Julie tucks a stray curl the color of cinnamon and ginger, behind her ear as she finishes filling in the deposit slip.
Island sketches: Tom
Tom bikes to the Minute Clinic pulling an empty toddler trailer behind his faithful old Townie. His teal scrubs show no signs of exertion, even though the morning is hot and tropic. After his shift, he will pick the typhoon twins up from the day camp being held at the old school.
When Tom is off duty, the shifts are filled with interns whose only real helpful knowledge is how to get in contact with Tom and where to find a magazine while you wait for him.
It is the last day of junior surf camp. All week, the added steps of putting surf gear away and removing as much sand as it takes to comfortably ride home has added an extra half hour to the boys' pick-up routine.
Just time enough to pull the clinic shades for a power nap and wake in time to stop by Julie's for his usual.
Julie closes at four, but she doesn't leave until Tom stops by, even if he's running late. She always has a smoothie on standby for him and a little something to eat. Tom is always appreciative, even when the smoothie has spinach.
Islanders know all about Tom's naps and we take special care not to disturb him when he's fortunate enough to grab one.
Between endless clinic shifts and caring for Dax and Dylan, his plate is full-to-overflowing. And that's before you factor in the heartbreak.
It's no small wonder he hasn't taken to drinking.
It's no small wonder he hasn't taken to drinking.
Again.
Pretending not to notice naps is easier than pretending not to notice the island's only licensed nurse practitioner hungover the clinic reception desk or slung over Bennie's bar on a Tuesday at 10 in the morning.
We've left those days behind us, and that's where we'd like them to stay, especially during jellyfish season. Tom is especially good at treating those stings; some homemade remedy Pow-wow Pete taught him long ago.
When Tom is off duty, the shifts are filled with interns whose only real helpful knowledge is how to get in contact with Tom and where to find a magazine while you wait for him.
"Real" doctors never come out to the clinic and the hospital is thirty miles down the single lane umbilical cord connecting the island to civilization .
This week's worth of naps have Tom looking almost rested. If one didn't know better, they might even think Tom was happy behind those sparkling eyes. But, if you know about Tom's naps and you know about Tom's smoothies, then you also know enough to realize that Tom will probably never be happy again.
This week's worth of naps have Tom looking almost rested. If one didn't know better, they might even think Tom was happy behind those sparkling eyes. But, if you know about Tom's naps and you know about Tom's smoothies, then you also know enough to realize that Tom will probably never be happy again.
Not the way he used to be, anyway.
investments
Our hands brushed as we tucked our daughter into bed
between us.
He pulled away quickly as if burned, despite a lack of spark.
Exasperated sigh; me.
Our bodies have touched, remember?
They've been intertwined.
Look at the child between us.
How do you think those get here?
These were only thoughts.
We have been stuck fast in a No Speaking zone for weeks.
No Touching Zone, too.
Obviously.
Down with sixty second hugs,
We laughed at the couple who did not know how.
'Always kiss me goodnight'
Pretty, plastic platitude.
I understand not wanting to touch.
I need those walls, too.
Bites always forthcoming.
Please, do, just stay over there
In your corner
Pouting.
Jimmy Wayne, baby.
Stay gone.
The touch was accidental
This is all so typical.
First it's loud bravado
and then a falling back,
victimized by yourself,
the blame is shifted to me.
He makes a list of all the things I am not;
tells me to just leave.
I am not:
a good mother
a godly person
genuine
I think of me that same way, too.
Spend my life trying to change it.
If those are the reasons we fail,
it is far too late for rescue.
'It sucks to lose your investment', he says
I agree though our currencies differ.
Promises were made
Tee shirts worn
Trip upon trip was taken
Renew those vows
Merge accounts
These bracelets made of hope and rope-
We'll never take them off.
I look at my naked wrist which has accidentally burned him
He is saying 'Our hate is mutual'
But only he has spoken.
"I can't imagine building a life with you."
(now that we are twenty years in )
Good things, spoiled
should we have attained them:
Trips with bickering;
a home spilling over with fight..
What is truly lost?
Time, perhaps.
The plot?
A belief in happy endings.
If this is
at last
The End.
Until the last apology,
I cannot see myself out.
Time and tomorrow will tell.
As always
We wait.
(because there was potential)
between us.
He pulled away quickly as if burned, despite a lack of spark.
Exasperated sigh; me.
Our bodies have touched, remember?
They've been intertwined.
Look at the child between us.
How do you think those get here?
These were only thoughts.
We have been stuck fast in a No Speaking zone for weeks.
No Touching Zone, too.
Obviously.
Down with sixty second hugs,
We laughed at the couple who did not know how.
'Always kiss me goodnight'
Pretty, plastic platitude.
I understand not wanting to touch.
I need those walls, too.
Bites always forthcoming.
Please, do, just stay over there
In your corner
Pouting.
Jimmy Wayne, baby.
Stay gone.
The touch was accidental
This is all so typical.
First it's loud bravado
and then a falling back,
victimized by yourself,
the blame is shifted to me.
He makes a list of all the things I am not;
tells me to just leave.
I am not:
a good mother
a godly person
genuine
I think of me that same way, too.
Spend my life trying to change it.
If those are the reasons we fail,
it is far too late for rescue.
'It sucks to lose your investment', he says
I agree though our currencies differ.
Promises were made
Tee shirts worn
Trip upon trip was taken
Renew those vows
Merge accounts
These bracelets made of hope and rope-
We'll never take them off.
I look at my naked wrist which has accidentally burned him
He is saying 'Our hate is mutual'
But only he has spoken.
"I can't imagine building a life with you."
(now that we are twenty years in )
Good things, spoiled
should we have attained them:
Trips with bickering;
a home spilling over with fight..
What is truly lost?
Time, perhaps.
The plot?
A belief in happy endings.
If this is
at last
The End.
Until the last apology,
I cannot see myself out.
Time and tomorrow will tell.
As always
We wait.
(because there was potential)
storage
It costs four hundred and fifty dollars per month to keep your wife in storage. That's how much Aunt Muddy charges for rent at the old family house Grandma Jody left her. It's a bargain really, at more than a third your current rent. The hidden cost comes in the form of your wife being back in proximity to her family. She will be with them every waking minute, obviously.
The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away.
Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books. Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy.
She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn't care, she just keeps packing and humming random snatches of songs that don't go together, like she's happy or pretending to be or something. Someone needs to kick her jukebox.
It's about time, really. Your wife wanted to leave since you first got together. You've been telling her so forever. This is not shocking, she's just finally proving you right.
Take all the blame. Tell her she can tell them it was your idea, that it's all your fault. You might as well, they're going to think so anyway. Telling her that should remove all the hesitation she's hiding behind that infernal whistling. She has only stayed this long because of not wanting to go back to them and hear all those told you so's. She's been trying to save face, but all that's over with now.
Just listen- you can already hear those old biddies, talking all over each other and cackling to the roof beams; trying to cheer her up.
It will be nice not to have to worry about all of that anymore.
Out of sight, out of mind.
The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away.
Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books. Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy.
She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn't care, she just keeps packing and humming random snatches of songs that don't go together, like she's happy or pretending to be or something. Someone needs to kick her jukebox.
It's about time, really. Your wife wanted to leave since you first got together. You've been telling her so forever. This is not shocking, she's just finally proving you right.
Take all the blame. Tell her she can tell them it was your idea, that it's all your fault. You might as well, they're going to think so anyway. Telling her that should remove all the hesitation she's hiding behind that infernal whistling. She has only stayed this long because of not wanting to go back to them and hear all those told you so's. She's been trying to save face, but all that's over with now.
Just listen- you can already hear those old biddies, talking all over each other and cackling to the roof beams; trying to cheer her up.
It will be nice not to have to worry about all of that anymore.
Out of sight, out of mind.
broken
The listing read "Stitch me back together." It was a hand-turned vessel, made from grapevine, that had cracked under pressure. It caught my attention. I am drawn to finding beauty in broken things because I am a broken thing. If we were to have a show of hands, I'm probably not the only one.
So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait.
When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together.
Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel.
Before contemplation:
After contemplation:
Faults hold worlds only appreciated by drawing near.
I wanted the shattered glass to find redemption, too. I fashioned a small candle from a trimmed wick and the scrapings of soft wax from a candle. I let my little light shine.
