Chickadees are well groomed birds. They flit around, busy hanging onto the side of trees, or underneath branches, getting into all sorts of piles on the ground. But in the mornings and evenings they line up at the bird bath for their regular washing. They take a few sips of water then jump in, dunking their head under and splash with their little wings, then splash with their tail. First they shake their front, then their rear, staying a while before flying off to a nearby branch to preen for a bit. When one bird leaves, another flies in, the steady line continuing for an hour or so in the mornings and evenings.

Meanwhile, ravens are flying over the house from the hills to the south and back, a steady, if not regular, line. I think they are juveniles sneaking past established territories to get a drink from the lake. They have that look about them, that look of frivolous adventure with a note of caution. The mated pairs who own the woods over which these juveniles fly are quick to re-establish priority.

I spent the morning editing, finding myself lost in my own story. The images returned with even more force, as I sharpen the description rather than create a new world. It is like writing about a scene outside. What I note, and how I phrase things are the tasks. It’s in my imagination, now I have to convey the movie I see in my head.

The only worry is the promotion of all of this. An answer seemed to spark, only I’m not sure of the spark now, sure neither of the direction of the wind or even the duration of the flame. Thoughts of Egypt pass through my head, something my reading of Isaiah 30 last night encouraged even more. That I read by candlelight certainly encouraged the mysticism of the moment, but I still think it relevant.

There is a crucial point in which one decides for uncertain integrity or certain frustration. I could be sure of what I do, and sharpen my own skills trusting in the vagaries of a hidden path, or I could take what seems to be the broader road, though with still uncertain results, merely because it seems more assured. The latter means a loss, maybe a great loss for myself, and maybe, if the Spirit is working, in what I can offer to others.

I stand at the walls and look out not knowing whether Egypt is my ally in reality or my foe in disguise. That is the question. So, I pray for wisdom. And I stand at the walls, not yet turning down an offer nor leaping into the arms of a suspected salvation. I wait.

I ask for wisdom, for while there is the passages as represented by Isaiah 30, there is also, I know, the very interesting tale of Pharoah Neco.

May God give me the light I seek.