underfoot...

The crunching is deafening.  Tiptoe doesn't help much despite my practice at this particular dance.  But always underfoot they lay, taunting my big laborious steps that insist on forward movement.  They are loudest, it seems anyway,  when I most need to be quiet and they set my stomach churning as my breath catches in my throat.   Those pesky triggers seem more to me, landmines, than eggshells.

Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.6

Unconditioned summer escape

No longer night but 'good morning' would be the welcome. In the warm attic room apart from the summer makeshift sleeping arrangements, I sit and sweat and breathe the real and raw outside air. The noise of the cars acts as small annoyance for sacrifice in the escape of the reconditioned cool of downstairs where sane mortals sleep and eat and dwell. My attic morning breeze escape. Mine and the dog's. Dollar the stuffed animal lap dog who looks out the window or sits guard on the floor with the yoga mat bed and ergonomic pillow. The pillow doesn't suit him. We sit in the early and late hours while the house sleeps. We write words of wisdom to help lead others in their purpose and we write our rantings here, where formality no longer exists. Hair uncombed, pizza crusts to the right and a beanbag prop behind my back defines who I can be in my attic morning breeze escape. Dollar can always be himself. It's why I like him so much. The breeze will subside, the sun will beat and the shades will be drawn to create my morning interval of rest, with Dollar remaining vigilant by my side. But the rain falls today to our joy and the breeze persists for a little while longer. We'll sit and listen and close our eyes to focus on the breeze crossing the room and reaching our awaiting, contented faces. It's to be a wonderful day in the attic.

Moments of waste; Value eternal.

While walking through the days with Time on my heels, tapping my shoulder now and again, my thoughts consistently loom over the optimism of death. It's so often been my hope, the promise of 'now' not being my future, but 'then'.

Difficult my cage that binds me far beneath my shelter.
The Curse, knowledge seeing infinite within finality.
Left disappointed, God looks down on me;

"Gifts of love beyond the finite?
Purpose no immortal soul could bear?
Graciousless you curse the skin I've wrapped you in!"

As angels look on my life with envy, I stumble to find my role in a chaotic realm.
A perfect life lies waiting for me to pick it up; not beyond the veil but within the imperfection in which I'm cast.
An immortal soul tainted with mortality, is me.
A haggard weed given the chance to bloom and flourish in a barren land.
Being fed Almighty wisdom and watered with the promise of value, I repent and gorge on His sustenance.
Shortsightedness had blinded me again.
Is forever how long it will take me to learn His love?

The life of my pens.

They trip me. Purposefully I think, so I put them back in the container under the bed. There they can be still. And I reach for a stick of gum, only to pull out a pen. I reach for the keys and the pen falls out instead. One rolls off the Bible on the bedstand. Another, refusing to give up it's home on the floor, rolls around feet for weeks. They taunt me. I haven't used them in months. We haven't spent time together since the days when they were all I had left. We had a shared purpose in those days of suffering and loss. My soul clung to it's owner and we held on together; together with the pens.

I think they've gotten lonely. I can almost hear them whining for attention. Lonely pens of a writer. Is there anything more sad? And ironically they hold so much more potential for purpose now that they are not all that reside in my purse, glove compartment, side car door panel, back jeans pocket. They comingle with a paycheck. They sit beside jingling car keys. The bed that has the blanket and a pillow; they get lost in the covers when I intend to spend time with them but fall asleep instead. No wonder they whine! They have so many praises to express! Blessings to proclaim!

Ohhhh! Okay, guys! I get it. Gone are the days of writing from suffering. The days of praise are here!

What would a writer do without her pens?

I wait for the sun to turn his back and I try to find meaning in today. What monumental achievements have been accomplished through me on this Thursday during this April? Scrabble? Not much depth there. I just heated up some pizza! Yummy, but not exactly life changing. I've saved no lives, inspired no great actions or contributed to any significant causes in the course of today. I did convey the miracles of my week to my Scrabble partner; my Christian sister. I smiled at my teen when he asked me for some late night snacks. I put a few seconds aside to stop my husband from his work so I could kiss him. Long term effects? Life changing moments? Not likely. We're sane though, in insane times. My friends and family know my love for them. God's presence is so alive in my life I find myself gushing about how He catches me to the church pianist as we're placing letter tiles.