You'll notice that the light is most visible where the vessel is most splintered.
When the flame was extinguished, a beautiful, relaxing smoke curled up and up for the longest time. I do love that smoky scent. I could burn incense here too, if incense smelled good.
I am eagerly awaiting the next package from my woodworking friend, Brock. It is a bowl with a hole already in it!
Though most of his work does not come pre-blemished, you should check out his wares.
But I call dibs on the misfits.
So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait.
When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together.
Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel.
Before contemplation:
After contemplation:
Faults hold worlds only appreciated by drawing near.
I wanted the shattered glass to find redemption, too. I fashioned a small candle from a trimmed wick and the scrapings of soft wax from a candle. I let my little light shine.
You'll notice that the light is most visible where the vessel is most splintered.
When the flame was extinguished, a beautiful, relaxing smoke curled up and up for the longest time. I do love that smoky scent. I could burn incense here too, if incense smelled good.
I am eagerly awaiting the next package from my woodworking friend, Brock. It is a bowl with a hole already in it!
Though most of his work does not come pre-blemished, you should check out his wares.
But I call dibs on the misfits.
popcorn
The corridor smelled like burnt popcorn as I walked to the back of the children's wing to pick up my daughter. A memory was startled loose that slowed my steps. I had forgotten the burnt popcorn. I continued to smile and greet other parents passing by and took my place in line to claim my child. I fished to the bottom of my bag for the key ring I kept my child security fob on and wondered to myself if there was anything else I had forgotten.
The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break.
"Nice of them to ask." I grumbled.
I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden.
After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunday also meant a nap. Back then also included night service, I reminded myself, in an effort to balance my feeling of loss.
I set my computer up in my makeshift office which is also the water heater closet and went downstairs to brew half a pot of coffee. If I make a whole pot, I will drink a whole pot- even after it has started to grow thick and cold. If I brew only half a pot, I will wish there was more after the last cup, but the drought will force me to drink much-needed water. My inner supply rationing neurosis won't allow me brew two half pots in the same setting, unless we have visitors. We almost never have visitors.
I returned to the tiny closet with my oversized mug and enjoyed the quiet moment. It would only be a moment. That's how quiet time works for adults. A big game of Hide-and-Don't-Speak that only lasts until children are alerted by the sound of silence. It is the same absence of noise that startles the parents of a toddler at play.
They'll be knocking- or better yet- barreling in- any moment with various questions and deep conversation that cannot wait another minute. It is like a required opening ritual before I may commune with my own thoughts.
No matter how many diversions one offers in advance, a sacrifice of zen will be required.
A snack offering must be made, as well as a dozen or more frenzied sit-down-only-to-be-called-here-to-"Look-At-This-Mom-No-Come-Here-To-Look-At-It"-stand up genuflections before I am granted audience with myself.
Five minutes before I'm discovered, fifteen max between interruptions, not to mention the laundry, this is why I only write short stories.
In the Water Cave, as my kids have dubbed my little sanctuary, I procrastinate by straightening up. The window in the closet is what invited me to carve out space in here to begin with. Through it I can see our front yard and the cars rushing by on their way to the beach.I can see the sky and across the street, a swath of marsh dotted with boat docks.
A scattering of art supplies and stacks of old magazines crowd my paint splattered desk, which is just a slab of discarded shelving stretching along the wall, underneath the window. On the wall behind me is a gallery of art work, mostly the children's.
To the right, a shelf of favorite books is kept company by a scattering of trinkets and toys that I have collected. A vinyl Snoopy stands on a volume of collected works by C.S. Lewis. A small latching jar filled with buttons and bottle caps bookends On Death and Dying and my Thornton Wilder selections,. A Lego figure guards the Old Bay seasoning tin, now filled with bookmarks of varying design: an old discount shoppers card, a ribbon, an actual paper book mark from a library four moves ago.
I type a title then procrastinate thirteen more ways before returning to the keyboard with intent.
The water heater on my left is home to magnetic poetry and a magnetic dress-up Mr. Rogers, complete with Trolley and characters from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I busy myself straightening Mr Roger's sweater and shoe collection, I will the groupings of poetry words to inspire me to write about something else. They do not.
There is also a real live turnip affixed with googly eyes, but I will tell you about it some other day. I must stop this procrastinating now.
I've known I'd visit this memory since the popcorn scented hallway this morning. Even now, as the words fall one in front of the other, I'm not sure why or what it is I want to say. I don't want revenge. I don't want confrontation.
I would prefer the edges of my sharp cornered memories remain padded with blurred details, but I am now forced to add definition to the popcorn memory, new layers and sensations. I consider whether there are more things I will remember, more things that will spring out of nowhere and without warning.
There is no reason why he did it. He was different; a boy on the spectrum who liked blood and the macabre. He was older than me, bigger.
I don't expect to make sense of the thing.
We'd been shooed from the doors to the meeting room a dozen times or twenty. I remember thinking that a board meeting somehow involved sitting on a board while voting in that mysterious aye and nay fashion. I thought the board must be special like Christmas presents- kept hidden until they were sure we wouldn't see it. They must need to keep whether they voted to keep the board or to get a new and better board secret from us kids.
The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break.
"Nice of them to ask." I grumbled.
I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden.
After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunday also meant a nap. Back then also included night service, I reminded myself, in an effort to balance my feeling of loss.
I set my computer up in my makeshift office which is also the water heater closet and went downstairs to brew half a pot of coffee. If I make a whole pot, I will drink a whole pot- even after it has started to grow thick and cold. If I brew only half a pot, I will wish there was more after the last cup, but the drought will force me to drink much-needed water. My inner supply rationing neurosis won't allow me brew two half pots in the same setting, unless we have visitors. We almost never have visitors.
I returned to the tiny closet with my oversized mug and enjoyed the quiet moment. It would only be a moment. That's how quiet time works for adults. A big game of Hide-and-Don't-Speak that only lasts until children are alerted by the sound of silence. It is the same absence of noise that startles the parents of a toddler at play.
They'll be knocking- or better yet- barreling in- any moment with various questions and deep conversation that cannot wait another minute. It is like a required opening ritual before I may commune with my own thoughts.
No matter how many diversions one offers in advance, a sacrifice of zen will be required.
A snack offering must be made, as well as a dozen or more frenzied sit-down-only-to-be-called-here-to-"Look-At-This-Mom-No-Come-Here-To-Look-At-It"-stand up genuflections before I am granted audience with myself.
Five minutes before I'm discovered, fifteen max between interruptions, not to mention the laundry, this is why I only write short stories.
In the Water Cave, as my kids have dubbed my little sanctuary, I procrastinate by straightening up. The window in the closet is what invited me to carve out space in here to begin with. Through it I can see our front yard and the cars rushing by on their way to the beach.I can see the sky and across the street, a swath of marsh dotted with boat docks.
A scattering of art supplies and stacks of old magazines crowd my paint splattered desk, which is just a slab of discarded shelving stretching along the wall, underneath the window. On the wall behind me is a gallery of art work, mostly the children's.
To the right, a shelf of favorite books is kept company by a scattering of trinkets and toys that I have collected. A vinyl Snoopy stands on a volume of collected works by C.S. Lewis. A small latching jar filled with buttons and bottle caps bookends On Death and Dying and my Thornton Wilder selections,. A Lego figure guards the Old Bay seasoning tin, now filled with bookmarks of varying design: an old discount shoppers card, a ribbon, an actual paper book mark from a library four moves ago.
I type a title then procrastinate thirteen more ways before returning to the keyboard with intent.
The water heater on my left is home to magnetic poetry and a magnetic dress-up Mr. Rogers, complete with Trolley and characters from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I busy myself straightening Mr Roger's sweater and shoe collection, I will the groupings of poetry words to inspire me to write about something else. They do not.
There is also a real live turnip affixed with googly eyes, but I will tell you about it some other day. I must stop this procrastinating now.
I've known I'd visit this memory since the popcorn scented hallway this morning. Even now, as the words fall one in front of the other, I'm not sure why or what it is I want to say. I don't want revenge. I don't want confrontation.
I would prefer the edges of my sharp cornered memories remain padded with blurred details, but I am now forced to add definition to the popcorn memory, new layers and sensations. I consider whether there are more things I will remember, more things that will spring out of nowhere and without warning.
