Friday, December 12, 2014

a little wind

the sun, the waves, the wind: by Steffi Au Fotografie
: on flickr

every time it's windy
i am moved
     and assume    the wind is
for me;   change,

it says.

every time it's windy on     my    street
i am      moved   
                            as i think
how    the     wind      is   moving
on everyone's street
knocking  everyone's windows
lifting everyone's            feet.

every     time
    the wind   moves
                me         i     stand
where i am   i stay  put    and    lean
              i put foot to     land

    i   am   calmed   when   i   breathe
        through the    pressure     rushing
             and all around  beseeching me
                                               to stop.

Pay attention to the signs         
                                          the broken branches
            the apprehensions in the trees
              swaying this way and                            crack!

        Do you see what it means?   Do you see what happens when the growth
        from the roots refuses to glean from     age old   wisdom:   be    willing
                                       to move    when the wind does
                                                                 or you'll break
                                                                     into threes

          Part one: what was          Part two: what grew    
                                                                                     Part three: split by force

every time  it's windy    i can see    that a little    wind    is  nothing to be    afraid of:

    a fourth thing surprises, at least eventually:  new where broken,  in the air: peace.

© afterthought composer

Thursday, December 11, 2014

take your blessings as they come

It seems as though each angered swing t'ward the heavens is answered in some funny form: a flock of birds over the sunrise, a touch in perfect time, a needed conversation. Tempting, perhaps, to ask what in the heck flying birds have to do with sorrow. The answer is: practically nothing. But, if you're anything like me, you've got your own version of a signal, your own soul-deep way of telling if the world will swallow your whole heart, or not.

Let's call them there birds: air bubbles. A puff to the face from a God who's got the world in tow.  Let's call the hand on my shoulder a rapid awakening, as if sadness were a dream, and happy-abilities were a dream within it. Parking lot talking and office escapees and letters in the mail: all service the reminder need. It's easy to feel forgotten when you forget yourself. How gracious, then, that I'm not forgotten; I'm not alone on the earth. How gracious I've got people to poke holes in my solitudium, every now and again. Else, I'd swallow my heart whole (or not).

So, it's been a good week. I've been lifted. But,

I'd be lying if I said I no longer desired an Encouraging Word of Biblical Proportions. Where are my open-faced rocks and dancing columns of  lava, my doormats watered by heaven, and not by the Vancouver rain? And where, hello, are the visions of my enemies, being tossed about in a sea recently parted?

Yes, I would find that encouraging.

Maybe it's generous of Him, then, to stay silent. As it turns out, if He truly spoke I'd light on fire. And if I'm honest, I usually assume his speaking = Worst Case Scenario of Biblical Proportions Wherein God Takes Away to Teach Lesson. If that's true, his silence is especially generous.

Because I've got myself afraid of hearing Jesus, I'll settle for wing-ed things and quiet drips of water, distant voices, muffled by the chasm of the creation of my brain. I'll breathe & bathe in the fresh air of all I've been given. I'll hope, because hope is one of the many good things. I'll pray; on the periphery.


Monday, December 8, 2014

seriously considering alcoholism

I probably don't mean that. I probably mean that I'd like an easy form of escape. The title's suggestion is not truly easy, and I know that, but it does take less time to drink a drink than it does to nap, go on vacation, watch a whole TV series, eat an ice cream cake. But I should be clear, since certain people I know will print this out and bring it to their lawyer as PROOF SHE'S A TERRIBLE MOTHER/WIFE/HUMAN BECAUSE LOOK WHAT SHE WROTE ON HER BLOG: I'm just kidding about the alcoholism.

In a time of life where Life is unrelentingly busy and I can't stop it, where the perverted, maniacal little clowns keep throwing shit in the fan and aiming it right at my face, and The Great Doctor feels it necessary to dump all of the salt in my raw, raw, wounds: tell me why the sermon was about rest and peace, and how those who receive the two are under the favor of God and those who do not receive them are not in the favor of God. Dear Jesus, do you really think I needed to feel abandoned about something else?

I digress. Jesus has it out for my sanity. He has a serious hate-on for my comfort zones, boundary lines, requests for progression, positive feelings about humanity. He continually turns my sweet, healing water into acid (for the record, I'm the one who turns that acid into whine).

The problem is, you can't love God and people and wear a protective sleeve over your heart. It doesn't work that way. You can either be gracious through the pain, or set the boundary for next time. You can either be honest about your love, or lie to protect yourself. Self-preservation and generosity of spirit don't mix. In fact, self-preservation doesn't mix with anything, except bitterness, greed, nashing teeth, haphazard soap-box construction, and confessional booths I make myself, wherein I try to hear God over my reactions.

I guess I'm waiting for something more than a whisper. Threads are hard to hold on to. Where are the grand gestures, winds of change, holy fire-pillars, parting seas? Where are the angels with messages just for me? They're in a book, on a page, and even there, I can not find them.

amazing photo: credit:

Thursday, December 4, 2014

something to write about; writing about something

I've been wondering lately - well, not only lately, but especially lately - if I am addicted to the treacherous. Hear me out. My life is easy. Embarrassingly easy. Not only in comparison to the rest of the world, but especially in comparison to the rest of the world. Basic needs are met with ease for me, the only squeezing comes when I buy myself too much stuff. I enjoy a plethora of little luxuries. My question of addiction comes from the awareness that, for the past few years at least, it has been much easier for me to write when things are difficult, and much more difficult to write when they are not. I have developed a habit of swinging my words, with some force at, or in direct reaction to, the changing winds. Though I don't depend on faulted cues, unfortunate coincidences, and angry people, I have certainly used the existence of all these things as a crutch for getting something on the page. I miss the days when the wind could come or go and I'd be writing anyway. I miss those days.

I have just begun part two (or rather, the second "part one") of a two-part book entitled HOW TO BE BOTH, by Ali Smith. It's a brilliant novel - and though I don't often swear (and especially not where my mom will read it), I feel I'm leaving something important out of my desciptor, by not using any swearwords. A bit of advice: don't read about it first. Just go buy it, open it, dive in. Reading anything on the amazon page, or elsewhere, especially comments and reviews, will ruin the experience of this piece (why I didn't include a link -- no snooping!). This book is one to be experienced without preperation.

Reading How to be Both, in its opening pages, annoyed me greatly. Here it is, you guys: a well-written stream-of -consciousness novel; a novel I have been told ad nauseum could not be written well. It's poetic and formula-breaking and really, really good.
I digress.

I am envious of those who create, whether by force or habit, and not by circumstance. It seems I am a circumstance writer, trying very hard to know how to write, no matter the circumstances.