March 24, 2013

“‘Comfort, comfort my people,’ says your God. ‘Speak tenderly to them….'” Isaiah 40:1

Comfort comes, like the poet’s fog sometimes, on little cat feet. It’s gentle, sometimes small and soft, and chords are struck inside of us that feel right and good. Often we don’t know that we need it; we weren’t searching for it. It just finds us. And that is a lovely thing.

In State of Wonder, Ann Patchett writes:

…Marina remembered a funeral her father had taken her to as a child, thousands of lights in paper cups
floating down the Ganges, the people crowded onto the banks, walking into the water, cutting through the night air filled with incense and smoke. She could smell the rot of the water beneath the blanket of flowers. At the time the spectacle had frightened her so badly she buried her face in her father’s shirt and kept it there for the rest of the night, but now she was grateful for the little she had seen. It didn’t explain what was spread out before her but it reminded her of all the things she didn’t understand… (p. 186)


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Location, Location, Location.

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