It was the hobo story.
Reaching deep into my own grandmother’s history of being a safe place for hobos that traveled by their house. Cold water slapping me awake to how far we have come from being open to strangers and sharing our food. Ice cubes is more like it…
Then tears. They sneak back up now as I read Wells and feel seen by her. By you. Tenderness somehow all about me. And not.
Somehow this counts for something; for the people we tell to keep on moving. I’m not sure how but it does. I have to believe that it does somehow or we all are lost.
And we are not.
The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others into our hearts?-Rebecca Wells
Sometimes it is hard – facing the limits of what we can do or offer to loved ones in their time of sorrow, struggle, grief.
It sometimes helps me to remember that when God knit me together, God designed me with natural limits of what is mine to experience and do, and to live within these 24 hours.
As does the shopping frenzy,
the depressive possibilities of
there is the star
on the night’s horizon.
That promising star
rising higher and higher,
It is darkest before the dawn,
when it gets dark enough
you can see the stars,
says Charles A. Beard.
And so we go,
heading to the edge of the unknown.
Pastel Love © twatt 2008
if not most,
Arrows Aim © twyatt 2014
What a difference a day can make.
Hot tea and milk - a warm blanket for my soul.