I've been able to listen--to myself, to God, to the poems hiding in each moment. And that's hard to do when you're driving to work at seven and driving home at five, each hour already planned out. I like the freedom of setting my own schedule, saying, "You know, I think I'll dabble in watercolor today." It wouldn't be healthy to live like this for very long, of course, but I'll take it while I can get it.
* * *
It's chilly in the apartment and it looks deceivingly cold outside, with the grey and the shadows under every leaf. I'm tempted, in the dark of this room, to wish secretly for autumn--for Irish sweaters and chunky glasses and hair in a fat bun, taking long walks to coffee shops on cool mornings. I'm tempted to wish for apple cider in my crock pot and Trevor in a beanie and the magic that falls with the leaves. But I stop myself because this day was once longed for, too--bare feet and ice cream and midnight swims under a full moon. Parks, porches, and a certain spontaneity unique to the summertime.
* * *
This is the first slight shift of seasons I've had since moving here, and I guess that's natural--we've been here three months, a whole season (hard as that is to believe.) The first months were this: adjustment, new faces, falling in love with every neighborhood and street corner, rearranging furniture, making friends over Mexican food and our favorite stories to embellish, panicking about and getting settled into jobs.
And now we're happily settled and this is where we live. I'm obviously back to square one as far as jobs are concerned, but I don't have that panicky, what-is-my-life feeling. Everything was go go go the first months, breathless and exhilirating. And now God has so mercifully given me a moment to pause and reflect on all he's done for us here. A time to rest my racing thoughts and prepare myself (or rather, let him prepare me) for whatever is next.