when all other lights go out

Then, as he stood, darkness about him and a blackness of despair and anger in his heart, it seemed to him that he saw a light: a light in his mind, almost unbearably bright at first, as a sun-ray to the eyes of one long hidden in a windowless pit. Then the light became colour: green, gold, silver, white.

Far off, as in a little picture drawn by elven-fingers, he saw the Lady Galadriel standing on the grass in Lórien, and gifts were in her hands. And you, Ring-bearer, he heard her say, remote but clear, for you I have prepared this.

"Master, master!" cried Sam, and life and urgency came back into his voice. "The Lady’s gift! The star-glass!"

"The star-glass?" muttered Frodo, as one answering out of sleep, hardly comprehending. "Why yes! Why had I forgotten it? A light when all other lights go out! And now indeed light alone can help us."

* * * * *

Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. ~ John 8:12

It was dark. It was the middle of the night. As occasionally happens, I was awakened to a half-consciousness by things that had been on my mind. They floated in and out of my awareness while I half-prayed, half-slept, or half-tried-to-sleep. I was worrying about people I love so much it hurts. It's hard to know whether or not things become more clear in this semi-dreamlike state, or if they become more muddled and exaggerated. Tossing and turning, I leaned over to check the time. Early morning. Not too much more time for sleep but some, if only I could manage it.

And then these two passages came to my mind, and though, as with Frodo, there is still a difficult road ahead, they offered hope, and I finally fell asleep.

a true story ~ or, why we continue to rent

Once upon a time there was a house. It was for sale. It had been for sale for a very long time because it had been trashed by renters and their dogs. But the house had good bones and lots of potential, despite the fact the someone had tried to squeeze a large jetted tub into the normal-but-smallish pretending-to-be master bathroom, perhaps thinking that jets in the tub would somehow over compensate for the fact there there was very little room to use the toilet. They were wrong, but whatever. The bathtub could be removed.

The house went up for short sale. And an offer was made. And then the house, victim of those bundled mortgages that got shipped out of state and off to Georgia, went to auction, despite the offer. And then a Private Investigator, yes, a P.I. , was hired to track down the guy who actually owned the house and when he was finally found he knew nothing about the offer. There had been an offer on his house for three months and his real estate agent had told him absolutely nothing about it, because, it seems, she was incompetent. Which is all too bad, because it was his credit rating on the the line.

But alas, bureaucracy made sure that there was no way to stop the house from going into foreclosure, and then the mortgage was sold to the infamous Fannie Mae, who was subsequently rescued by the government. The house was then white-washed to give the impression that it had been fixed up. But the overly-large tub was still hogging all the space in the upstairs bath, and the cosmetic problems were still there, they were just white now. And some of the closet doors had been- wait for it- painted closed by the brilliant handy men who had, ahem, "repaired the house."

And then the government finally listed the house at an optimistic 90 thousand dollars {yes, ninety- not nine} more than the original offer. This is what worries me about the bailout and the good ol' U S of A buying up bad mortgages.

Because, I'm sorry, but white paint can only do so much.

picture this

A light pink floral skirt.
A dark pink dotted-stripe shirt. The dots are multi-colored.
Navy blue "soccer socks" (meaning, they go up to the knee).
Brown Mary Jane shoes.

Before I could get my camera the door bell rang and she was out the door, backpack on, ponytail swinging back and forth.

Sometimes I have to bite my tongue to let this Force of Personality and her unfettered creativeness head out on it's own without my advice and discretion. And then I remember that the world will take care of that far too soon as it is.

And that this would be a better place if we all felt comfortable in floral prints with navy blue knee socks. Figuratively speaking.