Respite

What can I tell you today? I could tell you about a visit with my sweet friend in April and my time reading in a hammock while a Monarch butterfly flitted in and out of the azaleas. I could tell you of the sound of the rooster who crowed all the day long, reminding me of our chicken-keeping days long past. I could tell you about weekend trip to Maryland and the baby on the train who giggled uproariously when I played peek-a-boo with her. I could tell you about one of my dearest high school friends who never ceases to make me feel loved and appreciated. I could tell you about the cows in the field next to our Airbnb, or the brook that burbled by. Bliss.

Or I could tell you about the Doors Open Lowell program that I attended in May where several historic buildings in the city were opened up to the public. I saw some really cool stuff: the water tunnels under a bank, the mosaics at the Greek Orthodox Church, the stunning Tiffany windows at St. Anne’s, the artists’ studios above the Arts League of Lowell gallery, and the bell tower and choir loft at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. That bell tower had the narrowest stairs I think I’ve ever been on and I’ve climbed a lot of tower stairs in my time. What was coolest though, was being able to see a bell-ringer play the bells. It’s a visceral thing to feel the vibrations of the bells and the physicality of pushing the levers to ring the bells. The Gingerbread Man said it reminded him of the apprentice from the Hall of Sound in The Splintered Light. Sweet.

Or I could tell you about taking a gondola to the top of a mountain in Banff, with the sun rays breaking through the clouds, spotlighting areas below us. I could tell you about the delicate snow flitting through the air that made me feel as if I should have a soundtrack to go with what I was experiencing. Who am I to see such things—to experience God’s handiwork all around? It’s humbling and also joy-making.

I could tell you about my work: the waiting game of a manuscript on submission and the sudden onset of registrations for the genesis retreat, leaving us almost at capacity. Or I could tell you about the research I’ve been doing for some of the workshops, which has me absolutely twitterpated. I’m so tantalized by this research that I’m considering making it official and pursuing a Ph.D.

Or I could tell you about how life is bursting out all over around here—strawberries, irises, rhododendron, rose campion, roses, false bleeding heart, and tadpoles.

Yes, I think I’ll tell you about that.

A very fertile frog—or perhaps a whole army of them—laid a profuse number of eggs in the water atop our pool cover.

And they hatched.

All eight gazillion of them.

Thus, Operation Pollywog was born. Or should I say hatched?

I turned to Facebook Marketplace and posted the following listing:

“Educators and parents of young children: When God said be fruitful and multiply, I didn’t think that meant a proliferation of tadpoles on the pool cover. Please prevent the next plague of frogs in Lowell by adopting several. Or dozens. Maybe hundreds? Science project to swamp.”

Dear reader, the public came in droves, which gave me faith in humanity. I spent hours netting hundreds of them to find new homes in empty koi ponds, backyard streams, science classrooms, and homeschool tanks. And yet, I still have the little guys swimming around with their tiny legs developing as we hem and haw about getting the pool pump motor rebuilt before we open the pool.

If you hear of a frog take-over in Lowell, you’ll know why. Also, I think that’s the only army parade that I could tolerate right now. Hm. That’s a thought. Maybe I’ll raise up an army of frogs. It worked once before for an oppressed people.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with one last photo. I got to hear a concert given by one of the organists for the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square last week on this amazing organ. More respite.

Go find some respite, my friends.

Sending hugs,

Ginger