There is no reason why he did it. He was different; a boy on the spectrum who liked blood and the macabre. He was older than me, bigger.
I don't expect to make sense of the thing.
We'd been shooed from the doors to the meeting room a dozen times or twenty. I remember thinking that a board meeting somehow involved sitting on a board while voting in that mysterious aye and nay fashion. I thought the board must be special like Christmas presents- kept hidden until they were sure we wouldn't see it. They must need to keep whether they voted to keep the board or to get a new and better board secret from us kids.
Board meetings certainly did cause boredom.
And so, our diversion was popcorn. I do not believe even the sadistic boy intended to burn it. Microwaves were still a fairly new technology. The bag was tossed in, time and temperature were set. I doubt instructions were read.
I remember all of us gathered in the Fellowship Hall, the same room used for Children's Church on Sunday mornings. Windows provided the only light as we waited for the parents and for the popcorn and for the microwave to ding.
That is all. I see him online sometimes, smiling in pictures on his sister's social media. She and I connected a few years back when we discovered we'd both moved to the same big city a few hours from home. Though I've been tempted to say something to him, I have no idea what I want to say. I believe he would laugh.
And so, our diversion was popcorn. I do not believe even the sadistic boy intended to burn it. Microwaves were still a fairly new technology. The bag was tossed in, time and temperature were set. I doubt instructions were read.
I remember all of us gathered in the Fellowship Hall, the same room used for Children's Church on Sunday mornings. Windows provided the only light as we waited for the parents and for the popcorn and for the microwave to ding.
He said something like 'Watch this" then grabbed me by the face. One, two three times, four- he slammed my head into the oven door repeatedly. I feel as if the back of my head caught the oven's handle but I also distinctly remember crashing against the flat glass door where one might peek to see if their cake was baking evenly.
I cried out just as smoke poured from the microwave door, rolling a bitter stench swiftly into the sanctuary.
I cried out just as smoke poured from the microwave door, rolling a bitter stench swiftly into the sanctuary.
The smoke detector began to sound its alarm, the alarmed parents rushed to investigate. In the chaos, what has happened to me is combined with what has happened with the popcorn; just a cacophony of unattended kids, grown restless and rowdy. The frantic search for a fire, to assure that nothing is aflame, drowns out the assault he's just made on my skull. The popcorn is dealt with first. Of course, no one is to blame. The popcorn just threw itself into the microwave, a miracle of popped kernels has occurred here today. No one claims responsibility for the popcorn or why I'm crying. She's probably just a scaredy baby, a tattle teller, too.
The offending bag is taken outside and the room begins to empty. Why am I still crying? I tell my parents that I was pushed into the stove door.
He may have been made to apologize, but I do not recall remorse of any kind. We are 'Family of God.' We do not rock boats. Lord knows, they have their hands full enough with that boy, something new every time they turn around. The incident will now be treated like an accidental collision, or a mutual offense where no one was really hurt. No harm, no foul.
That is all. I see him online sometimes, smiling in pictures on his sister's social media. She and I connected a few years back when we discovered we'd both moved to the same big city a few hours from home. Though I've been tempted to say something to him, I have no idea what I want to say. I believe he would laugh.
One day, without either of us going into details, his sister tells me she's had to work at forgiving him too, he's hurt her 'in many ways.'
It is what it is; all that it ever will be.
It is what it is; all that it ever will be.
He is a jarring memory that persists even as other memories - memories I'd rather keep- sneak silently away.
~~
Out of the blue, she tags me in an old photo of one of her childhood birthday parties. I don't remember it- at all; not the presents, the cake, the theme or ever, ever - no matter how hard I stare again and again at that photo- ever having been in that place. All I recognize are the faces of my friends and the outfit I am wearing.
~~
Out of the blue, she tags me in an old photo of one of her childhood birthday parties. I don't remember it- at all; not the presents, the cake, the theme or ever, ever - no matter how hard I stare again and again at that photo- ever having been in that place. All I recognize are the faces of my friends and the outfit I am wearing.
What else have I forgotten? And why can't I just forget about him?
cloudless day (or eulogy for a funeral I cannot attend)
I think of telling you about these little writing jaunts. I promised myself that once I reached ten entries, I would mention it. Technically this is the tenth, but only the eighth if we don't count drafts. I am mentally negotiating over whether I meant published entries or not.
Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do. I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame.
The things I write out loud taunt me, you know.
I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions. I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I will never think that way about myself, that I have written something worthy. And yet, it is important to me to write for you. Not about you. Not dedicated to you. Just, because there is a you. Because right now, there is still a you.
I live with this heart murmur that threatens "Tomorrow could be cloudless."
I feel this way about my dad, too. Also, everybody.
A while ago, my dad had complications- a blood clot traveling towards his heart. They did this major procedure that could kill him. We all gathered around his pre-op bed. He didn't hand us each an envelope or say profound things, despite the significant odds that these moments could be final ones. I know his message to me is to be found in that brave silence but I hate the idea of deciphering it wrong. His life is his message. It is both enough and not.
A small fire of panic spurs me onward - write that letter, say that thing, do all the things, and do them at once. I am less afraid of leaving than of being left without instructions. I am less afraid of appearing unmoored than of leaving with my life unspoken.
I mutter prayers that go "Please let them all stay."
And you. You have been a puzzle from the start. We are complicated friends but I like it that way.
I do not know your age, I do not want to, lest I try to start calculating odds. If I used to, I have made a point to forget. This clock is already ticking too loud.
I have forbidden you to die, but you are stubborn and will someday get the last laugh, I know. Unless of course, I do. I will not be invited to the funeral. I may not even know that you have gone.
We do not dwell so closely as that. We cannot.
How strange it is to cherish a gem whose facets aren't all showing, to leave the rest in stone.
To leave the rest alone.
You are the newspaper to my Silly Putty. I cannot fit the entire page, but the segments I do pick up are fascinating. You have given me songs and stories, and stretched my mind into interesting shapes.
You are tolerant of my clingy imprinting; you encourage hypothesizing.
You are original content, facts and opinions in black and white.
I am a backwards comic strip, a ball of silly, fresh hatched.
You were not the first to hear my voice, but you were the first without cause to coddle. You encouraged me to keep talking. More importantly, you taught me to listen.
Slowly, somewhat because I probably really ought to be seeing a counselor, and somewhat because I think I am suffocating, I have peeled my hand away from my covered mouth and allowed myself to breathe words again. You'll notice these entries lack pictures. This isn't a scrapbook procrastination.
Working my fingers across the keyboard like bellows, I fan that little panic flame, sending smoke rings to the sky.
I hope you can decipher them.
Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do. I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame.
The things I write out loud taunt me, you know.
I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions. I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I will never think that way about myself, that I have written something worthy. And yet, it is important to me to write for you. Not about you. Not dedicated to you. Just, because there is a you. Because right now, there is still a you.
I live with this heart murmur that threatens "Tomorrow could be cloudless."
I feel this way about my dad, too. Also, everybody.
A while ago, my dad had complications- a blood clot traveling towards his heart. They did this major procedure that could kill him. We all gathered around his pre-op bed. He didn't hand us each an envelope or say profound things, despite the significant odds that these moments could be final ones. I know his message to me is to be found in that brave silence but I hate the idea of deciphering it wrong. His life is his message. It is both enough and not.
A small fire of panic spurs me onward - write that letter, say that thing, do all the things, and do them at once. I am less afraid of leaving than of being left without instructions. I am less afraid of appearing unmoored than of leaving with my life unspoken.
I mutter prayers that go "Please let them all stay."
And you. You have been a puzzle from the start. We are complicated friends but I like it that way.
I do not know your age, I do not want to, lest I try to start calculating odds. If I used to, I have made a point to forget. This clock is already ticking too loud.
I have forbidden you to die, but you are stubborn and will someday get the last laugh, I know. Unless of course, I do. I will not be invited to the funeral. I may not even know that you have gone.
We do not dwell so closely as that. We cannot.
How strange it is to cherish a gem whose facets aren't all showing, to leave the rest in stone.
To leave the rest alone.
You are the newspaper to my Silly Putty. I cannot fit the entire page, but the segments I do pick up are fascinating. You have given me songs and stories, and stretched my mind into interesting shapes.
You are tolerant of my clingy imprinting; you encourage hypothesizing.
