led under an ancient aquaduct, The Pigeon Hotel.  Here, where once the Erie Canal flowed was not a short decaying tunnel.  The aging cement along the walls was crumbling from the weight of the trains overhead.  Dripping water fell from unknown spots, while long rust stains decorated the railed walk-way.  My kids call this the Pigeon Hotel, because as vehicles hustledthrough, pigeons swoope down from the upper rafters, fluttering from one side to the other, leaving a "ticket" for the traveler's windshield.  
  I sat pinched at the Pigeon Hotel as traffic through the aquaduct halted.  So it is, I can't go forward and I can't go back.  I am waiting for my ticket.  I'm not depressed or stressed.  It's just I've gone through quite a turn-about and I know there's another one just through the tunnel.  
  A sigh of patience. . I'll drive again;  picking my friends and picking my life.

    I had just dropped the boys off at the bus stop.  It was a drizzly, grey morning.  The wind was kicking chunks of leaves, and limbs off the trees.  Puddles and piles of leaves filled our street.   Our house at the end of the block, rests on a small hill.  As I pulled in, I saw him sitting there next to the lamp post, just as Mordeci always had, watching.    I felt a weird tug and a tear in my eye.  Everything was dark, except him with his shiny white coat and bright orange spots.  Oh, He is a young snot, a punk, a whipper snapper if I had ever seen one!  
  Dear old Mordeci was our watchman, our guard.  He always sat there in front, watching.  He ran off uninvited rodents (or ate them), and neighborhood dogs.  He followed the kids, and kept me company in the flower beds.  My husband, no lover of cats, often declared, "Mort is the best dog, for being a cat."   Mort is our tearful memory and sobbing thought.  
 By events not of our choosing, Tiberius and his pregnant mother were moved into our garage, as our dearest friend deteriorated.   Months have passed, and the others have gone, but Tiberius has stayed.  Somehow he has become the cat for us.
  What began as an annoyance when we wanted to mourn, has become the happy distraction.  He teases the toddlers, and cuddles the Kate.  He tickles toes and steals potato chips.  He rivals the dog and cleans Mrs. Sweetie Bumkin.  He even helps me pay the bills, by biting the checkbook. 
  While I scratch behind his ears, and tell him to stay off the table . . I can't quite forget my Mort.

Sunday night arrived after a brillant warm fall afternoon.  The sun had labored over the tree tops dying and drying leaves.  While the breeze snatched them off their summer seats and dropped them in showers over cut and cultured lawns, over curved pavements and weeping flower beds.   Children stole fleeting moments of sunshine and warmth on a late October day, their voices filling the sweet autumn air with crackles of laughter and crinkles of screams.
But now,  evening had spread her clear black blanket across the sky.  A damping chill rattled the layers of leaves left, still clinging high above.  I stood in a long pair of grey sweats, barefoot, on the threshold.  I swished out, feeling the coolness against my warm face.   Smokey sweet aromas of leaves burning and turning into dust seduced my senses.  My long pant legs brushed through the colored piles, while my feet tingled with wet, crunchy steps.  It was a most thrilling sensation, of hope and devastation.

  I started reading Tess of The D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.  Ah Thomas Hardy!  A  writer whom I both love and hate.  Without going further into that explanation, I wanted to breifly vent about the feelings this present book has evoked!!  While I am not far into the pages -I wonder if I am the protagonist.  Only I cannot claim the lovely appearance Hardy describes Tess as having.  But certainly her situation at the delicate time in a young girl's life.  Hardy tends to be very severe and insensitive upon women and female characters.  He would be the anti- Jane Austen.  Yet his intent is brutally honest.  Ironically,  this character reminds me so much of myself, it makes me tremble at the remembrance of those early struggles and failures.

