There is evidence everywhere.
There is a fire circle on our front porch, and I have no desire to move it. I first noticed it on Sunday. All three of my kids now aspire to be counselors at the camp we went to earlier this month, and apparently they are honing their skills. And remembering, I’m sure. The lake and the cross and most of the people are missing, but we clearly brought a lot home with us.
There are papers and schedules on the dining room table, and three backpacks full of new supplies waiting close by. School starts tomorrow, and it’s not homeschool, and there is so much to be ready for. For all of us.
There is a small scar on the inside of my right wrist. It will probably fade away completely, but right now it is a reminder that I jumped off a wooden platform on a rope swing and went out over a lake and let go, and while I’ve done that before (years ago) this time I hesitated very little.
There is stuff all over my desk. Schedules, and notes from friends that I want to respond to, and plans for a birthday party, and two or three projects I’m working on, and a mug that belonged to my grandma, and a green beaded necklace that one of my daughters left behind. All my efforts to order and live my life, along with bits of the things and people I love.
I would so much rather have a book that is scuffed and dog-eared and marked-in, sheet music that got rumpled because I played it with a friend, a house scattered with toys and projects, a body with the scars of three cesareans, one-on-top-of-the-other, than anything that is pristine or tidy becaue it is un-used.
I love the evidence, if only for what it points to.
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