no reason.

I just liked this. It seems to fit here.

Don't ask questions.

Just accept it. As wonderful.

I promise I'll write something significant soon.

But right now I'm too busy reflecting.

lunch.

My feet are dusty, but if I slip off my sandals I can barely see patches of clean skin shining like little stars hidden under the straps. I’m sitting on the backs of my legs, my heels pressed hard on the stained tiles under my weight. There’s a bag of water above my head in the hallway with a penny floating in it. It catches the light and looks like a little copper sun. It doesn’t seem to be doing its job though. A housefly has made it past the bag and lands on my hand. I stare at it for a second before blowing in its direction, sending it away from my sandwich. It’s too hot to move. Blowing on that fly to save my sandwich was almost too much effort. I’m not even hungry.

So I lean back a little and watch the kids make their lunches. They shuffle beside the tables lined with food. Starting with paper plates, adding white bread, jelly, peanut butter. Forgetting napkins. They skip right over the carrots and apples. They take two bags of chips. They’re chastised. They put one back. There’s a holdup at the end of the assembly line, where a picky junior high kid is determined to find the last chocolate chip granola bar.

A bit of sweat rolls into my eye and I get a whiff of my own peanut butter and jelly creation as I wipe my face. I want a shower. Or a nap. I don’t have time for both, and I’m sure shower would win out. But it’s still too hot to move. So I watch the girls pick at their nails and watch the boys throw bottle caps at each other. I watch dirt on my legs become a muddy smudge. I listen to bits of conversations and relish the few minutes that I have to myself. The fly has made it back into the hallway and found its place on my sandwich. I watch its wings spread and close. It rubs its little legs together, preparing to feast. I ignore it. Leaving my lunch on the floor I slip on my sandals again and open the blue gate leading back out to the dust. What does God require of me? To walk humbly, love mercy and do justice. I wonder if feeding that fly counts. I wonder if that is enough.

3 o'clock

There’s a quote that’s often attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald, whom I admire for continually producing such profound literature in the midst of self-destructing.

“In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.”

It’s like I’m on the edge of daybreak all the time. It’s that stillness that is like another person, lurking, when you awake in the middle of the night. And you lay there, in bed, waiting for it to finish you off, too terrifed to move.

And it’s hard to express this sort of thing. How do you do it without sounding melodramatic? Without trivializing things? Without being the one who cries "Wolf?" So I sit and write it all out. I’ve neglected my journal for so long I’m almost embarrassed to admit not being able to find it. But instead of process, I’d rather just sit and be in this place.

Not quite dawn all the time.

Of course, there’s always the noted difference between “happiness” and “joy.” And I wonder when it was that I lost both. And for how long I’ll continue to analyze my steps and watch myself move through the day with not much grace.

Day after day.