I'm going to call this a placeholder.
Vanished the words from before.
It feels dishonest to take them away since they are part of my process, and I want to share my process.
Whatever it is I'm processing.
Still, I feel protective of the woman who wrote those words. She's a little fragile. I'll give her a break and let her hide out a little longer, until the snow stops, maybe longer.
I met an old friend at Walmart this evening. She's the secretary at St. James, the Episcopal Church where I was once a little too involved. It's been 10 years since I left. Well, I've been sneaking back now and then. Christmas Eve, an occasional Wednesday evening Eucharist (I have to remember to tell Father Rob not to anoint me with the healing oil since it triggers asthma in me).
I'd forgotten how much I liked Jane Ellen. We attended at least two church-related conferences together, got close during the drives there and back, during the free moments between sessions.
This evening, something warm and generous sparked between us during the lovely conversation we had. She clung to her shopping cart full of bagged up groceries; I clutched my bike gel seat cushion I was returning (too small for my stationary bike seat). I was relieved to discover that she still loves me though I left them in 2001.
Our conversation was short, but not as short as it could have been if we hadn't wanted to see each other, to be seen.
talked about Paul
(the writer of the Epistles, not some random Paul we both know, though I suppose we do both know him),
talked about Father Rob,
about the terrible weather,
the church music.
Everything I loved about her flooded back.
The mini-encounter made my month.
I returned the cushion then left for the library. I love our public library even when it's crowded with people who reek of cigarette smoke or unwashed clothes, even when a haggard mother of three can't rein in her 3 year old who must run in circles around the square tables.
I so love books.
I found three books (and a movie), sat and wrote a tiny bit:
Ambrose is like a rudimentary Geoff, unrefined, undefined, purer, more like the demons they were born to be, but innocent.
I don't know if I'll actually read the books I checked out. I've been having trouble with "follow through" when it comes to books, especially non-fiction, and two of them are non-fiction:
The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro and Shock of Gray by Ted C. Fishman.
The fiction is a young adult novel by Kelley Armstrong called The Summoning.
Tasty mental treats.