I have a paper due tomorrow (hence me here blogging...) about the modern church. I'm writing it about the increasing value of individualism as seen in the denomination growth and in the appeal to the rational mind (the person in the pew becomes the judge not the judged.)
All the other things going on seem too personal or not personal enough for a blog. My job, my marriage, my family, my songwriting or lack thereof.
I've been relishing the wet warm windy November days. The leaves are bright and heavy on the paths. The sky is murky and full of winter. I am making a serious winter survival kit for myself which so far includes a bright cheery soy citrus candle and some beautiful teal and red stationary. I would like to add to my kit an antique desk, a properly warm but bright lamp, a small but friendly house plant, a small rug or pillow or afghan and some kind of... colorful organization method (a cork board? some pretty files? something.) Christmas ideas, Samm, hint, hint.
The idea is that on dark and dreadful snowy days I can burrow into my cozy desk area and write letters to friends, that book about sexuality i've been meaning to write, hopefully compose some new songs, and... oh, pay bills and be organized.
Pretty smart, right? I always have such great plans.
In the meanwhile, I also intend to survive winter by baking something scrumptious at least once a week. Make a bake date because otherwise I wind up doing other things instead and there have just not been enough muffins/banana breads/home made pizzas in my house of late.
I have felt a bit, small worlded. My friend used the word "babied" as a verb, as in, she had been babied (made pregnant). I thought it was hilarious and telling. I have been babied (past tense!) My world is so full of tiny wonder, pudgy fingers, little tufts of hair just starting to curl, a bobbing head that twists around to make sure I'm noticing... so much light. But sometimes, I forget what life was like before. What traveling and roadtrips and spontaneous dates and big dreams felt like. But is that the baby's fault? Or is that OUR fault for growing up?
Can I ungrow up?
