It is Friday. I make myself eggs. I read seven verses from Ephesians and confess I don’t have energy for virtue today. It’s a day for one-line prayers, for washing the dishes absurdly fast, for stumbling downtown where I pick up my friend and point the car to the East Side. We’re alright. She’s alright, I’m alright. The sun is out. The trees are candy-apple red. It’s November, but the sun is out so the windows are down. We stake out two tables and bend over our computers, brows furrowed, our bodies lifting and falling with an occasional sigh. By 2:00 I have had too much sugar and am spending twice as much as planned at Target. I wind my way around town and stop for gas. It has been seven months since graduation. I have ideas piled in my head like socks that need matching. I am stumbling about desperately trying to recognize colors and patterns. Not making much progress. Today, I ate a tuna sandwich, punched out another email for another job, then took a nap. In the back of my head hums a Davidian line, “Your way was through the seas, your path through the great waters; yet your footprints were unseen.” I have never been a fan of deep water. But it seems I have not been given a choice. I wake from my nap at 6:24, stand in the kitchen and count blessings like pennies. There is curry for dinner and wine. My roommate shares her kombucha, my other, her car. I’ll be with friends later. And in the morning, the sun will rise like it always does. I’ll keep making banana bread, keep watering my plants, keep practicing French, keep tweaking my resumé, keep showing up. In time, I think my lungs will grow strong. Maybe I will become content with waiting, and brave enough to walk wherever, if that’s through oceans and rivers, through deserts, through fires.