I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like.
Is that not true of every last thing? We can't say what things really are - we can only say what they feel like. PROFUNDITY.
Last week I was in the car with Dave and I played that one line over and over and over again. (I'm not annoying at all.) And he flipped, but I just said "HON. Take this one sentence and apply it to anything in life. It fits everything - it's just .. our perception of things."
Tangent: When he and I first met, I had my own radio show at the local community radio station. I was called Miss Lady DJ, after the RuPaul song. At 10pm til 12pm every Sunday night, I'd cart all of my CDs in an old fashioned beige 60's makeup case. Even in winter. For free. Apparently, that now gives me carte blanche to chop and change every piece of music in the car, for as long as we both shall live. When we're getting on ok, he doesn't mind ... I just say "Miss Lady DJ" as the codeword - we laugh, it's cute. When things are tense - on a long car trip, or on the way back from my MILs, for example ... I'm not allowed to change the station. But my husband listens to old classics and it kiiiiiillllls meeeee - so sometimes my hand darts out as quick as a flash and I change the station or CD. He hates it - but I prefer his wrath than listening to Heart. Or Hootie and the Blowfish. Or Dionne Warwick.
This weekend has felt like .. awful. I can't tell you what it really was. Only what it feels like. Horrible, then great, bad again, full of despair ... hope, redemption, etc. And that was just the Friday night!
I had fun with my two boys, my guys, my Givers of Peace. I stole their Lifeforces and their fresh energy. I am a thief of love.
We took a walk down to a park we rarely go to, and found this odd bunny that was seemingly constructed out of concrete or plaster. And painted a strange red, reminding me of the opening scene of Carrie. Or the last scene, can't remember.
Plug it up
I took Rocco for piggy back rides all over, he pointed and bossed me around. He is the scariest boss I've ever had.
I read him books for an hour straight, laying next to each other on the floor in the living room. Living. I would finish one and ask him to go get another one. Every time, he looked at me with mock-surprise. "Oh - anodder one?" We read piles of them. After one particularly long interval of him finding a new one, he walked back to me slowly with the look that strikes fear into my heart.
"A big pi-well, mummy."
Eh, I've cleaned up worse.
So there's one thing that Americans do that Australians don't tend to ... put frosting on cookies. GENIUS! I can cook pretty well, if I put my mind to it. We hired out the latest Harry Potter DVD, came home and whipped up a batch of Betty Crocker choc chip cookies. Half-baked, so the middle was gooey. I even bought frosting accoutrement.
And I frosted those cookies, man. There was only four left to frost, after I'd finished eating most of the cookie dough. True.
I still haven't eaten mine yet, because I feel sick from the dough. I'll probably eat it tomorrow.
As I decorated them, I remember all the times my grandmother would bake a sponge cake and just tell me to go to town on its ass. She would look at the finished cakie and just gush with praise. I wasn't used to praise. "Oh Edies .. you are so creative! This looks wonderful, you've done such a great job." I distinctly remember wondering if she really meant it.
I think she might have. Is that ok? Are you allowed to acknowledge and recognize, when you're good at something? I read recently that false modesty is worse than arrogance.
I am a good cake decorator.
I'm ending it there, my brain gets muddled when I try to get too many themes out. I hope your Easter didn't start off as Schmeastery as mine. But I hope you felt the love in your heart like I did.
It's everywhere to be found - Universe leaves it hanging around in piles.