...Nothing...

I have nothing to say today...so, you can consider this an empty post...("empty" should be figurative, I suppose, since there is "something" filling the post...although that "something" is nonsense...)

I think I have far too much fun with ellipses...I always loved them--three little dots in a row, perfect for drawing off my lisping thoughts...but after I discovered that they have a name--well, what more needs to be said?..Anything with a name is precious...

It turns out that my foreign language skills put the "rude" in rudimentary...(note ellipses)
I've trickled through in school. But I've never stretched myself into a language. And so, I wind up with only a few vocabulary pebbles, and very weak accents...

A case in point...

Young relative: "Kaitlin, say something in Latin!"
Kaitlin (mumbling): "Salve...quid agis..."
Yr (wonderingly): "Soggy squid? That's Latin?"


Many blessings your way...
...Kaitlin...

Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said "I will never leave you nor forsake you."
Hebrews 13:5

Isaiah 40:7-8.

That Sort of Day

It's the sort of day where things arrive in clusters. Group-upon-group of dangling figs ready to plop off of the tree. Butterflies that form capelets and define the word "nectarivorous." (If we had more butterflies working on our dictionaries, maybe the illustrations wouldn't be so...you know...text-detracting in a sad-way.)

Books are clattered across the floor, which is terrible for their spines. So it seems my personal library might need back surgery along with new binding.

Quotes are grouped in my head as well. C.S. Lewis and Tolkien and Napoleon and Socrates (would they get along, incindentally?). But Augustine sums it up here:

"The Holy Scriptures are our letters from home."

Paul's letter to Timothy is singing through my brain and my pen. God is good. And it's so easy to remember that on this sort of day.

...The Worst of Days...

[I'm such a heretic...I've never read a Dickens book to-the-full, and yet I quote the man. Many thanks, Mr. Charles.]

Praise and thanks, I've had more "best days ever" than I can count. (The fact that I am not a numbers person has no weight on how blessed I've been!)

But every now and then you hit a day that strikes discord. Like a long-anticipated reunion with old-and-dear friends--a reunion that is robbed of all charm, because you can't indulge in a nice stretching talk--you've lost your voice and a squawk is all that can be mustered, despite your clearings, harrumphs and tears. (This is a true story.)

Another painful scenario: tumbling that above-lovely slab of watermelon--the one you beg for on an August afternoon--into a scrape of sand and dust--then being forced to abandon the lost hope to ants.

But what I've noticed is that even those really hard-shot-with-misfortune sort of days aren't as biting as I'd would like to think. Note passing is a perfectly acceptable form of communication outside of a classroom, and strawberry ice cream is really quite a nice solace. Some people say that "solving" a bad day requires only a pinch of creativity. [I do not hold to this dogmatically, by the way!]

Now, here's an experiment. How do you solve the following story?

You wake up in the thick of night (actually, at six o' clock in the morning) and rip towards the kitchen. It's nippy out--a perfect day to prepare a perfect preparation of precious hot cocoa (went as far as I could with the alliteration). Then, to break your fast, you reach out and pull an innocent banana.
But as your hand touches the herb, you realize that it is not so benign as first looks would make out. In fact it is quite sinister in a lime green sort of way. A behemoth of a tomato horn worm--one that dwarfs your thumb--is leering at you from its perch--your would-be-piece-of-fruit.
As the information unfolds (after your bloodied scream rouses the household), the Goliath is an escapee--your sister's pet. But it is highly unlikely that you or the worm can ever return to pleasantries like bananas and hot chocolate anymore.

My question to you, dear friends, is how would you solve such a day?

I'm still trying to find out myself.

Anxiously yours,
Kaitlin 

Sunday

It's the kind of Sunday where the church bell is slightly muffled, but still very sweet.
The clang-before-service isn't the only "muffled" thing today. Summer is really, truly here. And in my corner of the copse, we've had so much sun-juice squeezed on us that sleepiness creeps up on a person quite easily.

But, there's nothing like blaring-light to turn thick-yellow mimosas into suncatchers. There's Scripture to dig into. And there's a lovely light-cerulean colored pencil on my desk.

It's a nice sort of Sunday.