Days come, days pass. We move on. Life is that carrousel that never stops, isn't it? And thus, another Thanksgiving is to be treasured in the pages of our memories. This morning we said our goodbyes to those sweet dear ones of my life who were staying with us this past week and saw them part. My heart is picking up the remnants of what is left in me—the usual ambivalent emotions; this blend of mixed feelings and combination of warmth and connection to these past happy days of togetherness as well as a tinge of loss. And it is something like the empty nest syndrome in my heart, life longings, and intense, bittersweet, inspiring, and sometimes unfulfilled emotions. And the little white cottage sits back and watch me as I go from here to there trying to collect my life back. And it feels clean, and empty in the bittersweet, quieted atmosphere in which it basks. Everything is back to its normal estate of cleanliness and order, and the solitude my soul requires has set in.
Everything is back in its customary place, and we have cleared off a place in the garage under the windows to place all those flower pots and plants that need winterizing, because days are getting chilly to the bones, and all my sweaters, scarves and boots have been brought out too. The geranium pots will be adorning our dining room/sun room for the winter and I'm already loving the pop of red brightening up my wintry mornings. Life is so fragile. My heart is fragile, but I try to hide this really well, and pretend it is not. The Fisherman and I have some leftover turkey for lunch again today, and it was good and comforting and I'm going to believe that it is all well with my soul... I'm putting up the Christmas tree this afternoon, and tomorrow will be the nets and lights on the holly hedge and front porch.
I am thankful for so much, thankful for every moment and every loved one in my life. I want to write about the power of love, because I want to be okay with failing to love, to really and deeply love in that deepness of holiness where selfishness is shattered in self-sacrifice. I write about joy because I'm frightened by sorrow and I want to talk about faith because I fight with every inch of my soul to keep mine alive and I don't know exactly why I'm telling you all these things, and perhaps I shouldn't, and you should not have to care, or understand me or even offer a thought... and oh well... yes, it is well, it is well with my soul.