Before Baby

Millie turned on the Elizabeth Mitchell Pandora station as we cleaned up after supper.   I kept sweeping while the girls ran to prepare for bed, and a few minutes later, Rufus Wainwright's voice filled the room, singing "Hallelujah," a Leonard Cohen song that first slammed into my center in high school through the conduit of Jeff Buckley's voice.

 I swept and sang along, remembering reading about Buckley's death in the newspaper my senior year of high school and not knowing what else to do but to clip out the short article and tape it in my journal, a small and token nod to the power of his singing.  I swept and remembered a coffee house where college friends pushed me to sing the same song for them, and I faltered in front of the microphone, feeling exposed and unable to perform in public what I sang with abandon alone because I held it too close.  I swept and remembered, also in college, sitting in silence with John while hearing Tim Buckley's voice for the first time, entranced by its keening rise and wail, and being struck by father in son and son in father.  So many memories scattering about in dust raised from a broom, and all in the space of a few minutes.  Music is a powerful thing.

Finished sweeping, I just came to the computer to see on what album the Rufus Wainwright cover version was, wondering how it made its way onto the children's station, only to find that it was from the "Shrek" soundtrack.  What a strange world.

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The children are in bed, John's at a late meeting, and I'm staying up to see him, so here's a flood of snapshots for you.  Not shown are all the snapshots filed inside-- the moments of short temper and harsh words, of ungratefulness, of inexcusable crankiness, of sloth and bad priorities, of letting feeling overwhelmed grow into apathy and indifference, of sin and selfishness and stiff pride.  Also not shown are the thrill of first throwing open the windows, the life of fresh breezes in a home, the peace of waking to birdsong and cool morning air, just crisp enough to ease one awake, the endearing twist of a child's mouth puckered for bedtime kisses, perfection in its lines, and-- there-- shining in the corners of sight, the mercy and forgiveness that run through the length of each day like a twisted thread, slim and golden-- the one, small thread strong enough to hold all the rest of it together.