It wasn’t hidden. I just hadn’t needed it yet.

I suppose that’s the way with living. We don’t know we have the tools until we desperately need to use them. 

Until recently, I haven’t used the desk that we inherited from Dominique’s mother. It holds up the picture of my grandfather. Displays some books, but I never really sat at it and worked. But I started writing the daily blog here. And the more time I spent, the more I wanted to use it. It’s more of a vanity really. My morning crossed legs don’t fit under it, so I sit at an angle. My top knee hitting what I thought was a panel. I dropped my apple pen on the floor. No place to put it. Bending over to pick it up, my hand hit against the front panel, and it moved. I gave a little pull on the handle-less wood, and out came a drawer. I put my pen inside. How silly you might think, to not know, and yet…

I have to smile, because it’s usually in this position, bent over, perhaps on my knees, that I find the hidden drawers of my heart. The places where I store what’s needed to get through. The extra courage. The extra will. Always another collection of love. I have accessed it again and again, and it always provides. 

I learn it frequently, as I clumsily bang my knees on the journey. But eventually, I find my way — bruised and joyful.