We are such stuff--but not of dreams

All sorts of corny things I could write about: God, I love theatre. Cool summer evenings. Talk. Friendship. Being authentic, like it or not. New bugs. Breaking the mold. Avocados, eggs, bare feet, dancing, singing, gratitude. Being young, being older, being out there, being quiet.

Self-conscious subjective bloggery. Or a quiet celebration.

Some days seem extra sweet. The air is clear, liquid, lapping, like cool water against bare skin. It smells of herbs, dusty, dry, tangy, and everything truthful, even what is painful, is seasoned with juniper and basil. Gifts given are reflected back, and others' joy becomes my wisdom, their choices, my peace.

My friend Pat and I had a discussion tonight about scattering our husband's ashes, about what we supposed we could make it mean and about the gritty practical reality that makes this a hard task to accomplish with dignity. You wait till just the right time, when you need to remember the person, or forget the person, move on or look back. In the week after scattering Lon's ashes, I was haunted by his presence, what he would have thought, what he would have said, though he had not thought or said those things for years. How could a bag of grit, emptied under a tree, bring him back into my imagination that way? How could it not?

Even things without substance are something.