batches

I haven't had a cup of chai in a while. I haven't read Austen or Kerouac for a long time. I haven't rhymed with L'engle. I haven't fallen asleep to Chopin or Gershwin in quite a few months and I haven't even thought about Les Miserables and how miserable I am at not ever seeing it on Broadway.

I'm not bemoaning my packed away spiral bound journals and I haven't missed most of my CD's. I missed a few of my books the other day, but that'll do, Lore, that'll do. I know I own a Kitchen Aid mixer, my very own, in red and white, but I've forgotten that it's mine and it's doubtful I'll use it soon. I know I have a few framed photographs and I know there is a nice wool sweater buried in the bottom of a chest.

Here's what I regret: All these years I've been looking at the things I loved so much, the things which make up my ingredients and make the batch a tasty one, and thought that those things were the things that made life sweet. But I was wrong. And I'm sad that it's not until now that I know that.

So I'm learning, again, about giving up and giving in. Not because He does it better than me, or because I'm tired of always messing up, but because life begins where death begins.

There's so much more to die for, I've barely just begun.