i intended to write about writing bucket lists.  i’ve always been enamored by the bucket lists, big long plans for a full & rapturous life.  but the baby is sleeping, which means i have 35 minutes at best, & i’m frying pancakes with only white flour (which i hate) because i ran out of spelt & forgot to buy more when i went to the co-op last time.  probably because i had the 4-year-old & the baby & only myself who really can’t put together a cohesive grocery list right now.  & speaking of the four-year-old, he’s asking me repeatedly when we’re going to the bike races, which are today, in an hour, & now my pancakes are burning.

which is why i can’t write about bucket lists, or how intimidating they are, or how really instead i wholeheartedly believe in making a whole heapload of time in your every day for the magic of memories & goodness to flow.  because it will.  because He promised.

but now the baby will wake up in 30 minutes & i haven’t even gotten the kids to make birthday & father’s day cards for andy, both of which large & fabulous events coincide tomorrow for my smart husband.

so instead, i’ll tell you that right now, while andy has taken over the pancake flipping for his crazy wife pecking at the computer when we’re trying to get going, & the baby will sleep for 27 more minutes, this here life is raining buckets of goodness from the Creator of all things good & holy.  i am lambasted in overwhelm sometimes, i am buried in laundry & dishes always, & if you talk to me on the phone, you will know my head is never quite on.  ever.

this, on a necklace, sits over my sink, my meditative, hot, soapy, basin:

may you live all the days of your life.  –j. swift.

i have 22 minutes left.  i better go.

2 thoughts on “buckets.

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