"I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here." --Charles Lamb, "New Year's Eve"
What keeps us from establishing our tabernacles where we are? Do we fear permanence because it can soon dissolve? Or do we disregard things that seem permanent because we realize that nothing around us will remain as it is? As I finished laundry today I wondered what I would do if I knew death awaited me tomorrow: clean the house, spend the day with Wesley, make his favorite dinner, and try not to think about how lonely any state would be without him and little burgeoning Char Cole. Extremely pleasant thoughts for the new year, I know, but there is a sense of comfort in not knowing the exact time of our mortal departure; the uncertainty and inevitability allow me peace and joy in each breath. A new flickering flame and a fading one may be the same size, but one greets the world eagerly while the other caves into itself and casts more shadows than light.
I wonder about Char Cole banging around in me, still unfelt, his little heartbeat pattering a double-timed rhythm against my own pumping melody. Already, his presence adds a glistening perspective to my own. I cherished life before pregnancy, but now it seems so much more miraculous and delicate--like pollen covered wings: you never really know where they have been, but you recognize the power and potentiality of them. You want to touch the fluttering transparencies--but will they be able to function if handled?
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