Ordinary Life

When I was in grade school, our class took a field trip to the house of another student. I don't recall everything we did there, but I do recall learning to make cinnamon applesauce. It must have been Fall. The lady allowed us each to turn the crank on her apple coring machine. I thought it was the niftiest thing. And I have wanted a machine of my own ever since. They always felt like an indulgence at $20 or even $15 apiece. But this weekend, I found one brand new, on sale at a thrift store for $3. I'm tempted to say my life is now complete, but really it is just a tad more sweet. Apple curls, anyone?

The question was recently posed amongst a group of friends whether our depressions and anxieties are sinister voices that hail from a spiritual realm or are but the echo of our own inner cynic. I rarely feel the need to opine on such things, but it just so happens that I have been pondering the same line of thought over the past few months myself. I don't have the ability or desire to speak definitively, but wouldn't mind joining the conversation. Here's what I've got so far : Not that long ago, I realized something helpful: every thing a particular human enemy was saying aloud to me was exactly what a spiritual force bent on destruction would say if given a human voice. This person was close enough to know what was important to me and where I was most prone, so that is where they aimed their lashing tongue. I came to believe that, because this person was not yielded to kindness, they had offered themselves as an open tap for discouragement. One name used for a spiritua...

East coast girl with your sun tanned skin Salt in your hair, kissed by the wind You're wild and free to live and let be Strings let go you'll soar and sink low Follow the river away from the sea  Float the Savannah, back home to me. I once wiped the tears of a young girl's eyes  Real life is tested by whether we cry. Feel and allow it, for though there is pain  A life without contrast is one built in vain. Salt and fresh water, shadow and light  Opposing angles build houses upright I sit in my own house, thinking of you,  little kite tattered, lost in the blue I bottle my question and fling it to sea:  Were sandcastles and kite flying only for me?

Worship War Ship We may be surrounded but We will go down with this ship.  I am learning this about fighting my battles-with-worship not to mention fighting my battles with worship:  Work with the options given; Be the change I wish to see It’s like dancing  This “feeling the Spirit move” but not with shouting or charisma I am more guarded than I ever admit  I do not cry out loud Not in public No displays of any affection Worship is not an outward expression of  inward devotion  It -for me- is mostly inward You can’t see my heart racing, my mind reeling  But I am learning I am feeling. My 'worship experience'  is me, experiencing worship the way I do Alongside my brothers and sisters  experiencing worship in all the ways that they do.

Friday night and we are out to eat, two widows proper and me, widowed by the death of a girlish dream. Our waitress leads us to a four top, one empty chair for the phantoms we bring. We three share genes and a bloodline, but have different ideas about dressing a biscuit. My aunt asks for apple butter, my cousin requests honey from a bear and I opt for maple's syrup. The phantoms are silent. No one asks what they would have liked. My aunt, alone the longest and of a quiet nature,  is content to share our company. My cousin, twice widowed yet too young to retire, is - unbeknownst to our waitress - a former five star general in the order of Cracker Barrels. I feel the need to create content, to lift countenances; we are not begged by little voices to please, pretty please , play checkers. The phantoms clear their throats and I push the peg game meant for one in front of their empty chair. "I wonder if they have blueberry muffins tonight?" my cousin asks aloud "Oooh, mmm...

This week, my youngest child is with her Nanny (the goat is silent). I only said that because it is a funny play on words ~ and funny. I have no feelings of ill-will against her father. I also have no choice in this whole visitation arrangement per the state of Georgia. So I have chosen to embrace the positive notes in this otherwise tone-deaf arrangement. Before the divorce, I never had this much help with the children. I couldn't be gone for an hour without the phone ringing, wanting to know how much longer I planned to be gone. It was understood that if I left the house, the girls and possibly 3/4 of the crew were to ride along, too. Especially during football and golf season. Now a court has ordered the father of my children to take responsibility for entire weekends at a time so that I may finally attend to my writing.  I've been given a whole new blank book, this time, to write  myself as I truly am. Today, it was the simple enjoyment of sleeping in, writing over coffee ...

Dear Ryan, Rarely do I feel the word 'quintessential' applies - especially in regards to myself. But you have transposed me into the notes of a song, quintessentially. Thank you. When I was first diagnosed (ha.) as a nine, I didn't think I could be sure of my own results. "Who am I to say, what any of this means..." indeed. I tested a few more times over the past few years, ever and always a nine. But, for some reason I kept my results close, replying to the few people I allowed to know "I tested as a nine" in case maybe later my actual number came to light.  I never shared the visual caricature that captures the key 9 attributes publicly, because... what if there was something I wasn't remembering, something I wasn't letting myself be honest about? What if eventually I would admit that I have always been a five? As I type this now, being a nine stands out to me from every line. You helped me "see myself through someone else's eyes....

Midnight sleepless I lay a-bed Poisoned skin  Rash thoughts ahead Rolling cloud brings no doom  Quenching rain floods now my room  Unfiltered truth, bold and wise Mirrored glass  Me, through those eyes Write your moments, trade them in  To speak the truth is not a sin I cross my heart and cannot lie  Inky diamond With no sky  Shooting stars don’t count as less Instead to them our hearts confess  Now I lay me down to sleep Content with love I get to keep.

My friend, Ms. Story, is 93 years young. We went to the doctor today.  She put on lipstick and her wedding ring for the excursion. The doctor gave her really good news, which made us both a little sad: she no longer needs her arm sling. It means she won’t be needing me to stop by every couple of days to help her with little two-handed tasks around her house.  She has been cleared to use the dust pan again, and to dust her own body with White Diamonds powder after a fully involved shower, instead of our routine featuring only a sponge.   Now when I visit, it will just be as a friend, with treats for us to share... one who visits frequently and isn’t going anywhere. 

That’s a wrap! Riley’s initial soccer experience on the 9U Y team, ‘Green Lightning’ was a season of fun and learning about teamwork; ergo, a success.  What a guy... thanks coach for all you do! ⚽️⛺️🇺🇸