These pictures keep pestering to be seen. I have been shushing them, Wait, wait, I've almost got it.
But I don't. I don't know what their story is, their arc, their secret.
Woven between the shadows and sunlight are visitations and travels, foibles, discoveries, recollections, reconnections, buildings up and takings down.
(Like this: The girls rode and I drove for hours and hours to see college friends (this is the song Kate and Therese danced to, and I haven't heard it in twenty years, and how funny that the comments are about time travel). Therese said something to me that my ears are still smiling to hear; the car had a dead battery when goodbyes were kissed and buckles buckled and it worked out just great; and I drove down the lane to camp talking to my sister about what we alone, we together, had experienced one year ago that day. And I didn't take a single picture while I was there.)
And unseen are the internal wanderings, down rabbit holes and worm holes and black holes, through brambles and briars, tangles and trials. To be honest, I think there has been deep work going on, and I think perceptible and significant shifts are taking place. For one, I am realizing that the anxiety I feel about (fill in the blank) might have less to do with me and (the blank) than it does with the anxiety. Even the possibility releases weight from weighty things -- parenting, marriage, homeschool, money, church, art.
And it helps that Mom has been visiting some.
Elderberry, cosmos, basswood. She put a book in our pile at the library and sat on the porch swing with us as we read it. A garden down the hill, tidy enough, and giving me tomatoes to can, green beans to freeze, and enough red cabbage for weeks and weeks of egg rolls. Unexpected, a scarlet tanager in the parking lot at church after a full week of work. Even the children saw her at Dunkin Donuts last night, and I trust she'll find the note in the Rhine.