Wine and the Written Word

This is one of those nights that confirms I made the right decision when I vowed not to make any major changes in the first year of having four children. My hormones are trying to square dance inside of me while my (im)patience tries to scrub the floor. And that fickle thing called hope is nowhere in sight.

I've got a glass of questionably old wine and the idea that I should be writing in my journal instead of typing on my laptop. There is a lot to be said for wine and the written word. Why, if I had the time, I'd sink myself into a bubble bath too. Sounds good in theory, right? But the water gets so cold, and I'm afraid I'll spill the wine or the bath on the paper.

I think I've got a case of the Mondays. And that's ok.

I had a teacher in high school that was incredibly quotable. He was grumpy and opinionated, and he favored students of one sex over the other. I was always up for a fight with him, but I respected him as well. The quote coming back to me tonight: "It won't be long until you want jingle bells; you gotta have jingle bells." It was about depression and coming out of it--somehow finding that thing to save you from yourself.

And so maybe that bath isn't a bad idea. Maybe that stroke of cursive "y" on fine paper with a roller-gel pen is what I need. If I'm really true to myself, I'll do the bare minimum and get to bed. I was up and up and up nursing a baby and smoothing back Lily's hair as her pneumonia cough haunted her slumber. This valley is very likely the result of the fact that I'm very tired and have been for a very long time.

A friend at work who has been feeling oppressed for many months was decidedly hopeful today. I saw her champion smile for the first time in a long time, and it made me smile too. I told her I'd borrow that smile and that hope, if she'd share them with me, and she agreed.

So tonight I borrow. I sip the wine and practice the written word. And tomorrow will be better. Because I'm blessed. And because, no matter the flood, hope floats.