it is raining this morning. the slow, soaking rain of what’s left of spring. my husband is on his way to a funeral – his cousin’s in west virginia. i’ve been up since a quarter to four grieving other things outside my control.
these past few days have been so full of real life that it has felt as though the story has been squeezed out. (in the midst of chaos, there is rarely creating). but this morning, looking out the window at the vivid green of early morning rain, i muse. perhaps the story is only germinating, waiting beneath the ground until the outer casing of death falls away. perhaps, like easter, the seed of story will burst through afterall, leaving me ripe with wonder. perhaps.