On children and the past.

I ran across this photo as I was trying to do a little straightening in my study. There it sat, atop a box atop another box, under my table, a stray little rectangle. Two of my children, my oldest and youngest sons, taking a nap after church.

I remember when they were both younger, the oldest being such a kind older brother to the younger. Their closeness in this picture reminds me of that. That couch was a nap magnet, and the youngest boy, long and skinny but still small, could easily lay across the back cushions and fall asleep.

I had them. I had them as infants and for the years they were children and then young men.  And now, they are grown, and belong to themselves.

A friend and I were talking recently about having children. Her little boy is just a year and a half. The years when they were small I have only in memory, which is flickering and incomplete. I am grateful for those little bits of the past, honestly. It's never over, either, but there are moments that are over, so I'm grateful for the surfacing of a photograph, which can remind me of long Sunday afternoons when I was thinking about what to make for dinner, when they fell into sleep and I could see them at rest, with their own dreams and with each other.

Pictures, mostly of art.

So: home. This entailed getting up at 4:30 a.m. and venturing forth, showerless and inadequately rested (this goes without saying), still with the sick, ready to go home but unready for the journey.

Glad to be here. We got to see a baby blessing this afternoon, the historian's son's tiny daughter. Then we had cake, and then we came home. There are boys in my basement playing Super Smash Brothers, and why not? It's a night of games.

I confess that I felt good for almost nothing but downloading my pictures and uploading them to Flickr. They are pictures I took yesterday, when Dr. Write and I had a quick but sensational tour of three museums and a tapas restaurant, along with a quick smash & grab at an H&M. It was great.

This is not a good genre, the photograph of art, but I kind of can't help myself. Also, I love the light in museums. There was one room (you'll know it when you get there--) where whoever lit the place was a genius, maybe as much of a genius as the sculptor whose work was displayed there.

Anyway, consider yourself warned. Here are my photographs, of art:

Photographic evidence.

Some of what we saw:



Wyoming--Big Horn Canyon and Medicine Wheel

Messages from another universe.

Running Son sent some pictures today.

"An Indian family treated us to some delicious chicken curry . . . you eat with your hands and it is served on a giant leaf."

"Me chilling at a member's bookstore."

"Me and my companion got lost in the jungle for 2 1/2 hours.  We also got very dirty."