On Promises

Promises are made to be broken. Right now I'm promising a promise to myself that I won't be able to keep: 350 words a day. Whether its a letter, a blog, a journal entry, or a prayer I will write it. So 350 words on something meaningful, or maybe something pointless. Yesterday I came home from lunch after church and my mother had made me a nook in my room. She's been promising me a painted, glorious room for years now, but life has been changing so quickly that it hasn't happened. Yesterday I came home and there was my long dreamt of armchair, a rearranged beautiful corner of my life. Its lovely and perfect and spacious and I almost cried. Its strange the things that speak to my soul the most. Funny, I couldn't write "touch me most." I wonder why. I suppose because being touched in the physical sense is either good or bad. When it is used in the spiritual sense it is always assumed to be good. In reality if a stranger pokes my head, I probably turn around and slap them. Silly, but true! However, if a close friend gives me a bear hug, I hug back. That is good, no slapping necessary. (By the way, I just learned how to spell necessary this weekend.) Words trip me up a lot, if you hadn't noticed, and I habitually use contractions and commas. I wish I had something more beautiful to say, but life is crude right now, and I suppose it produces crudity in me. Crudity: yet another reason to proofread, a habit that I should have that I hate. Moments pass, time for things that won't remain suspended as this blog will.