Random

We’re reading Harry Potter. That is, the boys and I. Little bit doesn’t seem to have taken much of an interest, though she’ll listen occasionally.

As I’ve written before, I wanted to screen the content and what better way to read it together. We started last summer and we’re just about to wrap up, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince.

A couple of nights ago, there is this scene between Dumbledore (the headmaster) and Harry about his eventual fight to the death that will have to occur with Voldemort (the super evil bad guy, if there’s anyone out there who is more behind than us on reading these books).

Harry’s fighting and fighting, basically taking this bleak outlook that he HAS to go into this fight-to-the-death match and what a horrible burden this is for a kid, against Dumbledore who is taking the position that he is CHOOSING to take Voldemort on. Because Harry knows how to love and Voldemort doesn’t and that is the most powerful thing. Harry has the choice to make, regardless of what others have said about this penultimate battle, and it is his choice to take on this most dangerous of challenges.

Something clicks.

He gets it.

He gets that it is his choice and he wants to take it because he wants to end the evil and avenge his parents death.

I realize this is a lot of Harry Potter in one post, but it’s all to get you to this quote which I’ve now sat with four 48 hours:

It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew – and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents – that there was all the difference in the world. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, JK Rowling.

What if, I changed my perspective on the challenge in front of me?

What if, instead of feeling sorry for myself for being dragged into the ring, I squared my shoulders and felt a surge of pride that I was chosen (or chose) to fight this most important battle?

Sit with that.

Or better yet, stand with that.

There is a reason it is you inside that ring.

There is a reason that only you can fight this particular battle.

So head up, warrior. Shoulders back. Let’s walk into the arena ready to take this on.

I am sick.

I woke up at 3 am and proceeded to lose every remaining ounce of fluid in my body over the next three hours. About every five minutes.

I don’t remember the last time I felt so steam-rollered.

So I took work calls from home on the sofa under a blanket shivering and trying to sip water.

I slept when I wasn’t working.

And now that the family is eating dinner, I’m going to bed.

I’m writing, but not much. More tomorrow.

It is Sunday.

The 16th of February.

We are in Louisiana with fields and cattle and tractors moving hay bales.

The sun came out, apropos on Sun-day. A nice change from the gray gloom that sat on the land yesterday.

I did very little. I ran an errand into town and baked and set out appetizers and s’more fixins at dusk around the fire.

The dog smells and is in his element. Barking at everything with a motor or on four legs.

The kids caught crawfish and set out bait traps and fed the cows out of the back of the pick up while I cringed because I just knew they’d fall out. City girl, they’d mutter.

The sky changed colors and everyone told stories until it was black out. Between the s’mores and the cheeses, we barely had an appetite left for dinner so we just grilled salmon (this time not setting anything on fire) and called it done.

I am writing about the small and remembering how gorgeous these small spaces and moments are.