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I’ll wait for you, but not in the usual way. I don’t even know who you are, so I have a lot to sift through before I find you, and know it’s you. I’m going to a church right now that I’m calling my home. I’m happy here, living with my family. Life is pretty good right now. Spring is unfurling, and summer is ahead. Next summer I’ll go on my Celtic trip. Within the year I plan to publish my first book. I’m still throwing around ideas for my novel. That one’s slower in the coming.

I’m calling you a ‘fantome’ after one of my favorite French Canadian tunes. It’s mysterious as the unseen wind, playing the fiddle strings as it would an Aeolian harp. I learned French Canadian footwork from the master of that fiddle. Ever separate mind from soul? Your mind taps out the rhythm on the floorboards. And your soul plays the instrument in your hands.

Ah well. You may not know fiddle. Or any music, for that matter. My own fiddle has lain dormant for a very long time. Several months, I think. My music has always belonged to me, and God. I’d send tunes out like water to flood Edens, all chaotic and beautiful and haunting. “You that fiddler?” they’d ask, sometimes. Yes. I shrug. I’m not that good, I just like messing around.

I’m writing. Obviously. I should be getting ready for church. I’m an expert in hasty scrambles to get ready to go. Afterwards I’ll turn from gorgeous to gardener. I’ll go from turning heads to turning soil. And then perhaps onto a walk. I’m preparing for our backpack trip to Crater Lake this summer. There are all sorts of beautiful flowers in my garden, though they’re still hiding. They’ve got a lot of resting time to do before late summer comes. They are pure white. Some are forest beauties, like me. I hid them beneath a driftwood shelter held together by twine. They need shade to grow.

From one fantome to another… I hope to meet you when the Spirit is ready. Let Him make music of us.

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