Wing-healing

The dishwasher is churning and the dryer is tumbling, such welcome sounds because I had the desire to perform simple chores. My legs are more reliable underneath and I can almost feel the synapses in my brain shooting around like a pinball machine. I walk from room to room mouthing thanksgiving for it is quite miraculous to walk within healing today.

Johnny and I rolled out of bed, pulled on T-shirts and shoes and drove across Houston to the farmers' market, picking up a smoothie for breakfast along the way. Part of the journey included one of our favorite stretches of concrete: Westheimer Parkway running through the beautiful George Bush (#41) Park. It's a soothing drive, a long stretch of green foliage and grass, ducks, deer-crossing signs, and even a bustling dog park. But today, all was still. We've received over-abundant rain lately, yesterday in particular when I was feeling blue, cooped up in our lovely home. The intermittent downpours were just too dim and gray for my heart. I was elated to be out in the world today and though the park was flooded, we enjoyed nature. The fields were saturated to the brim creating the illusion of midget-trees and long mirror-top tables on either side of the road. I spotted majestic Great Egrets, standing calmly in newly-created lakes. Johnny informed me that his favorite water bird is the Great Blue Heron and we saw those pretty fowl, too, but apparently they preferred to remain adjacent to the water today. We also felt like quite the birdwatchers since I (a nerd) recently purchased a laminated, fold-out local bird guide. The sightseeing instilled hope in my weary muscles, a small glimpse of how Noah must have felt when he first stepped on dry land surrounded by standing water here and there. He was more cooped up than I, escaped a much more catastrophic tragedy, and it must have been something of wonder to place his sandals on dusty clay or a patch of grass. To feel open air swirling and breathing.

Of course I always love the farmers' market, but today I was extra thankful for the excursion. Wendy Reed - the "honey lady" - was cheerful as always, asking where I'd been. I picked up more local honey as I've been eating a lot of it during my illness: on toast, in yogurt, in tea, or by the spoonful. Very healing food. We also snagged milk since granola in that milk sounds amazing to my appetite. And beautiful figs and blueberries - I am super excited about the figs which are also tasty drizzled with honey. Then we stopped by Whole Foods real quick for a few staples and headed back home.

Johnny darted off to teach drum lessons. I rinsed dishes, separated the recycling, took my medicine, gave the cats fresh water, started the dishwasher, and put a load of whites into the washer. I watched the cats, further marveling their unique personalities. Some say cats are cats, but I watch Harley and Milo with fascination, seeing God's creativity - each creature is different. Harley is docile, timid, and funny in a subtle fashion. Milo is manic, bold, and more up-front with his humor. Yet both show affection at regular time slots during each day; when they are ready. Milo is so much like a child that I have to believe he was given to us as some kind of Baby 101. His latest adorable feat is to gently walk into the bedroom every morning, purr as he tiptoes on the sheets, and at the first sign of either Johnny or myself stirring, he begins to romp around our heads and toes with a random, crumpled receipt until we sit up. As for Harley, we beamed like proud parents yesterday as he sized up the height of the fireplace mantel from where he sat on the bamboo floor. He reared back a few times, looked at us, and kept peering. Finally, he took the jump and didn't quite make it, but we pet him with slobbering pride because he is so cautious. I kind of relate to Harley at times so I admired his courage.

After cat-watching, I wiped the kitchen counters and looked at blue glass on the windowsill. I thanked God again for healing. The doctor said my weakness will heal gradually, not instantly, and my throat is irritated at the moment. But I have cough drops. I'm standing upright. I'm walking without Johnny's arm. Most of all, I'm able to find beauty in the mundane chores of our home once again. Not to mention, I'm actually sincere to say if I could go back and prevent the hives and ensuing Benadryl-problems, I would not change how any event occurred. The reason being that the ill-fated week has pulled me back to my beloved blue prayer book (from England) and well-worn maroon Bible, pages offering the best words I've read all week, and that's saying something because I have excellent reading material scattered all over the house. I learned (again) how to converse with God, tell Him I was scared witless, and admit when I failed to believe He had ears. I've felt His love and hovering. Several pages in the Bible mention finding protection under His wings. My brain, thirsty for poetry, has always tried to understand that image. I started to get it this week. Sometimes you find those wings in the dark - deeper than a black hue or plunge of depression, seeping into your thoughts and heartbeat. His wings span from wall to wall or land to sky - whether your foot steps in a puddle or on dry land.