Yesterday, I decided that I should make this entry private after reading the part where Tess is raped, so that one would not infer that I was so.  That event was not the reason for my assertion in which I felt like the protagonist.  At eighteen I was without family resources, with only a "public" education to lead me.  Like Tess I came from a family with noble ideals mixed with rural values, that produced a niave, sheltered girl who did not understand the mechanics of society.  Like her, there was no counselor, or defender upon - whom I could rely.  Left to stumble over my own short-sightedness.  So I like, poor Tess fell victum to the Advantageous who soiled my belief in man and morality.  Her time in Trantridge could be comparable to my time in Bloomington.  She returned home as I did.  But yet my childhood home, would never feel the same, as it was for Tess.  I guess it is her isolation from her people and her unfitting station in life that reflects my own feelings so much, making this book very appealing.  I only hope that there is a happy ending! I could really use a happy ending.

Even though it is windy and a great many leaves are blowing past my bay window, my house has not yet blown away with my sons and daughter.  I am sitting here with bright yellow pajamas on instead of sackcloth.  I donned lotion instead of ashes. (thankful)  And to my ever limited knowledge there has not been any heavenly discussion about me.  But every once in awhile, my dear self- righteous pride is brusied and battered by words of admonishment.  Surely, I am overly sensitive because I roll over the words and phrases until a solid lump has formed in my stomach.  Then my little brain in alliance with my pride decides to rebuke the correction with an incredible list of my saintly graces.  My defiant heart stamps it's foot and shakes it's finger, "You don't know me! Only God knows me and He knows that I'm, I'm . . well, just a baby.  And I am often wrong."
My swollen pride wants so rely to on how much I do.  My thoughts are filled with woe over how much I do try to always obey God.  I am indignant that the true attempts and godly endeavors are hardly noticed but my supposed sins are given headlines and angry brows.
Yet, I call myself Christian, daughter and sister.  So I must be without reproach and always of good repute, as the Bible instructs me to be.   Therefore I take the correction with a warm plate of cookies and hot cocoa.  I consider the merit and the error, praying for the knowledge and understanding thereof.  Then, and sometimes reluctantly then, I ask God for the help and strength to overcome.

With four sons, our family's favorite discourse has always been science.  So I start with a proposal to my second son, Jacob, an experiment! 
The Problem:
    The daily bus ride had become unbearable for my sensitive and prideful forth grader.  One girl, from a different elementary, shares the lengthy commute.  This certain girl relentlessly teased and humilated him, with especially cruel remarks.  The bus driver with a bias for this girl, who happened to be the best friend of her daughter turned a blind eye to Jacob's cries.  The bus driver's bias was so great, that the girl could and did make up false accusations in order to force the boys to do as she wanted.  Jacob was at a complete loss, overwhelmed.  His mother, told him:  "To turn the other cheek.",  "Just ignore her.", "Be passive, like Danny."   But Jacob is not passive and the words could not just roll off.   One fateful day, he and his buddy slipped up.  They crossed the line, that should not have been crossed.  They said what should never be said.   And for them the hammer fell.
The Hypothesis:
    If you are nice and kind to a really mean person (your enemy) everyday then your enemy will be your friend. Or if you do like Christ instructed, showing brotherly love to your enemy then your enemies will be your brothers.
The Experiment:
  Every school day for three weeks, find ways to be nice to this girl.  Give her little gifts, give her encouraging and kind words, write notes that express the same.  Always be nice back to regardless of her response.  Do something nice on the way to school, do something kind on the way back.  Look for good things about her.
The Observation:
   After four days noted improvement!  She no longer teases.  But she is quizzical over his motive.  Jacob has had a difficult time making verbal attempts at kindness.  Is trying to write notes and say prayers for her. >>More observations to be made over the next couple of weeks.
The Conclusion:
????

  My hope is for Jacob, who tends to overly dwell on his own pain, can see how showing kindness and brotherly love - even to the most unworthy characters works better than returning revenge and hate.  I want him to understand how amazing God's way is, even when it doesn't make any logical sense to our limited human minds.