You are original content, facts and opinions in black and white.
I am a backwards comic strip, a ball of silly, fresh hatched.
You were not the first to hear my voice, but you were the first without cause to coddle. You encouraged me to keep talking. More importantly, you taught me to listen.
Slowly, somewhat because I probably really ought to be seeing a counselor, and somewhat because I think I am suffocating, I have peeled my hand away from my covered mouth and allowed myself to breathe words again. You'll notice these entries lack pictures. This isn't a scrapbook procrastination.
Working my fingers across the keyboard like bellows, I fan that little panic flame, sending smoke rings to the sky.
I hope you can decipher them.
hero
You cannot just write yourself into the story as a hero,especially not your own story. You have to live as a hero first. You must be brave. You must do the things you'd like to read about yourself. You must do them at once. You only have today.
dream
I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual, only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze.
I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it note to consider calling my counselor friend gets tacked to the mental mirror over the sink... the dripping, crying, pull-yourself-together sink.
Vestiges of the dream hover over the fog. They roll in and out throughout the day.
I'd had ‘Charleston’ in an embrace and it was a rather violent dance we were engaged in. Thrashing might be a better word. My distinct impression is that it was a do-or-die necessity, that I had charged him so as to take the lead of his barreling anger. I feel as if I was running interference, but also shoving an answer key in his face. I do not like the answers I finally realized I knew. They are too simple for anyone to die over, even to cry over.
Some of the memories lift throughout the day; the guiding narrative has sifted out leaving only clumps of vivid images in the bottom of my sieve. Arrange all those chunky bits, what does it spell? Yes, she was there. And fading to the background is certainly not realistic, not for her. But I can't hold on to a thing that is determined to fly off. I must assess that which I am left holding. And in the dream, I was holding on to him, tightly, as to restrain him, violently dancing him about to show I knew his playbook. Successfully? That remains to be seen.
I know this much, it was "that" kind of dream. The day is almost over and it has lingered with me all day, convincing me it is made of different stuff than all those ordinary dreams that can't even last through the first cup of joe. The kind I have sometimes that are significant in real life a little later on. I believe omen is too strong a word, for as I have mentioned, only a vague sense of 'Uh-oh' remains. But, oh that uh-oh! Who knows how ugly it will be. I feel it will be unlike any of the other storms we've weathered in the past two decades. I am unnerved and writing this to hypothesize that I believe there may be violence. I do not hope for it, indeed I fear it. But I am curious over past dreams that seemed to hold warning. Dreams that were un-shootable messengers.
Making a note now is, perhaps, equivalent to a parlor magician's trick of jotting down all the possible answers to his inquiry and tucking them in various pockets, then offering the coordinates of the correct answer with the illusion that it is the only scrap of paper tucked about his body. I could be wrong and nothing of note will occur. This-I hate the word premonition- will have been the dream's fault and can easily be unpublished. Only a small interaction may occur, but I could then point and say "I knew it." Or something really bad will occur and.... and that's just the thing... what use is it to me really? I'm not being ungrateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to steel my nerves and knees against the incoming storm surge. But, as with all times past, a hazy dream of confirmation does little in the way of instruction. Expect attack, perhaps.
If I were a general at war, these dreams would be a carrier pigeon with opposing messages on each leg:
Left Leg: "The Enemy Approaches"
Right Leg: "The Enemy Retreats"
Nice to know pigeon, but what should I do?
One conclusion I have definitely reached- perhaps twice today- is that you cannot proactively shoot someone because of a dream you had. People won't understand.
Another is to be ready. Such an open-ended ready has required a lengthy and eclectic list: moving away for the month of August, faking my death, learning to punch. I have a fair supply of matches, though I always feel better whenever I buy another box more. I think of the Appalachian Trail and that grandma lady who hiked it in a shower curtain... I've got family in the hills, I could survive. They'd let me bring the kids and stay awhile. I've walked this forsaken island before, toting one of 'em on my hip and the other two on either hand. I've got a fourth child now, and a cat, but the other three have grown enough to help. Everything is gonna be just fine.
I busy myself with the easy scenarios, not yet ready to consider the toughest one of all: staying put and standing my ground, letting them talk to me. Just the thought of attending that pageant once more takes my breath away.
Here's to hoping that's the only thing that does.
~~~
I am not afraid to die.
It is the heat that radiates from their hatred threatening to undo me.
It is so hot, those sweltering lines melt my face, blur my vision
and make me unable to hide my smile.
I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it note to consider calling my counselor friend gets tacked to the mental mirror over the sink... the dripping, crying, pull-yourself-together sink.
Vestiges of the dream hover over the fog. They roll in and out throughout the day.
I'd had ‘Charleston’ in an embrace and it was a rather violent dance we were engaged in. Thrashing might be a better word. My distinct impression is that it was a do-or-die necessity, that I had charged him so as to take the lead of his barreling anger. I feel as if I was running interference, but also shoving an answer key in his face. I do not like the answers I finally realized I knew. They are too simple for anyone to die over, even to cry over.
Some of the memories lift throughout the day; the guiding narrative has sifted out leaving only clumps of vivid images in the bottom of my sieve. Arrange all those chunky bits, what does it spell? Yes, she was there. And fading to the background is certainly not realistic, not for her. But I can't hold on to a thing that is determined to fly off. I must assess that which I am left holding. And in the dream, I was holding on to him, tightly, as to restrain him, violently dancing him about to show I knew his playbook. Successfully? That remains to be seen.
I know this much, it was "that" kind of dream. The day is almost over and it has lingered with me all day, convincing me it is made of different stuff than all those ordinary dreams that can't even last through the first cup of joe. The kind I have sometimes that are significant in real life a little later on. I believe omen is too strong a word, for as I have mentioned, only a vague sense of 'Uh-oh' remains. But, oh that uh-oh! Who knows how ugly it will be. I feel it will be unlike any of the other storms we've weathered in the past two decades. I am unnerved and writing this to hypothesize that I believe there may be violence. I do not hope for it, indeed I fear it. But I am curious over past dreams that seemed to hold warning. Dreams that were un-shootable messengers.
Making a note now is, perhaps, equivalent to a parlor magician's trick of jotting down all the possible answers to his inquiry and tucking them in various pockets, then offering the coordinates of the correct answer with the illusion that it is the only scrap of paper tucked about his body. I could be wrong and nothing of note will occur. This-I hate the word premonition- will have been the dream's fault and can easily be unpublished. Only a small interaction may occur, but I could then point and say "I knew it." Or something really bad will occur and.... and that's just the thing... what use is it to me really? I'm not being ungrateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to steel my nerves and knees against the incoming storm surge. But, as with all times past, a hazy dream of confirmation does little in the way of instruction. Expect attack, perhaps.
If I were a general at war, these dreams would be a carrier pigeon with opposing messages on each leg:
Left Leg: "The Enemy Approaches"
Right Leg: "The Enemy Retreats"
Nice to know pigeon, but what should I do?
One conclusion I have definitely reached- perhaps twice today- is that you cannot proactively shoot someone because of a dream you had. People won't understand.
Another is to be ready. Such an open-ended ready has required a lengthy and eclectic list: moving away for the month of August, faking my death, learning to punch. I have a fair supply of matches, though I always feel better whenever I buy another box more. I think of the Appalachian Trail and that grandma lady who hiked it in a shower curtain... I've got family in the hills, I could survive. They'd let me bring the kids and stay awhile. I've walked this forsaken island before, toting one of 'em on my hip and the other two on either hand. I've got a fourth child now, and a cat, but the other three have grown enough to help. Everything is gonna be just fine.
I busy myself with the easy scenarios, not yet ready to consider the toughest one of all: staying put and standing my ground, letting them talk to me. Just the thought of attending that pageant once more takes my breath away.
Here's to hoping that's the only thing that does.
~~~
I am not afraid to die.
It is the heat that radiates from their hatred threatening to undo me.
It is so hot, those sweltering lines melt my face, blur my vision
and make me unable to hide my smile.
gang activity
Our town is an old one. One of the oldest in Florida, actually. People come here because our clocks are stuck at twenty years past the current decade. The pleasures here, like the people, are simple.
An ice cream cone and "Putt-Putt" golf are the only seaside diversions you'll find, unless you are an alcoholic, in which case you're gonna like this place plenty.
