"So make the most of this: your little day, your little month, your little half-a-year."

Today is Thursday.

Halfway through the day, it finally registered: I am a week into April. April 2009. 

Where was I a year ago? 

Finishing up a semester wrought with idiocy, sprinkled with cleansing, and climaxing in a production of Redemption. Clueless and determined, I was about to enter into Love's tumultuous dance of possibilities, about to begin a journey without a map:

on a road sometimes paved clear for ease of tread, 

sometimes dug in the dirt so wagon wheels wobble on the occasional rock, 

sometimes cut through the grass of a green meadow where the blades whisper on thighs and sight stretches for miles, 

sometimes wading through waves as the tide rushes in,

sometimes hiking directly up the face of a cliff with no glimpse of the zenith,

sometimes standing breathless on that summit: in awe of the worlds spread at our feet.

Empty-handed I enter today, unsure of what comes next: a plunge to walk on the ocean floor? Wading in the shallow end of a pool? Treading on air? Quicksand?

So many of these options imply drowning, the suffocating fear of uncertainty and clueless twitching of the feet. Which way now?

He says that every story is either about a journey, or about a stranger coming to town. I am that Stranger journeying through a multitude of destinations: the Pilgrim without a Pilgrimage. "Lord, have..."

Mercy? I wonder.

Grace? 

Patience?

A sense of Humor?

A Purpose for me?

A Purpose. 

Lord, have mercy and in that mercy: Purpose. On me, a

Dreamer

Hoper

Dancer

Singer

Breather

Wisher

Thinker

Planner

Mourner

Worrier

Seer

Namer

Sinner.

Lord, have a purpose for this Weaver.

This Lonely Creature.