     It was a grand scheme! It was a most noble idea!  We love cooking, making stuff.  We both truly love sharing our culinary  successes.  And of course, my girl-friend and I love getting together just to gab.  So we decided to gather our finest and best ingrediants together along with our dearest recipes to bake confectionary delights!  Twisting and wringing our hands as in a sinister manner, we whispered our plans to fill decorated tins with these goodies and give them away.  Ha Ha Ha!
   In the beginning our plot seemed sure of success.  We cracked eggs and creamed butter.  Flour flew and sugar spilled.  We stirred and we measured.  First we made beautiful sugar cookies.  The best ever made in my kitchen.   With that battle won we marched straight into the monster cookies.  "Eighteen cupes of oatmeat!" B____ cried churning her pound of butter and four cups of sugar.  I dumped boxes of oatmeal and sacks of chocolate chips into the bowl.  We slopped the dough into other bowls.  "Whew!" We declared, wiping the sweat from our brow.  "Let's make 'em big." I said brandishing a scoop as if leading a great battle charge.  We eyed the delicious gooey mess, with great pride and hunger.  She formed large mounds neatly on parchment paper, while I brazingly plopped my dough balls on the stick-free stone.  We danced victorious around the kitchen table.
    The timer buzzed, and we both leaned and peered into the oven, ready with our "Ah"s and our "Oo"s.  But our demeanor dropped, something was wrong.  The cookies were burnt at the edge and raw in the middle.  The dough dripped off the sides or smashed into the other cookies.  "Hmm!" we pondered.  We tried again. We tried differently.  But alas, the war was not to be ours!  Each batch came out half burnt, half raw and chewy.   We decided on one last stand.  We scooped the remaining batter into a large cake pan, to make bars.  The dough unexpecting rose and flooded over the sides of the 15*9 dish, falling onto the hot burners below.  Smoke filled the kitchen as fire filled the oven.
   We looked at each other in dismay.   "Maybe this wasn't such a good plan, anyway."

     After standing and bending, going and coming, cooking and cleaning all day  this heavily cushioned chair feel especially comfortable.  My bones have settled in and signed a lease.  It has been a very long, tiresome week.  What started out full of motivation and determination has ended with a "Whew! I'm glad that's over."    But I am thankful, so thankful.  Sometimes, a bump in the road really makes you appreciate smooth pavement.  Tonight, I am thankful to God for all the small things and all the big things.   Thankful for everyday things like water, air and chocolate.  Deeply thankful for God's Holy Spirit, which mercifully smooths my edges.  So that even mountains, are just bumps in the road.

    It was a chilling sub-zero December night.  My twin sister, Mandy and I were ready to go to bed.  Our old iron rod bed was pushed against the outside wall, where the north winds howled.  They rolled and rumbled freely over the fields and woods, fiercely blowing until reaching our little wall.  The great gusts growled and snarled at being kept out by thin, paneled plaster.  We shivered and held each other, giggling just a little with fright.  
    "I don't think I can sleep, I'm so scared!" She said with a truly pretty smile.  Mandy's golden locks tumbled in waves over her white flannel gown.  While my hair was the color of rice and looked like dried weeds.  I still wore my jeans and sweatshirt.  Her big sky-blue eyes danced with excitement.  Bedtime was our imagination play time.  Countless late nights, we laid there pretending.  That poor archaic iron bed had been a raft, a ship, a dance-floor and tonight it was a tower.   "Don't worry, damsel!" I shouted sitting up right, with my arm thrust in the air holding a imaginary sword.   The bed creaked.  "Go to bed girls!" Mom shouted.   We looked at each other with smiles.  I scooted down under the covers.  The room was already cold and small pieces of ice had started to form on the inside wall. "Okay, let's pretend that you are a princess locked away in this tower.  The bed is our tower. You live in a far away land that is full of kittens." I said.  Mandy looked at me listening and ready for the rest of the story.  "And I am . . I am a warrior, that has to protect you.  Once there was this evil King that hated kittens . . "  Mandy had drifted and fallen asleep.  
    I snuggled next to her pulling the covers up to my chin, wishing for a story too.  The wind rattled the window, and cried mournfully.  I closed my eyes and imagined what I would be when I grew up. 

