I imagined quiet evenings typing away. All those random thoughts that I half-think during the day but never have time to finish would find a home and turn into inspiring words to remember the quickly fleeting season of dirty bottoms, sticky fingers, and sparkly eyes. I would find my heart settled and my inner turmoil and stress from the day washed away. I even imagined a blog follower or two who would recognize the obvious value of such literary meanderings. Imagination is quite a dastardly fellow. He's so friendly and easy that the deceptions he weaves through omission are barely noticed. He glosses over reality while he patents a new and improved version of his infamous rose-colored glasses.
So here I sit, typing on my meager third post, months after beginning this blog. It is quiet tonight. Well, as quiet as can be expected when living on a busy street. The sounds of cars that pass, the drone of the highway to the north, and the hum of the refrigerator seem to add to the calm. And I am typing after all, even if it is more of a babbling than a flowing of purposeful pondering. My thoughts escape me as the day winds down. Where are all those stray thoughts now that they have time to blossom into words that are meant to inspire and fill? Did they get lost in the lists and tasks today? We were moving and doing since six this morning. Dishes being washed, floors swept once, twice, and then again. Appointments kept, babysitters paid, spills wiped, children chased, meals made. Sure, there are still a multitude of to-do's that have not gotten done, some of them former residents of past days' lists. The sheer number is reminiscent of Exodus' Children of Israel. But alas, they will remain undone until tomorrow breaks and I will pretend, with the help of Mr. Imagination, that I still have some modicum of control in this housewife life. And that this calm and quiet are not only temporary visitors.
One day I'll sit on the porch of my farmhouse and look out past the flower garden, the veggie patch, and the chicken coop to the treed fields beyond. I'll swing slowly on the porch swing and sip some of My Love's home brewed sweet tea. I'll casually type an inspiring verse or two on my award-winning blog and life will be blessed. That is, if Mr. Imagination ever gets those rose colored glasses adjusted just right....
