When someone listens

Sometimes i don't write anything here because what i want to say belongs in my journal, away from sentient eyes. For example, i've been feeling rather snarky and ungracious lately. There's enough of that out in the world; it can be relegated to paper with less harm. Kie, i wish i could take back some of the things i said this week and even more of what i thought.

Sometimes i don't write anything because i've been too preoccupied, too rushed, and too busy to notice the little graces that God has hidden around me. This week, though, i saw golden big-leaf maple leaves glowing against a dying ash tree, fresh bobcat tracks and scat, an ancient oak tree born within two hundred years of Jesus, two hawks wheeling over a hill in Pomona, and red, festive toyon berries wherever i look: the world is beautiful.

And sometimes i don't write anything because someone has been my journal and listened to everything i had to say. Now i don't need to say it anymore.