Gosh, I love humanity. Gobsmacked I am by the hope that nestles into the tiny of our days. Those movements small & simple. Done for no other reason than to be unnoticed by the eyes & perhaps even the hands. Yet, inhaled so tremendously by the heart. Those are the moments that allow nostalgia a space there in Webster's big bound pages.
Life is crinkled. It has worry wounds & owns wrinkles from time lost just as much best kept. It heeds a writhing motion within us. Catapulting us into movement. Pressing us for more. Reminding us of less.
And honesty? Well, it can frustrate me. It can ground me, too. For in truth, I catch myself longing for more. In my profession. In my dream catching & hopefuls. The writhing within moves me to wish. To hope ecstatically for good, growing things. For upward and for success.
And Humanity knows. She coddles my wishes with such care. Folding them into her crinkled, Humanity inhales into me the wistful of now and of moments not misused. Webster's pages turn in me.
Back in September, I surprised the boys with a day of school at the lake. I had everything packed and upon their time to rise, we shuffled ourselves out. Why? Because my heart needed to inhale what my hands had not yet the notion to feel. We skipped rocks and ran. I listened to their conversations as they worked. I read aloud our chapter book as they played around me.
They collected. Trinkets of joy. Signs of stillness & movement just the same. Their nature gatherings reminded me of the very still and swiftness that moves within us all. Humanity is our changing seasons. The textures and colors are our very crinkled. Yes, the very reason why ole man Webster calls nostalgia his own there in his big bound pages.
Though my eyes may not know now what they are seeing. And my hands not quite certain of what's there nestled inside my fingerprinted grasp.
The humanity of me feels it like it was just yesterday crinkle-tucked there in the center of my heart's next breath. Mr. Webster, thank you for your pages.