looking back to look ahead

 Hello dear blog!  It's been too long.  Let's write something.

I'm a new season (thank God).  However, I do not want to forget a morsel of what I learned from the previous season--mostly because I never ever want history to repeat itself!  I also want to officially remember in thanksgiving so that I can cleanly move into a new place of the spirit.

Below are some snatches of almost-posts/journal musings from the last year...

October 15, '12

    Some years your heart is wrung out, mistaken for a tattered dishcloth.

    I don't say who does the wringing, but I know who mops up the mess afterward.  And such a mess!  What a stink it is, too—the deep, heavy sticky juice melting into all it touches, all it feels.

Stains everywhere, on the most ordinary objects.  

    It’s like this—you wake up and rush to a physical because your health insurance is almost expired and that’s what responsible adults do—they get physicals.  The mundane tick tocks along until you are asked your family medical history.

    A bored middle aged nurse says, “Let’s starts with your Mom.”

And Mt. Fuji erupts!  The UK sinks! 

    Heart stains everywhere, doubling you over as you stumble out, “She dies in June.  Cancer.” 

The previously stoic-bordering gremlin nurse transforms into Florence Nightingale, gives you a hug, and apologizes.  You muster up all the strength of a two year old and tell, with your toddler’s timbre, the specific cause of death and the age of the deceased.  The heart stains fade back into the carpet and you’re able to discuss more pleasant, normal fare—like why you don’t want a pap smear today (Ladies, if anyone asks you if you’ve had your “Well Woman” lately, be warned.  They speak not of vitamins).

September 18, '12

Humility Buoys/Little Things

The little things I am not above. 

Making my bed and peeling carrots, taking vitamins and braiding my hair. 

I’ve sunk underwater; I look up at life from twenty feet under like a stingray.  The sunlight patterns gentle waves, flexing and flowing in simple loveliness. 

From below, from below. 

If I just make muffins, play a Sonata, laugh until my gut aches…if I just go to bed on time.  Then I will begin to float in the shallows.   Just gulp humble air and remember I'm alive--and let the mechanics of my body spark and ignite my soul.  

I am a simple creature.  For all my pawings at greatness, I drown in my own depth. Forsake the exquisite sculpture that sorrow carves into the heart—just enjoy the coffee, baby. 

Let toes finger the deep, but don’t dive for long.  Let my greatness come from flying not falling.

I am done with dazzling depths that collapse my heart.

Let the ordinary keep me afloat.  Let it save my life.

my soul, juiced

Well, here we are.  The first blog of 2012.  I've spoiled myself with tea and ambience and time, and now all that's wanting are words to fill the empty page.  And hopefully some mental engagement to accompany said words.

Some years your heart is mistaken for a dirty washcloth and goes through the wringer.  {Oh this post is da bien.  keep going. keep going.  One of these days I'm going to write a secret blog that has cuss words galore, and it will be secret except for those who will understand and appreciate profanity's highly debatable place in literature.  I will strain my coarse venom out of this blog, however.  This blog is a lady.}

I can't say who does the wringing, but I know who cleans up afterwards.  A soul crushed into jagged realities--what a bloody mess.  Like a lemon cut and mashed into a juicer.  How do you heal that?

I've been holding off writing for at least 11 months because I've felt I've had absolutely nothing to say.  Now I see that there is much to be said, but I'm not sure how to say it, and don't trust myself to handle things adequately.  Also, I feel like it would just plain be too sad.
But regardless of whether or not people read it, I must write.

Out of courtesy for my fragile mental state:
1. I am not going to start linking my blogs to facebook. At least not for a while.  (What would become of my reputation as a relatively sane individual?)
2. I am not going to worry about making sense.  That would take far too much mental contortion.
3. I am going to write in sketches.
4. I am not going to expect very good writing.
If you still want to read this after all those conditions, Lord love you.  And grant you grace and mercy!


A typical morning in grief:

             I wake up and cringe.  Remember Regina Specktor's lyric, I am awake and feel the ache.  Wish I knew more about her life.  Press snooze ten times.  Scrunch my comforter over my bedhead and groan like a toddler.  Look at pictures of my mother on my wall.  Miss her.  Play her voice like a phonograph in my mind.  Wonder, fear prickling, how much longer I'll remember.  Look again.  Stare.  Hit the snooze.
             Remember that Christmas is coming and I don't know where her coffeecake recipe is.  We have to have the stupid coffeecake.  It's Jesus' birthday cake.  Stare.  I'll make it with too many chocolate chips, I know I will.  It will be mushy and all wrong.  Stare.  Blink.  Stare.
             I recall how annoying it was when she'd wake me up, because she'd be preternaturally chipper, her voice jumping an octave in sing-song.  I would motion for her to come next to my bed, and I'd bury my face in her stomach, and she'd hug me.  I would feel about five and be happy.
I close my eyes and feel dead weight forming beneath my eyelids.  That's right, I sobbed right before bed.  Crap.  Am I getting eye bags?  Can grief do that?  That's so unfair.  Should I get another brand of concealer?  If I just managed to sleep, it'd probably take care of itself.  God.  God.  Jesus Jesus Jesus.  Be with me.  Near.  Really near.  
              I stare at the white of my comforter, then at the creams and yellows in my room with the morning streaming in.  An aspen room.  It's so pretty.  I should appreciate the aesthetics.  I wonder how old I'll be when I die.  Jesus Jesus Jesus.  Jesus.  Finally, finally finally I scrape the cover off and stumble up, dizzy.

Music. On. Good.  Getting dressed.  Decisions.  Oh dear.  That requires thinking.  My feet are cold.  I always get grumpy with cold feet.  Socks, socks, socks---No, you FOOL!!  MAKE YOUR BED!  It's a matter of national security!!  Make it NOW!! NOW!!! MAKE IT!  Billions of LIVES depend on it, the fate of the Middle East--JUST MAKE YOUR--ok.  Good.  Done.  HA!  I made my bed! With cushions!  I'm a success at life!  Yes.  Thank you Jesus.  Now what in the world was I doing?  Um...teeth.  Brush your teeth.  Oh bother, my feet are cold.  Socks!  Right.  Socks.  What time is it?  OH CRAP!  Brush your socks!  BRUSH them!  No...

It is a miracle I leave the house acceptably dressed.  If I have earrings on, it's a special miracle.

I have, however, taken the precautionary step of donning a onesy to bed.  That way if I completely lose it, I will show up to work halfway decent.  Or at least warm.

hearts... the beginning

Hearts. Oh, the messy things!

It astonishes me what God would do for an undivided heart.

Sending his only Son was just the beginning, ensuring that his quest could be successful. But once Jesus' blood covers us, God gently covers us with His righteousness like a surgical gown and goes to work. His shepherding leads us to quiet waters and still pastures, but it is when our souls are finally quieted within us that He can whip out the surgeon's knife. If there's any anesthetic, I haven't found it yet! Jesus' way always leads to more feeling, more bracing life. At least in this age, His consuming fire of love comes with searing pain.

http://img1.artweb.com/users/1841/77499_human-heart.jpg

Back to the Beginning
The first glimpse of man's heart and of God's heart is separated by one verse:

Genesis 6:5
The LORD saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every intention of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.
then in the very next verse, we see God's heart:

Genesis 6:6
And the LORD regretted that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him to his heart.

Already God had bound his heart to ours--our heart moved His.