Our Putt-Putt is the official kind, one of the last handful remaining in the country and one of only two in the entire state.That official status means tournaments come to town at least once a year, bringing a fair count of at least sixty tourists and their dollars to our sleepy little red-ink town. Pretty remarkable, when you stop to think about it. I mean, we don't have anything. The other one is in Oddlando, who has at least one of everything. Just think, little old us, keeping up with big, fancy them.
Our DayGlo orange bumpers have held their own for decades against seaside elements and hurricanes; the white iron obstacles standing sentinel through of the abandonment of generations of summer children and locals alike, who grow up and learn to drive themselves across the bridge to Anywhere But Here.
The course is pretty basic. We don't have fake animals or any props at all, really, just the scorecard stands in between each hole. And the holes are slightly- ever so slightly- out of order, but you really can't tell, unless you came to nit-pick. Which you might be surprised to find, that's all some folks want to do once they get here. But for all we lack, we've got 36 holes, a long history and something no other Putt-Putt in the country can brag about: we've got Murphy.
Murphy was probably at the grand opening in 1957. No one really knows his age, but we all treat him with the respect due to elders, because he's definitely eld. Murphy does odd jobs around the course as needed; he changes light bulbs, sweeps the inevitable sand dunes from the Astroturf greens and hauls the ice cream tubs from the monthly cold truck into the walk-in freezer. He's a strong eld man.
An ice cream cone and "Putt-Putt" golf are the only seaside diversions you'll find, unless you are an alcoholic, in which case you're gonna like this place plenty.
Our Putt-Putt is the official kind, one of the last handful remaining in the country and one of only two in the entire state.That official status means tournaments come to town at least once a year, bringing a fair count of at least sixty tourists and their dollars to our sleepy little red-ink town. Pretty remarkable, when you stop to think about it. I mean, we don't have anything. The other one is in Oddlando, who has at least one of everything. Just think, little old us, keeping up with big, fancy them.
Our DayGlo orange bumpers have held their own for decades against seaside elements and hurricanes; the white iron obstacles standing sentinel through of the abandonment of generations of summer children and locals alike, who grow up and learn to drive themselves across the bridge to Anywhere But Here.
The course is pretty basic. We don't have fake animals or any props at all, really, just the scorecard stands in between each hole. And the holes are slightly- ever so slightly- out of order, but you really can't tell, unless you came to nit-pick. Which you might be surprised to find, that's all some folks want to do once they get here. But for all we lack, we've got 36 holes, a long history and something no other Putt-Putt in the country can brag about: we've got Murphy.
Murphy was probably at the grand opening in 1957. No one really knows his age, but we all treat him with the respect due to elders, because he's definitely eld. Murphy does odd jobs around the course as needed; he changes light bulbs, sweeps the inevitable sand dunes from the Astroturf greens and hauls the ice cream tubs from the monthly cold truck into the walk-in freezer. He's a strong eld man.
bachelor pad
I was away for two nights.
Hopping in the shower upon my return, I noticed the hand soap in our shower stall.
I wrapped a towel around myself and poked my head into the bedroom where he was reclined.
"Tell me you didn't resort to this."
Hopping in the shower upon my return, I noticed the hand soap in our shower stall.
I wrapped a towel around myself and poked my head into the bedroom where he was reclined.
"Tell me you didn't resort to this."
I held up the pump of Pink Himalayan hand soap.
"I did." he said. "I couldn't find the shampoo."
I pulled the shampoo from hiding in clear sight.
"Oh" his reply followed me back to the shower.
I sloughed away the weary miles and considered the differences between us gals and guys that some deny exist. I pondered marital roles. I felt slightly more valuable, for this moment at least, to this man now reunited with his shampoo.
I breathed a prayer of gratitude that I have married a man who at least takes a shower when I am not around.
Blessings abound... if you know where to look.
"I did." he said. "I couldn't find the shampoo."
I pulled the shampoo from hiding in clear sight.
"Oh" his reply followed me back to the shower.
I sloughed away the weary miles and considered the differences between us gals and guys that some deny exist. I pondered marital roles. I felt slightly more valuable, for this moment at least, to this man now reunited with his shampoo.
I breathed a prayer of gratitude that I have married a man who at least takes a shower when I am not around.
Blessings abound... if you know where to look.
phone calls
:: incomprehensible screeching over the line::
"It's her." said my date's mom, as she handed him the phone.
He walked into the other room, trailing his half of their conversation behind them like a cord.
"It's none of your business who it is." he informed the receiver, before his voice faded into the other room.
And then we went to dinner.
~~~
"I don't know. I'll ask. It's not that big a deal, okay?"
He hung up and turned his attention my way.
'Did you take him to see Santa?'
I had. And I hadn't known it was sacred ground. I just thought we were having fun. Kids like Santa and I was babysitting this kid. I didn't have any of my own. It turns out Santa is a special thing that parents do with their kids. I was dating his parent, not his actual parent - oopsie daisy.
"It's her." said my date's mom, as she handed him the phone.
He walked into the other room, trailing his half of their conversation behind them like a cord.
"It's none of your business who it is." he informed the receiver, before his voice faded into the other room.
And then we went to dinner.
~~~
"I don't know. I'll ask. It's not that big a deal, okay?"
He hung up and turned his attention my way.
'Did you take him to see Santa?'
I had. And I hadn't known it was sacred ground. I just thought we were having fun. Kids like Santa and I was babysitting this kid. I didn't have any of my own. It turns out Santa is a special thing that parents do with their kids. I was dating his parent, not his actual parent - oopsie daisy.
shower prayer (or Why I Am In There So Long Muttering Odd Things)
I'd been in the shower for three days, and still I wasn't clean.
I looked through the fogged shower glass to the alarm clock beside my bed. Okay, twenty-seven minutes to be exact. Still, twenty-seven minutes alone in my head can be an eternity... and I had yet to do anything but stand under the spray of hot water.
I decided then to speed things up by taking a man's shower. That is to say, I'd skip the loofah and hair conditioner and use the woodsy-smelling green bottle of 3-N-1, instead of the three lilac scented pastel bottles meant to be used successively. The combination was meant to unlock a woman's secret beauty according to the happy spokeswoman on their paid advertising blocks during television's insomnia shift.
Ha! (had that been aloud?) With no secrets and no beauty to unlock, I should be able to knock this shower out with a one-two punch: hair, body, out! I had things to do, important, pressing things and I needed to finish them right away. Just as soon as I remembered what they were. Maybe they'd come back to me if I slowed down and shaved my legs.
"That's not very manly." I told myself
"But it's fine" I answered me "because I'm not actually a man and I'm skipping other things."
Onward, upward. "Always start with shampoo." Momma taught me that. "In case the water runs cold, at least your hair will be clean." There was a time when water heaters weren't so automatic. And I guess this is true however far back you care to stretch it.
Okay, God. Here we are. Just you and me. I don't know what to say. I don't really feel anything.
I'm not unhappy. I'm not fighting the urge to cry. I just am, you know what I mean? Ha! Yes, you do- of course you do, you're the one who said "I AM" I mean... well, what do I mean ? I don't know. I just feel like I should talk to you but, you already know me, you know what's going on and I don't feel like I have anything to report. So, here I am wanting to talk but without a whole lot to say. It all feels so...obvious.
"Fo-cus, fo-cus, fo-cus" I work a lather in my hair to the rhythm of my own friendly reminder."One thing at a time." God, if only I could have you unscramble this brain of mine. You must want me like this- but why? How does it possibly glorify you that I forget pretty much everything and get sidetracked mid-sentence?
Here we go. I know what I need to do- it's all I know to do, God. Please forgive me for being so casual...and naked...in your presence. We have to take baths down here, it's ungodly when we don't.
No, no I don't think I'm funny. I hadn't planned that. Okay, well, it did make me chuckle a little.
I've just got to start or we are never going to get through. Gosh, that sounds like Wonka in the elevator, doesn't it? Is saying Gosh kinda like calling you Josh? Why am I like this?!
"Our Father..."
God you are my dad, and you are their dad, too... you're not just mine, you're ours. How curious that the people I just pictured are from so long ago. I realize you love them, too... as much as you love me. Help me to be a better sibling to the ones you know I'm struggling to love. You know who they are. More importantly, so do I. I don't have an excuse- I just need help. Thank you.