    Every once in a while, especially on cool dark nights like this driving around town I crave a smoke.  On turbulant afternoons when everyone has been imprisoned in the house by outside forces, I crave a cigerette break.  It isn't the nicotine or that smokey flavor I desire.  Before there is any shock or outcry, I well know the adverse affects of smoking and whole heartily shake my fist at the habit.  The smell alone has become offensive to me after many years of being cigarette free.  Yet there is a longing. 
   A longing to slip away from the hustle into a place that is completly mine and I am completly mine.  Where I can take long deep breaths and indulge in solitary thoughts.  Maybe, there's just a small secret desire to rebel against responsibility and expectations.
 I sigh, and tilt the hot green tea with lemon to my mouth.  (no sugar)

    Nuzzled down under a couple layers of covers and deeply lost in the forest of sleep,  I felt a small push and a whispering voice. "It's after six, you better get up."  I wasn't sure of this voice or what it meant, coming from some unknown realm, until I opened my eyes.  In the hazey grey light, there was my husband snuggling back into his pillow away from the red numerals of the clock. "Oh." I sadly realized.  "Why do I have to go? No one else is up." I closed my eyes.  I envisioned myself, in a dream, getting up and making the coffee and doing the usual things.  "Huh?" I said with a jerk.  "Oh, I am not up yet."
   I lumbered down the stairs, starting the coffee.  Chug. I went to the basement, fed the cats and the dog.  Chug Chug. Climbed the stairs. Chugga Chugga Chug.  I shoke the bodies and tickled the feet of two sleeping youths. Chugga Chugga Chugga . . .
I skipped down the stairs, poured the coffee into two mugs and sipped mine.  Chooo Choooo!! "Now there's some steam in my engine."  Took another gulp.  Fixed the man his sweet coal and delivered it.  
   By 8:30 I stood in drive-way dancing the cabbage-patch while buckling the last of five kids into his car seat. Beds made, dishes cleaned, homework signed and laundry done.  Yahoo. 

    There were few places were I felt confident enough to speak up, to shine as a down-trodden teenager.  But when I passed through the door of Mrs. Shermann's accelerated English Lit class, I was my own star, an expert to be sure.  Not only had I read the material weeks ahead, I had read the history, facts, and concepts of the era aournd it.  While I studied much in all areas, toiling my way out of a bleak beginning, Literature was my true love, my candle on a dark night.   
   No matter the day's topic, my voice echoed with excitement all the answers.  I leaned forward in my desk, praying for deep discussion.  My fingers drummed the little pencil well, ready to explain metaphors and meanings.   I knew I had to be obnoxious.  So, I tried to be silent and not say eveything, let others learn too.  But no one raised their hands!  Mrs. Shermann waited.  I waited!  Finally she turned to me, "Okay, Becky." 
   There was one girl who would sometimes answer.  I remember her so clearly, because she irritated me.  But it wasn't her answering that bugged me, it was her catty and competitive attitude.  She seemed determined to beat me.  It was as if she had to score a win over 'Becky Ward,  the poor trashy girl that should not even be in this class.'  There were incidents when she would pull out her assignment, displaying it to me while listing the qualifications of it.  "I typed my assignment!" She would say, glaring at my not-so-neatly handwritten assignment.   "I included 10 references on my work-cited page.  One reference even came from the college library."   After quizzes and tests she demanded to know my grade, and was always indignant when mine was higher.  Once she accused me of cheating, instead of the usual smirk I replied with a laugh.  But there was one specific incident with this girl, that I have often thought about throughout my various studies and years of intellectual discourse.
   It was a dark winter afternoon and it had been overcast for several days, the entire classroom was in a rather dumpy mood.  There was a poem to be discussed.  (I don't even remember what poem now.)  But I sat there waiting, very impatiently for someone to respond with their interpretation.  When this girl, who sat just behind me, upon seeing my anxiousness, piped up the most simple, careless, and lazy interpretation.  I turned around in my seat with a tone that was perhaps arrogant or perhaps harsh, I replied:  "It doesn't mean that.  You've got to be kidding!  It means . . "   With a complete loss of composure she shouted and banged on the desk  "It is a poem! It can mean whatever I want it to mean, and my meaning is just as good as yours!"  Taken back I started to say something when Mrs. Shermann interceded walking over to us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders.  "Yes and no.  A poem can hold a unique meaning for everyone, but there is usually one accepted interpretation."  
"It can mean whatever I want it to mean, and my meaning is just as good as yours!"  That is what has always stuck with me. 
    This concept, this idea about all interpretations being equal is a subject that has been a bit controversial of late, and it dips itself into many areas.  Once in a Calculus class, I jokingly told my Professor that my wrong answer was a poetic interpretation of the problem.  But sadly, he said my answer was still wrong. While I know that in some math problems more than one solution is possible or that occasionally the accepted right answer might be only a good guess, yet theoretically one absolute right answer must exist!   The concept of all is right and  all are viable seems wonderful!  But, after thoughtful consideration the theory proves senseless.
    Today as I was clearing the table, my mind was reflecting on God and the religions of the world.  I was comparing our world-culture with the Bible verses I had just read.  I reasoned that there must simply be one true way, one absolute truth, there can only be one right answer.   Almost every religion claims they are the one way.  Our society tells us that  we are supposed to accept every religion as equal to our own - yet by choosing/believing in our own we have a set a hierarchy of what is best.  Here in lies my crux.   
  After this girl's outburst, I felt a range of bad feelings.  I felt guilty and responsible for offending and hurting  her enough to cause such an outburst.  Yet, I felt injured, for having the right answer and knowing the truth only to be shouted at.   Here I am today, in my great pursuit of the one right spiritual answer, with much study, prayer and effort;  Trying to be silent so as not to offend or hurt because a careless, simple or lazy interpretation is just as good as mine.

