Belmont, North Carolina 4.9.91: Sun Spots and Dogwood Berries

Steve successfully defended his dissertation yesterday. I’ve noticed since he has been away that, fittingly, one of Mr. Bickham’s rose cuttings on which we had given up has sprouted: new life out of the old.

As I sit on the back porch, the glass thingamabob that causes the wind chimes to work swings and catches the sun, throwing sun spots on the rail of the porch. For awhile, I couldn’t figure out where the light originated—my glasses? Now I know, as much as anyone knows about where the light comes from, because one source leads to another, and then . . . .

Down in the foliage of the sloping dell beneath the porch, a spot of sun pickes out one sole dogwood berry at the tip of a branch, a crimson jewel in a green setting, like some promise that the darkness contains fiery lights, hidden riches.

And I think about receptivity, the need to meet each person I meet as one capable of revealing hidden depths. I’m not good at this, and I become less so as I struggle with the panic that always wants to choke me, and drives me to frenzied work.

I believe so little in moralizing, anymore. What’s left? Grace, I reckon.