Some days this delicate gift is treasured beyond words, beyond comprehension and the saying, "It is well, with my soul," can only be whispered.
Fewer are the days of blackness and clouds now. Fear, the pits of disappointment. The groaning of bones that ache, the frustration of memory and lack of words. When the thoughts get muddled and the voice is weary. When the body is just tired. And the mind, it can't keep up.
The fingers remain nimble, eager again at their intended tasks. Winding yarns and strings of color. Feeling the fleece glide through fingertips with the ease of twists and revolutions.
The puff of white, the breath of softness. All work together to create.
I feel clouds sometimes, when I spin. Clouds of pure white snow. Not the kind that makes you wet and cold, but the snow that is clean, refreshing and innocent.
As intertwined as two strands of white snow and blizzard winds, lives can be made stronger.
As soft as the strong yarn is, it remains pliable and full of movement.
The hands of time reached back again to me, this past week, and pulled me center again.
Focusing on our lives, on our purposes in this strange, foreign and sometimes confusing place.
I remember why we need each other. Why we are created not alone, and singly, but together with life helpers.
We were not meant to take the burdens alone, to shoulder the hardships because we might forget the taste and feel of HOPE.
Reminders, ever subtle as they may be, are good. They are refreshing, they are sometimes thirsted after.
I am thankful of those reminders this morning.
I am thankful for the journey.