WHAT I CAN'T GIVE . . .

I hate to be so vague, but for now, it's enough, even for me ... to reference back to my last post: the burden is still there, and there's still nothing I can do about it. I can't fix it, I can't make it go away, I can't talk about it, I can't give advice or a pill or money or anything like that.

But I can give rest in all of its forms: a hug, a quiet space, room to think and breathe, air-conditioning on a sweltering day, a firm bed to catch undisturbed sleep, a cup of sludgy coffee, a table at which to eat a slow and satisfying meal, a spot in the sun for catnaps, a short spoken prayer to represent all the long unspoken ones, a trove of funny and frivolous stories to rest and entertain the mind.

And when rest is given, I, too, can rest.

***

BOOKWORM . . .

I'm reading like a fiend lately. Something about lying on a blanket in the warm sun, the bleating of newborn lambs in the background and a light iced coffee leaning against my arm, turns me into a voracious reader.

It dosn't bode well, though, for the sunburn on the backs of my legs.