...and how I love your handwriting, that running shadow of your voice.~Vladimir Nabokov (From Letters To Vera)

There's a corner in my living room where I like to sit. While there, I can see out my east-facing window. A stand of trees is a backdrop for the sky. This morning I'm in my chair before dawn and I am restless. My mind races with the list of things I've assigned myself for the day. I don't feel like doing any of the tasks. I ask myself why I am restless. I realize that I often put myself under critical scrutiny. You must be productive, always about getting things done. You actually should have done more for______. The blank space is heavy with guilt for loved ones and people in need I could do more for, love better. I realize, too, that I am restless because I feel lonely. Bored even. Checking off lists and following a pathway of "shoulds" is backbreaking, my self-effort unreliable. There's always one more thing that can be done. Always one more chore that calls. But flurries of activity often lead me to procrastinate. I just can't do it all, I lament. No. I can't.

I rise from my chair to heat my cold cup of coffee in the microwave. While I wait for the coffee to warm, I open a drawer to get out my notepad. I spy an old grocery list my husband wrote weeks ago, maybe months ago. The items on the list don't change much. I note the rounded letters, the little slashes he places at the top of his "ones," the marks in the middle of his "sevens," some items written in Italian, others in English. Seeing his script makes me glad. It's almost like he's walked in the room seeing that familiar script, that running shadow of his voice. 

I return to my chair and look out the window. I gasp. The sun is rising, the trees like sentinels standing at attention, guarding the sky in all its brilliance. I know it won't last long, so I go and stand on my porch and feast on that sky spread all over my life. There's yellow gold light that sits closest to the trees, then layered above that slice of light are multiple shades of rose and coral, violet and silver. Lavender and gray brushstrokes complete the palette. I think of the multiple sunrises I've witnessed throughout my life. I believe they are akin to handwriting. Perhaps God's handwriting. They are familiar, but never commonplace. Just like my husband's handwriting. Even a grocery list on a piece of scrap paper is not ordinary, not common, because it's a sliver of him, someone I know and love, the writing assuaging my restlessness on a new day. The sky calms me. Makes me glad. Offers me hope. Not so lonely anymore, that running shadow of His voice.