“Then let light be,” I said, “a process, a movement of brightness through whatever it passes through.”
-Sena Jeter Naslund
Ahab’s Wife 1999 Perennial Press
This day, Friday, in Italy right now where the bells just rang the fifteen of nine and you are likely still asleep, unless you are one of my German readers or you live in Cornwall, England, in which case this post arrives with your mid-morning tea break, or at a café filled with women in day dresses and fine shoes, tanned not because it is chic, but because they live in a town on the beach and to reach the market one has to walk, thus the tan, and I am turning towards home.
This is our final day of this month-long time away and I have not written much here on Laundry Line Divine for a bunch of reasons, mostly having to do with swimming and my sisters and dear friends and hours of boules or walking. This has been a time of looking up and out at the horizon, sunrises and sets, clouds moving like alligators swallowing the edge of the earth that just ever so slightly tips into the mouth of the beast of time, devouring our hours. And now, sunflower-like, I turn towards home. Toward that light.
I have not come to any great conclusions on this trip, but I have asked a lot of questions. I have not decided on the exact next steps for myself here on Laundry Line Divine, or my personal life, but I do know plums and my kids will feature prominently. I have not woken up to flashes of insight, but I have studied the shape of the faces of the people I love and seen light rise from within them.
What I do know is that brightness has passed through me, leaving marks on lives and on paper, on paths and in to fruit tarts and collages, postcards and the exchange of large beautiful paper monies for round, ripe cheeses. Light as an exchange, as brightness moving through, from one to the other and on again.
I desire so much. I dream wildly. And I wake up to each new day knowing this is the adventure that has been made for me, whether it includes hours of writing or chopping onions for risotto, whether there will be hands held on hills lined with heavy pink bougainvillea or threading needles with thick thread that will pierce paper that becomes a book.
A book that becomes the place where what is inside the maker finds roost outside the maker and in this making of a place, a sacred refuge, change happens, reflection becomes new thought and again, this brightness.
So, send prayers for safe travel. I treasure these pages, the bright white spaces where my inner meets yours and we are some form of brightness all together. May your early September days be filled with light, and the morning that meets your dreams be easy and slow.
All my love,