"Who art in Heaven..."
Why do I still pray in King James? It's weird but it gives me the frame to hang my own modern words. It's funny how every time, this prayer is different even though it is exactly the same. Maybe that's why you said 'pray like this' instead of 'pray these words'. I'll have to go re-read that passage, but I'm pretty sure that's how it is phrased... ah "Who art...who is...God you are in Heaven, which means that you are in a fixed place where I can find you. You aren't hiding from me. You are here- there, I mean- well, here too. And you are way up there-high in the sky, although I'm not sure that's scientifically correct...or theologically sound... but still we got that imagery from somewhere and it stuck, but, you know, I realize it means that you can see further down the road from so high- so, please give me the directions I need to get to where I'm going. God, I have no idea where I'm going...and I'm so very hard of hearing.
"Hallowed be thy name"
Yes, I honor you- I am thankful and also so sorry for not being more thankful. Thank you for the daily bread you faithfully provide. I know I'm skipping ahead now, but thank you. I ask for your help being a better, more cautious steward. Help me to pass on what you've provided. I feel as if I'm becoming accustomed to living out of abundance and....and I'm confused a little. I mean, I believe that you will provide and that you will fill the bread basket to flow over into the baskets of others if we are diligent to share... man I wish that didn't sound like so much like a prosperity gospel bit... but, I really do believe that you'll give to me so that I can give to others even if I got that idea from a wolf on t.v.- which I probably did but I can't remember now. I don't want to lose sight of that. That you gave it so I could share it, not spend more of it on fluff and stuff.
I haven't been looking to give very actively this last little stretch...as you well know- I haven't been doing anything well at all for this last little stretch... but, I don't know. I feel like not living out of guilt is ideal but I also feel like I kind of need that guilt as motivation. Just help me please- to be more aware and to meet the needs of others.To give more thought when I am spending and to show more discipline than I have been. Show me where I can make a difference whenever I next turn on my phone- a goFund me or stated need- if you don't mind- just bring something to my attention.
"Thy kingdom come..."
I mean, your Kingdom is coming or it's here and expanding according to some beliefs, or it's gonna be here soon or maybe later- but, well, we don't really understand the Kingdom on our own. You tried to explain it to us and we know that it is different than here- we know things have to operate differently to be of the kingdom, so please help us-- me, I mean- teach me to be a citizen of your Kingdom. God, this may be heresy, I don't know, but help me to live my life for the Kingdom even if the only definition of Kingdom is how we live our lives here on Earth- I'm not saying that's what I think- I just mean, help me to understand how to live right now and not so much with an expectation of a payout in streets of gold in the future. You know how difficult all that is for me to even picture. Streets of gold? It doesn't appeal to me anywhere near the beauty of kindness and restored lives, healed bodies and homelessness no more. I want to love others. And I always mean to do just that. And I do okay with friendliness toward strangers. I can hold big ideals of unity and forgiveness up to the light and cast rainbows all about the room. But the actual meanies-- those who smirk and say "You HAVE to forgive me because that's what you Christians do." those are the difficult ones and I know, those are the only ones you're really going to count. Letting go of..well, the thing... those things... that we have talked about, that you see me re-visit again and again in my mind... I don't know, I just keep searching for the meaning, for that one loose thread that's supposed to tie it all together and make my story an open and shut fable, complete with moral take-a-way. Even when I already know it doesn't work like that.Help me to allow the villains in my story to become beloved friends.
No one is going to remember me soon, do you realize that? I mean- you're God. Of course you do. I love how I'm always stating the obvious to you. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be flippant, just real. I mean- after my parents, I can't think of anyone who will care for a memory of me. My grandparents are all already gone. My siblings get along fine without me. My teenagers aren't banking many cherished moments in my company these days and my husband- well, you see everything. I think he'd miss me but not all of me. Not the parts that confound him. Which is fine, because I don't understand me either. I don't know-all I mean is no one really needs me now. There won't be a gaping hole. And even if there were, those fill in within a lifetime, if not sooner.
News of my death will set amongst my family members like the news of their deaths have set with me: melancholy for a moment and then that relentless marching forward. We are always marching forward. Granny taught me to to crochet, right? But all I've got are a bunch of half squares and random chains of yarn to show for it. What good was passing it on to me if it never turned into a heart felt gift for a newborn baby? Where are all those granny square booties she made for us at these days, anyway?
I'm not planning to leave any sort of major legacy- I have no blueprints to change the world. No money. Sometimes that leaves me feeling... indifferent? Pointless. I don't know. I am spiraling quickly into Ecclesiastes territory: all is vanity, what's the point? Help me to make the time you grant me count... or help me to care less about what it all means. Either way, be thou my vision. I don't even know that song but- okay. Yes, it fits and I guess I understand why someone wrote it into one. Help me to enjoy this life and make it count for whatever reason you gave it to me, even as I lack an understanding of what that reason is.
Sometimes I wonder what a brain not exposed to King James English and old hymns sounds like.
"...Thy will be done..."
That's just the thing, isn't it? Your will is the Kingdom and it can't be here until we are different. I mean- that's what I feel I've learned. Imagining having to share Heaven with 'them' helped me see that better. Like, if we hide from people in the grocery store, how can we expect to enjoy holding hands and singing hymns in heavenly robes, right? It's still awkward...and hard to do. Sometimes, so hard really. And typically I only get past one or two individuals. Sometimes the same individuals I tried to imagine sharing Heaven with before. There are some I still can't even imagine sharing space with at this point. But I think realizing my limits there helps me to understand. If we can't be loving here, we aren't ready for Eternity together. I see that.
I wonder if I wrote something on my blog about how Facebook is like the Kingdom of Heaven would that be a little like blasphemy? The Facebook Kingdom? For Thine Is The Facebook? "What Facebook Taught Me About Heaven? Bleh. I don't want to write anything spiritual. I am not Seeds From The Sower. Gag me with a Guidepost.
Why do I want to write when I also have nothing to say? I wish it would leave me alone or I could harness it and ride to someplace good. I have nothing nice to say... no clever stories waiting to get out. Why this preoccupation? Why do I always spin my wheels on pointless stuff when I really need the energy elsewhere?Soap. Peanut Butter. Blogging. Coffee For Lunch. I can be so...
Still...there it all is. Old flames and bullies- people who hurt us or remember embarrassing things about us...the people we were happy to leave behind are no longer out of sight or mind anymore. Being on social media really has been an exercise in facing the past and the future as the people we have been and are becoming.
I just shampooed my hair. Why am I doing it again? I know the bottle says I can, but I didn't intend to. This was supposed to be a quick shower.
"Forgive us our debts as we forgive our...."
Wait. Wait. I don't know if this would be wrong or not- I'm not sure of the verbatim wording you used and I'm not trying to change your words, but if I could... please, please do not forgive me my debts as I forgive my enemies. Cause I'm severely lacking there. Lord knows- I mean- you know-how some of those things that I want 'closure' on are just excuses to keep certain stories as part of my identity. Those stories help explain how I got to this place in time, or that one... but if I am no longer the girl who was wronged at the end of the story or--and this just happened recently--if I realize it was me who actually owns the blame, well, who will I be then? I dread a bigger scoop of this mode of just being... of numbness... not sorrow or joy... just breathing, blinking, auto-pilot me. If the stories that brought me here are erased by Grace, how do I avoid becoming more blank?
Can I just ask you to teach me to forgive folks according to your measure of forgiveness for me? The difference being that you are the litmus of forgiveness rather than my ability? Would that be allowed or maybe it doesn't work that way. I'll have to go back and read that passage again too, but maybe that's what you wanted us to realize as we prayed it in the first place- that we are going to need help if the portions we give match the portions we get. I need help because the wounds are bigger than the Band-aids in my pocket, they outnumber them too. But I can't....cannot... proceed without your forgiveness. If you won't have me, where could I go? Oh, where could I go... dang this mental jukebox. Seriously, it's a little ridiculous, don't you think?
And also, this is why I don't write devotionals. I'm probably a wolf myself-deceiving myself and your sheep. I don't write them because I've quit reading them. I cringe at the idea of telling someone else what to think about God. I am just learning how to spell your name, myself.
I looked through the fogged shower glass to the alarm clock beside my bed. Okay, twenty-seven minutes to be exact. Still, twenty-seven minutes alone in my head can be an eternity... and I had yet to do anything but stand under the spray of hot water.