My life is challenging. Not 9-5 challenge or the fear of adultery challenge or even the crippling temptations challenge. Just my trials that weigh on my soul alone. That of course being the most difficult part to bear. But then He taps me on the shoulder and reminds me of the boys in the living room- the boys I can't imagine life without. And He draws my attention to the 20 pound tiger cat sprawled out on my side of the bed and I can't help but giggle.
I giggle a lot. I'm known for my uncontrollable laughter.
I suppose that reflection of my soul is the most accurate.

walking alone

...so as the day turns into night, I sit down to write. The pressure behind my eyes begins to subside as the deep breaths that hint to my stress become less frequent. The darkness holds back time as I finally can think and write and sip and think and breathe. Subjects with the weight of an ocean pour over us without mercy. Faithfulness meets fear for coffee as they ponder common ground. What to do next? How many moments that should have been treasured, set aside, savored were forced to share space with preoccupations of the day? When did I give permission for this? When did the line between purpose and survival dissapear? I had it all figured out last month, I swear! The answers were put in place and the way was clear. Where did it go? I didn't blink or make a turn yet I don't know if I'm on the same road. Will I compromise today? Will I do what I shouldn't to appease everyone else and make our lives much more bearable? What will I lose if I do? I won't, anyway; and I'll suffer for it. I'll lose the respect of many and the trust of those I love. Still, I won't anyway. I don't think I've ever before understood how alone I truly am, in human company anyway. My cats like me and God hasn't budged from my side. Still, my coffee has grown chilly and it's not safe to walk outside alone. I need to walk alone. He's snoring. I'm typing. The wash is drying. The boy is dreaming. I'm typing; confirming my choices so I know on what to stand firm. Defining my place so I know in whom I can find support. Dreading the light, knowing what it brings. I'll embrace tonight for a little while longer.

What i don't have....

They say 'you should write what you know'. I guess that makes all of us an expert on something, doesn't it? Write what you know. I know what it's like to be content even happy without something but when reminded or assured I can't have it, I ache . I know that ache. I hate it. It eats at me and every month like clockwork, it mocks me. It redifines who I want to be and for a brief selfish moment makes me regret what I'm inevitably not. Logic has no part in this cruel drama for even when I remind myself how much better off I am and how free and perfect my situation already is, I feel the loss. Can you call something you didn't lose a loss? It feels like a loss. And to make it worse, much worse, despite those who are sensitive to your particular emotional ailment, there are those who are clueless and mean well but continually twist the knife in your side. They are not doing anything out of the ordinary, or going out of their way to try to comfort you or pity you; they are just living their lives. Living their lives with their sonograms and bronzed baby shoes and obligatory baby 'pics' that you are sentenced to smile at and comment on. Of course your baby is cute; who's isn't. Even if it isn't, it is. And to start hating a baby, that just crosses the line into monsterous. If one more well meaning mother's group sends me an e-mail to be their friend I'm going to scream. I'm a mother and to even complain about anything must make me a despicable hag. I'm not a mother of a child though; he's a teen. He doesn't require my life in the way an infant would and I should be grateful. I don't want to want this. I don't want to want this. Heaven forbid anyone should read this thinking I'm trying to convince myself of something. I'm aware of that reality which I think makes this reality so much more clear. I don't want to want this. Why is that so hard to believe? Is it because I cry almost every month. That could be it. I hate my tears; they're insincere. Who says your heart knows better than your head?... everyone who has ever had an affair or a divorce. My emotions are telling my mind that it is wrong. I do want this; but I don't want this. Sure, just fill your time with other things; hobbies, career, education. Fill your life so you feel no voids. Sorry. Listen to the wealthy and overworked if you think filling your time or your pocketbook will complete you. Are we doomed to ever feel incomplete? Will God Himself fill those missing pieces in? Are we genuinely missing a piece? If by filling that missing space, will the next void in the puzzle be unveiled? Does this life only offer contentment and satisfaction in the acceptances of our missing pieces?

So here I am, passing up the opportunity to once again sleep next to the most wonderful man in the world. I choose to sit here and try to figure out the complexities of the universe on a brightly lit laptop in a dark and smelly room. It's raining. I love the rain. Rain is such an accutely simple representation of cleansing. It's dark, and late and cold and raining. It sounds melodic and calming and clean. I love the rain. If i walk outside I'll wake him. he'll worry and not get the sleep he needs. Not if I walk out the back door. I think I will. I'm not dressed. Pajamas would attract attention wouldn't they? Just on the porch maybe or I'll just sit here by the window and with the cats, enjoy the cool of the evening. It's such a beautiful evening, morning I should say. It's so late, it's early. My favorite time of night. My favorite time to write.