    It was after dinner and I had decided on a walk.  The autumn rain had taken a break, and I wanted to breath the freshly watered air.  I was tying my shoes when Danny asked "Can I come?"  My natural response came out of my mouth despite my slight surprise  "Of course!"  Danny was not one who usually liked walks or excercise.  
   The sun had tucked itself over the horizon for the night, with only a faint glow across the tree tops.  Drips and drops occasionally fell along the street.  The street and yard lights had just come on, and the gleam bounced off the puddles and little streams.  My mind had already slipped into it's deep contemplating mode before Danny even started talking.   
  Danny was ready for conversation.  "Okay."  I thought.  We talked first about scientific observation of nature.  He asked my opinion about frogs and trees.  (A subject I give little attention to these days.)  But then he asked me to quiz him about math and exponents.  I smiled, while I do not currently dabble in Math, such things come back quickly.   So we walked in the drizzle making up word problems.  I looked at his dear face, and I noticed that he looked almost like a teenager.  His smile was changing and his eyes held a marked maturity.   Of course, that's how life is;  Little moments maped out along a life's course.   "You're a mathmatical whiz, Mom."  I laughed.  "You're not so bad yourself!" I said, wrapping my arm around his neck. 

   Yes, it has been a couple of days since my sitting and writing.  I sit here now in the darkened family room, with just the dog who is waiting for me to go to bed.  The cold has come on quickly and strong.  It blew in on Monday with such a harsh and pounding wind. 
   Yes and Monday.   Every year, I undertake a particularly hard physical endeavor - especially so for me.  Not to sound a complaint or cry a weakness, but my body has changed somehow.   Now it reacts in a most violent and deadly manner.  But I try, each year following more advice and a better plan.  This year, I put the greatest effort into preparation only to find myself,  the worst ever.  Sadly, I thought the whole picture and purpose was lost over the physcial torment and the toilet.
   Yet, amazingly I found myself humbled and ever so dearly turned with new purpose toward God.  My heart solemn and steady to Him and His plan.  Where of late, I have felt lost and searching, I am drawn back to my center.  I am putting away certain sorrows and pruning weakness.
   Tomorrow, I travel to the Tabernacle.  And though It seems like I am one of the last to leave, I am still joyful at the very prospect of joining my brothers and sisters.  Because ALL of this is a great journey, which will lead us to a Great end.
   So, to you whom I truly hope to see at the end of this journey - I give my love and my prayer.