I decided then to speed things up by taking a man's shower. That is to say, I'd skip the loofah and hair conditioner and use the woodsy-smelling green bottle of 3-N-1, instead of the three lilac scented pastel bottles meant to be used successively. The combination was meant to unlock a woman's secret beauty according to the happy spokeswoman on their paid advertising blocks during television's insomnia shift.
Ha! (had that been aloud?) With no secrets and no beauty to unlock, I should be able to knock this shower out with a one-two punch: hair, body, out! I had things to do, important, pressing things and I needed to finish them right away. Just as soon as I remembered what they were. Maybe they'd come back to me if I slowed down and shaved my legs.
"That's not very manly." I told myself
"But it's fine" I answered me "because I'm not actually a man and I'm skipping other things."
Onward, upward. "Always start with shampoo." Momma taught me that. "In case the water runs cold, at least your hair will be clean." There was a time when water heaters weren't so automatic. And I guess this is true however far back you care to stretch it.
Okay, God. Here we are. Just you and me. I don't know what to say. I don't really feel anything.
I'm not unhappy. I'm not fighting the urge to cry. I just am, you know what I mean? Ha! Yes, you do- of course you do, you're the one who said "I AM" I mean... well, what do I mean ? I don't know. I just feel like I should talk to you but, you already know me, you know what's going on and I don't feel like I have anything to report. So, here I am wanting to talk but without a whole lot to say. It all feels so...obvious.
"Fo-cus, fo-cus, fo-cus" I work a lather in my hair to the rhythm of my own friendly reminder."One thing at a time." God, if only I could have you unscramble this brain of mine. You must want me like this- but why? How does it possibly glorify you that I forget pretty much everything and get sidetracked mid-sentence?
Here we go. I know what I need to do- it's all I know to do, God. Please forgive me for being so casual...and naked...in your presence. We have to take baths down here, it's ungodly when we don't.
No, no I don't think I'm funny. I hadn't planned that. Okay, well, it did make me chuckle a little.
I've just got to start or we are never going to get through. Gosh, that sounds like Wonka in the elevator, doesn't it? Is saying Gosh kinda like calling you Josh? Why am I like this?!
"Our Father..."
God you are my dad, and you are their dad, too... you're not just mine, you're ours. How curious that the people I just pictured are from so long ago. I realize you love them, too... as much as you love me. Help me to be a better sibling to the ones you know I'm struggling to love. You know who they are. More importantly, so do I. I don't have an excuse- I just need help. Thank you.
"Who art in Heaven..."
Why do I still pray in King James? It's weird but it gives me the frame to hang my own modern words. It's funny how every time, this prayer is different even though it is exactly the same. Maybe that's why you said 'pray like this' instead of 'pray these words'. I'll have to go re-read that passage, but I'm pretty sure that's how it is phrased... ah "Who art...who is...God you are in Heaven, which means that you are in a fixed place where I can find you. You aren't hiding from me. You are here- there, I mean- well, here too. And you are way up there-high in the sky, although I'm not sure that's scientifically correct...or theologically sound... but still we got that imagery from somewhere and it stuck, but, you know, I realize it means that you can see further down the road from so high- so, please give me the directions I need to get to where I'm going. God, I have no idea where I'm going...and I'm so very hard of hearing.
"Hallowed be thy name"
Yes, I honor you- I am thankful and also so sorry for not being more thankful. Thank you for the daily bread you faithfully provide. I know I'm skipping ahead now, but thank you. I ask for your help being a better, more cautious steward. Help me to pass on what you've provided. I feel as if I'm becoming accustomed to living out of abundance and....and I'm confused a little. I mean, I believe that you will provide and that you will fill the bread basket to flow over into the baskets of others if we are diligent to share... man I wish that didn't sound like so much like a prosperity gospel bit... but, I really do believe that you'll give to me so that I can give to others even if I got that idea from a wolf on t.v.- which I probably did but I can't remember now. I don't want to lose sight of that. That you gave it so I could share it, not spend more of it on fluff and stuff.
I haven't been looking to give very actively this last little stretch...as you well know- I haven't been doing anything well at all for this last little stretch... but, I don't know. I feel like not living out of guilt is ideal but I also feel like I kind of need that guilt as motivation. Just help me please- to be more aware and to meet the needs of others.To give more thought when I am spending and to show more discipline than I have been. Show me where I can make a difference whenever I next turn on my phone- a goFund me or stated need- if you don't mind- just bring something to my attention.
"Thy kingdom come..."
I mean, your Kingdom is coming or it's here and expanding according to some beliefs, or it's gonna be here soon or maybe later- but, well, we don't really understand the Kingdom on our own. You tried to explain it to us and we know that it is different than here- we know things have to operate differently to be of the kingdom, so please help us-- me, I mean- teach me to be a citizen of your Kingdom. God, this may be heresy, I don't know, but help me to live my life for the Kingdom even if the only definition of Kingdom is how we live our lives here on Earth- I'm not saying that's what I think- I just mean, help me to understand how to live right now and not so much with an expectation of a payout in streets of gold in the future. You know how difficult all that is for me to even picture. Streets of gold? It doesn't appeal to me anywhere near the beauty of kindness and restored lives, healed bodies and homelessness no more. I want to love others. And I always mean to do just that. And I do okay with friendliness toward strangers. I can hold big ideals of unity and forgiveness up to the light and cast rainbows all about the room. But the actual meanies-- those who smirk and say "You HAVE to forgive me because that's what you Christians do." those are the difficult ones and I know, those are the only ones you're really going to count. Letting go of..well, the thing... those things... that we have talked about, that you see me re-visit again and again in my mind... I don't know, I just keep searching for the meaning, for that one loose thread that's supposed to tie it all together and make my story an open and shut fable, complete with moral take-a-way. Even when I already know it doesn't work like that.Help me to allow the villains in my story to become beloved friends.
No one is going to remember me soon, do you realize that? I mean- you're God. Of course you do. I love how I'm always stating the obvious to you. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be flippant, just real. I mean- after my parents, I can't think of anyone who will care for a memory of me. My grandparents are all already gone. My siblings get along fine without me. My teenagers aren't banking many cherished moments in my company these days and my husband- well, you see everything. I think he'd miss me but not all of me. Not the parts that confound him. Which is fine, because I don't understand me either. I don't know-all I mean is no one really needs me now. There won't be a gaping hole. And even if there were, those fill in within a lifetime, if not sooner.
News of my death will set amongst my family members like the news of their deaths have set with me: melancholy for a moment and then that relentless marching forward. We are always marching forward. Granny taught me to to crochet, right? But all I've got are a bunch of half squares and random chains of yarn to show for it. What good was passing it on to me if it never turned into a heart felt gift for a newborn baby? Where are all those granny square booties she made for us at these days, anyway?
I'm not planning to leave any sort of major legacy- I have no blueprints to change the world. No money. Sometimes that leaves me feeling... indifferent? Pointless. I don't know. I am spiraling quickly into Ecclesiastes territory: all is vanity, what's the point? Help me to make the time you grant me count... or help me to care less about what it all means. Either way, be thou my vision. I don't even know that song but- okay. Yes, it fits and I guess I understand why someone wrote it into one. Help me to enjoy this life and make it count for whatever reason you gave it to me, even as I lack an understanding of what that reason is.
Sometimes I wonder what a brain not exposed to King James English and old hymns sounds like.
"...Thy will be done..."
That's just the thing, isn't it? Your will is the Kingdom and it can't be here until we are different. I mean- that's what I feel I've learned. Imagining having to share Heaven with 'them' helped me see that better. Like, if we hide from people in the grocery store, how can we expect to enjoy holding hands and singing hymns in heavenly robes, right? It's still awkward...and hard to do. Sometimes, so hard really. And typically I only get past one or two individuals. Sometimes the same individuals I tried to imagine sharing Heaven with before. There are some I still can't even imagine sharing space with at this point. But I think realizing my limits there helps me to understand. If we can't be loving here, we aren't ready for Eternity together. I see that.
I wonder if I wrote something on my blog about how Facebook is like the Kingdom of Heaven would that be a little like blasphemy? The Facebook Kingdom? For Thine Is The Facebook? "What Facebook Taught Me About Heaven? Bleh. I don't want to write anything spiritual. I am not Seeds From The Sower. Gag me with a Guidepost.
