I’m here in my own bed after spending the weekend away, hungry to return to the ordinary.

A symphony welcomes the day. The orchestra: a hummingbird buzzing at the feeder outside the open door; the distant sound from the valley of Monday morning start-up; the soft percussion of my husband’s sleeping breath.

If we’re not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?

Gregory Orr


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.
1 comment
  1. Your post echoes the strains of chamber music we heard on Sunday: strings and piano, percussive.

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