Sometimes late at night the ordinary is extraordinary

There are hills behind my house. In the dark you wouldn’t know they were there, except that high up above one of the villages there is a large white illuminated cross, only it looks small from down here, bright and floating like the moon. Last Saturday night, eyes drawn to the cross as usual, I noticed that there were lights, and must have been people, up there. Who knows what they were celebrating, but fireworks began to blossom over the cross, tiny bursts of sparks from this distance. I watched one of the fireworks exploding in beautiful white sparkles, falling, and still falling, past the cross, past where the sky ended, tumbling down the hillside as if falling in impossible space.

It was beautiful.

This has been a week of emotional conversations with dear people here and far, of progress but not enough of it at work, of Hollywood movies and Mexican pop, of Mexican tacos and American cookies, of every kind of weather, of honesty and confusion, of doing too much and being too tired.

This weekend I'm ready to be smiling, ready for things to work out OK, ready to dance all night and ready for tranquility. I'm hoping for sweetness.