I bought these with good intention. See, I just knew I'd finally get around to making Spring/Easter cupcakes because JC and I cannot eat a whole coconut cake on our own, and Alex's mom hinted that my extra treats adds pounds to his little boy physique, so there's no giving them half cakes any more. Cupcakes are different though, right? No matter. Easter is tomorrow and for the first time ever, we're planning to have brunch at The Black Walnut, or the lovely little place with "broken" and "egg" in its name. That's how tired I am. I want my thyroid gland back! It has to be healthy though. I'm weary of being tired. It's been two weeks of naps and sit-downs in the middle of doings. I even tire in the middle of chewing.
Less energy means less mail. I've managed to eke out a letter a day if I count the two-three-more I write in a 24 hour period. JC's mowing the backyard now, so I sneaked in to write a letter to accompany some of the photos I recently took. Too tired to push a pen across paper, I chose to write a post instead. A post is like an open letter. Plus, I get to sit wile I gaze at the activity going on in the backyard. The sun wanes by slow degrees. I'm writing to beat the dusk. If I wrote more and sighed less . . . If I did, I'd stop and gaze more. And so it goes.
There's plenty to share with you. I bought the March issue of "The Simple Things" in April. The magazine's cover always makes me feel hopeful. The type on the cover forever reminds me to take time to live well. The magazine, "Mindful" reinforces the nudge to do just that. Goodness knows I need it after reading 'zines like "The Nation." Most days I cannot bear to watch the news. Reading news is better. I at least get to choose what I read. Television news broadcasters seem bent on frightening their viewers with dire warnings and threats of coming events, and what could happen. What's new about wars, disease, crime . . .? Writing a letter is better.
No, my middle name isn't Pollyanna. But letters are a lot like manna. Imagined manna, seeing as how I've never eaten or seen the stuff. My literal imaging of manna is one of doughnut size balls of bread filled with good stuff in the center. If I'd been lucky enough to have gotten some way back then, I would have written Moses a thank-you note. In it, I would have asked him to thank g _d for feeding us. If I get some tomorrow I'll thank God myself. Only this time the manna will be invisible. No letter necessary. Remember, this is my imagined manna.
Perhaps you've seen the man in a wig, glasses, and a swath of fabric that hangs below his soft looking paunch. He stands on a bar of a wooden cross near a highway to honor the crucified Christ. I stared for a quick moment when he explained why he was hanging to the woman interviewing him. I wished he'd hushed. Hearing the "Jesus" speak with such a comical accent shattered my . . . I laughed. Hard. Laughter hung in my throat. It hurt. It was all too sad. If I could, I'd write the faux Jesus a letter too. In it I'd ask why he chose to re-enact the worst time of his savior's human experience. I'd ask why he couldn't have celebrated the best part of his life . . . the resurrection instead. I'd ask would Jesus have spoken. No. I'd ask, "What would Jesus say? Would he have said anything at all?"
The sun has sunk below the rooftops to the west, and I am still keying away. Mostly I'm thinking. I think I should have done a simple mail show-n-share, or a show-n-tell. I'm the recipient of some lovely mail. Still and all . . . there's this. A show-n-tell of its own. "The Simple Things" offered this nod to us. It's not much, there's nothing new, but it pays homage to me and you--the penpals--penfriends of this world.
Write with all your might. Write on.
Dusk has fallen.