Why do I want to write when I also have nothing to say? I wish it would leave me alone or I could harness it and ride to someplace good. I have nothing nice to say... no clever stories waiting to get out. Why this preoccupation? Why do I always spin my wheels on pointless stuff when I really need the energy elsewhere?Soap. Peanut Butter. Blogging. Coffee For Lunch. I can be so...
Still...there it all is. Old flames and bullies- people who hurt us or remember embarrassing things about us...the people we were happy to leave behind are no longer out of sight or mind anymore. Being on social media really has been an exercise in facing the past and the future as the people we have been and are becoming.
I just shampooed my hair. Why am I doing it again? I know the bottle says I can, but I didn't intend to. This was supposed to be a quick shower.
"Forgive us our debts as we forgive our...."
Wait. Wait. I don't know if this would be wrong or not- I'm not sure of the verbatim wording you used and I'm not trying to change your words, but if I could... please, please do not forgive me my debts as I forgive my enemies. Cause I'm severely lacking there. Lord knows- I mean- you know-how some of those things that I want 'closure' on are just excuses to keep certain stories as part of my identity. Those stories help explain how I got to this place in time, or that one... but if I am no longer the girl who was wronged at the end of the story or--and this just happened recently--if I realize it was me who actually owns the blame, well, who will I be then? I dread a bigger scoop of this mode of just being... of numbness... not sorrow or joy... just breathing, blinking, auto-pilot me. If the stories that brought me here are erased by Grace, how do I avoid becoming more blank?
Can I just ask you to teach me to forgive folks according to your measure of forgiveness for me? The difference being that you are the litmus of forgiveness rather than my ability? Would that be allowed or maybe it doesn't work that way. I'll have to go back and read that passage again too, but maybe that's what you wanted us to realize as we prayed it in the first place- that we are going to need help if the portions we give match the portions we get. I need help because the wounds are bigger than the Band-aids in my pocket, they outnumber them too. But I can't....cannot... proceed without your forgiveness. If you won't have me, where could I go? Oh, where could I go... dang this mental jukebox. Seriously, it's a little ridiculous, don't you think?
And also, this is why I don't write devotionals. I'm probably a wolf myself-deceiving myself and your sheep. I don't write them because I've quit reading them. I cringe at the idea of telling someone else what to think about God. I am just learning how to spell your name, myself.
I rinse my razor and go to the next leg. "I'm on my last leg" I mutter with a smirk. Why does that always amuse me? I'd once called it out as a reply to someone waiting for the bathroom and it continues to re-surface from shower to shower. It really lacks context to be funny. It would only be truly funny if I was one legged or if I died after saying it. Still, I insist on being amused. And this is me, talking back to myself.
"It's funny."
'Not really.'
"I'm still gonna smirk."
"For Thine is the kingdom and the Glory..."
I know I'm missing some parts. It's okay. It's all yours, it belongs to you, it's all you. I've got to get out and get busy.
"It's funny."
'Not really.'
"I'm still gonna smirk."
"For Thine is the kingdom and the Glory..."
I know I'm missing some parts. It's okay. It's all yours, it belongs to you, it's all you. I've got to get out and get busy.
I have no idea what I'm doing here. Sometimes I feel like you're teaching me. My teenagers frustrate me and then I realize that I'm pretty much still at that exact same stage- a spiritual teenager. The same girl I've always been is present and accounted for, only more sneaky and better at disguising huffs and puffs as "getting older".
I shut down the stream and wrap a towel around myself. I have not said 'amen'. I am thinking about the article online a friend shared, about Amen being some old Egyptian god and unsuitable for closing our prayers. I shrug it off, figuring that even if it were true, God knows our limited understanding in these matters. I don't say 'amen' because I am not finished praying- I never really am. Maybe I am just droning on to myself. A crazy person who talks to herself and has become convinced she's talking to God. Sometimes hearing from Him, too. How would we know the difference? Sheesh. I AM a piece of work, Sam-I-Am.
I use the bar of soap at the sink to clear a place on the fogged mirror like my dad taught me to do a long time ago. I wonder if it was a scouting thing like the sand to clean pots and pans or from some other adventurous chapter of his life.
There I am. I look me in the eyes. It unsettles me to hold my gaze as I think/pray, so I force myself to stop the mental chatter. I wait for a lightening bolt moment, but there is none of that. I am me and that's that. That's all there is to it. I look away.
I begin rearranging the vitamins on the bathroom counter so as to politely break eye contact with that girl in the mirror. Waiting on an Aha! reflection in the mirror is a waste of time, but I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings by affirming there's nothing to see. Straightening up is important and a good excuse to be on with it.
I move the Colloidal Silver to the side and think back to earlier in the day when my daughter told me she had a lip sore. "I need to get something for it. " she'd said " Something liquid maybe, that will make it go away rather quick, before it grows out of hand. " I had quietly rolled my eyes. I knew she wanted the silver, but couldn't bring herself to ask for it directly. She was afraid I'd say 'No', the unlikelihood that I would deny her access to medical care never figuring into her equation. She had almost quoted me about the quick healing properties of silver, but she was hinting around rather than asking outright.
I shut down the stream and wrap a towel around myself. I have not said 'amen'. I am thinking about the article online a friend shared, about Amen being some old Egyptian god and unsuitable for closing our prayers. I shrug it off, figuring that even if it were true, God knows our limited understanding in these matters. I don't say 'amen' because I am not finished praying- I never really am. Maybe I am just droning on to myself. A crazy person who talks to herself and has become convinced she's talking to God. Sometimes hearing from Him, too. How would we know the difference? Sheesh. I AM a piece of work, Sam-I-Am.
I use the bar of soap at the sink to clear a place on the fogged mirror like my dad taught me to do a long time ago. I wonder if it was a scouting thing like the sand to clean pots and pans or from some other adventurous chapter of his life.
There I am. I look me in the eyes. It unsettles me to hold my gaze as I think/pray, so I force myself to stop the mental chatter. I wait for a lightening bolt moment, but there is none of that. I am me and that's that. That's all there is to it. I look away.
I begin rearranging the vitamins on the bathroom counter so as to politely break eye contact with that girl in the mirror. Waiting on an Aha! reflection in the mirror is a waste of time, but I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings by affirming there's nothing to see. Straightening up is important and a good excuse to be on with it.
I move the Colloidal Silver to the side and think back to earlier in the day when my daughter told me she had a lip sore. "I need to get something for it. " she'd said " Something liquid maybe, that will make it go away rather quick, before it grows out of hand. " I had quietly rolled my eyes. I knew she wanted the silver, but couldn't bring herself to ask for it directly. She was afraid I'd say 'No', the unlikelihood that I would deny her access to medical care never figuring into her equation. She had almost quoted me about the quick healing properties of silver, but she was hinting around rather than asking outright.
So frustrating.
Perhaps she felt her chances of getting what she wanted were greater if she structured things so I felt it was my idea. "I'll ask her for something liquid and fast acting and let her realize on her own that silver best fits the bill. She will feel so smart, she will go get it and I can get rid of this thing quicker."
Silly rabbit, I thought as I slid the bottle back into the medicine cabinet- I just want you to ask for what you want, for what you need. Say "Mom, where's the silver. I need some for my lip." You're going to need to be direct in your adult life. And if I say no it's probably because I know of something better for that particular kind of sore.
Ha! (was that out loud? Probably.) Okay, I get it God. Haha. You just want me to come to you, too, to ask for what I need. Even when you already know. I get it. I mean, this isn't the first time I've realized it, but got it...message received, lesson remembered.
Silly rabbit, I thought as I slid the bottle back into the medicine cabinet- I just want you to ask for what you want, for what you need. Say "Mom, where's the silver. I need some for my lip." You're going to need to be direct in your adult life. And if I say no it's probably because I know of something better for that particular kind of sore.
Ha! (was that out loud? Probably.) Okay, I get it God. Haha. You just want me to come to you, too, to ask for what I need. Even when you already know. I get it. I mean, this isn't the first time I've realized it, but got it...message received, lesson remembered.
I am a silly rabbit, too.
Thank you Father, for not rolling your eyes at me.
Thank you Father, for not rolling your eyes at me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)