The complicity of the human heart
I have a few minutes left before the end of my workday, so I'm going to sit here, look occupied, and type out today's random thoughts. I promise that I'm over my depravity from yesterday; it would take a while to explain why in the world I posted what I did, but suffice it to say, it was just one of those things that, once you heard about it, is hard to get off your mind.
There are storm clouds blowing in. My favorite weather. Growing up in Arkansas, I learned the passage of time by the passage of storms. In good, wet years, there would be one a week, rolling in with the sound of thunder and the vague promise of tornadoes. (Which were, sometimes, realized—my parents' house went through a tornado and came out unscathed, except that the cap to our chimney had been neatly taken off and thrown into the yard. Eerie.)I'm saving this repeatedly, quickly, between sentences—the thunder is growing loud enough outside that I can hear it through my headphones (which are currently playing Underworld's "Cups"). Our lights have gone out once—not a big deal because, as an ISP, our computers are on generators.
Not sure what I'll do when I get home. More straightening and tidying and cleaning, I suppose? Bake the galette I didn't get to make last night? Jeff and I got started watching Emma (the version with Gwyneth Paltrow) and thus I didn't get the baking done that I wanted. Oh, well—nothing was hurt by it waiting a night. A load of laundry wouldn't hurt, and maybe I could get those boxes in the guest bedroom flattened.
There's a certain comfort in the rhythm of daily routine. Too much of it can be lulling and exasperating, but just a bit of it every now and then leads to comfort.
I attended Pam's baby shower today—she is copiously pregnant. There's just no other word for it. She's not due until the first of August, but there's no way she's going to make it that long. Since (perhaps "especially since") I'm not planning on having children of my own, I'm curiously fascinated by watching my friends and co-workers go through the arduous process of pregnancy, birth, and the raising of children. There's something about a pregnant woman that is ungainly and unwieldy, but at the same time incredibly beautiful and full of promise. There's a certain magic about the process that I can almost, but not quite, grasp—the beauty of the creation of life. This is where everything begins—every life, no matter how complex, starts with something as simple as this.
While we were there, Tina announced that she's pregnant as well. It leaves me content to hear that people like her (and husband James) are having kids. So often we hear about people who so obviously shouldn't be reproducing, that we forget to rejoice when decent, caring people decide to have children. These are good people. Their first child, Kevin, is a cute red-haired kiddo with a winning smile. Here's hoping their second child is equally blessed.
Other news—my mother wrote me to tell me that one of my childhood friends is getting a divorce. She and I grew up together; Amy Q. and Amy M., always referring to each other as "the OTHER Amy." She and I were both 'latter children,' born late to parents a bit older than the norm. She had her older brothers Anthony and Matt; I had my sister Sonya. The three of them played in high school band together; even now my memories of Anthony are of him playing drums. He was in the military, and was killed in a freak car crash in Italy in late 1999. The death hit me harder than I could explain—I hadn't seen him in years—but for some reason it epitomized to me the fact that my childhood was really and truly something of the past.
Amy and her husband had had their first child—a daughter—sometime last year. I've never seen her. I've heard her name is Eliza, but I don't know for sure. I planned on re-establishing contact with Amy after I learned of Anthony's death, but I could never quite make myself pick up the phone and call. Too many years, too many differences; where does one start again when the paths the two of you have taken are so different? She is one of those people that I'll always care about, and wonder how she is doing…but perhaps those questions are better left unanswered.
I often marvel at the complicity of the human heart; always adding new people to care about, and almost never taking them away. The names we write in our hearts are one of the very few things we truly own.