Do you have any idioms or inside jokes that only your significant other or family members would understand?
The Chaplain and I have developed a few. NIEE (pronounced NEE!), short for Nothing Is Ever Easy. It was coined after we became homeowners and found ourselves at the home improvement store several times a week for months on end.
Our other stand-by, besides Randy-Jacksonisms, is “Jah will provide.”
I started several times to write about Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church, by Rachel Held Evans. I believe it belongs in its own post, even though I’ve already mentioned it in several other posts in passing.
But while I kept starting the post, I couldn’t get past the first few lines.
This weekend I’m going to a mindful mending retreat. Between spasms of social anxiety, I’m looking forward to it.
Really, mindful mending is something I’ve been doing all summer.
At first, my stitches were really uneven. I stabbed myself with my needle regularly. My sewing is still nothing like the perfect stretches of straight, even stitches that you’ll see if you search online for sashiko stitching, but it has also noticeably improved since I started.
I’ve been struggling with writer’s block lately. I’ve only been posting about sewing and reading because those things are easy to write about. How did I make this thing? I can tell you. What did I think of this book? I’ll let you know.
The other things on my mind are much harder to articulate.
Sunday passed with news of the two newest mass shootings, one of which appeared to racially motivated. (I say appeared because I have not gone back down the rabbit hole of news articles related to the shootings since I read two initial NPR articles).
I felt like I couldn’t just post as usual the next day, but what could I say or do? I wanted to load my kids in our truck and drive down to Washington, D.C. I wanted us sit as close to the White House lawn as they would let us and remain in silent protest until someone DID something.
There are a lot of stories white people tell themselves to feel better about race.
Stories like, my ancestors were Quakers and abolitionists, the unspoken conclusion being, so we weren’t/aren’t part of the problem. Or, I live in New York State, and our part of the country wasn’t complicit in the slavery of the South. Sometimes something happens that pulls the pants down on your story and exposes it as fiction.
Enter The Comet’s Tale.
