Etching

I went away and came back with words written on my arm. They're in me now, in my skin, the skin that is me, and that's how I want it. I need them close, need to see them every day, so that I can live them and breathe them until they're more a part of me than my skin.

She saw them almost as soon as she saw me. "I want you to talk about the words on your arm," she said, and so I did. Happily. (And yes, she can have some of her own someday, with my blessing.)

I told her where the words came from, how Dame Julian loved God so much that she went to live alone so she could talk to Him all the time, and how she wanted to share God with other people, too, and so she wrote. Some of what she wrote, one small part, began to etch itself on my heart the first time I read it. "All shall be well . . . "

Then I told her how T.S. Eliot borrowed the Dame's words and added to their beauty, if that's even possible. And still they called to me.

And then my season of worry, of anxiety and learning how children make me vulnerable and fighting to come to terms with that. This season of knowing, eventually, that I have so much and that I cannot live on the edge it all hangs on. And these words, they remind me . . . remind me to return to myself, to my family and the kids, that I don't need to be afraid and so I can stay here, find gratefulness, and remember my calm.

I wanted them before my eyes, wanted them closer to me than I could get with writing them on paper or putting them in my phone, and so I had them inked under my skin. Already they help me breathe, help me remember and reorient in a way that nothing else has.

She doesn't understand, not yet, but she keeps asking for the story. I tell it, like I tell her the story on my icon and read her Bible stories, because I know understanding will grow as she does. And maybe, with these words etched on my arm and etching themselves on my heart, she will grow up breathing them like she breathes air.

Christmas Beckons

The holidays are upon us. They do that, springing out of nowhere on their little cat-feet. But for the first time in many years, I'm ready for them.

What with the moving truck showing up two days after Christmas, without her I'd be tempted to let things slide. I'd be tempted to put in a half-effort, to figure that next year is time enough for us to get it together and have a real celebration. But now, even when I tell myself that she won't remember it, I know she'll hold her first Christmas in her heart somewhere, in the part of her that tells her what it's all about, and I want that to be a solid place for her.

She makes me ready, her fair face peeping out behind hair that could use the serious and dedicated application of some scissors. For her, I want more than decorations thrown up at the last minute. In fact, the decorations don't matter so much anymore. It's the heart of the season that I want her to feel, right from the very beginning.
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I went on a retreat, once, and drew several pictures of trees. Most of them were green, even the one with the moonlight. But one was a tree in winter, naked branches surrounded by snow and grey sky. I shared the retreat and the pictures that illuminated it, and the most baffling commenter said, "The green ones are beautiful and speak of life and growth. But I don't know what to make of that [grey] one. It's so sad."

And I didn't get it, because winter is beautiful, too, all glistening white and warm lights beckoning from windows and getting to see the craggy glory of the branches. A different kind of beauty I could give him, a kind that reminds of longing and things that aren't complete, but beauty still. Like sadness is beautiful.
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Nurturing is a kind of winter, asking my soul to give up itself for another. I am woman, but it doesn't come natural. It brings me to my knees, making Christmas for her in the places my feet rest right now. But there is life and joy and beauty, alongside the conviction that we are walking a dark path, a night path, one that runs through groves of naked trees.

We're waiting, the trees and I, for something to make sense of the snow. Maybe that's what he meant, my commenter - snow is beautiful, but if that was all we ever knew, we'd grow tired of it. The cold would overwhelm and our hearts would falter. Mine would, anyway. But I'm not sure I could ever grow tired of spring.

Though it's here the hitch appears to lie: Would I love a forever-spring if I never saw winter's bleak beauty?


Linking with Emily and the Imperfect Prose community.

Musings on Last Times

I'm in a season of last times, a season where I'm starting to notice every time I drive that road and pass that house and see this sky. Sometimes I know: I won't be here again. And other times I just have to wonder, to let the warm autumn light stream through the window and hold me as I try to remember, just in case I don't see these moments again.

The first time is always fun and new and exciting. And then there are all the middle times, the ones that run together, that don't seem important at the time but that make up a life and that make it worth living.

And then there are the last times, the ones where I wish I could remember every single other time I've been here and done that, but I can't and so I'll remember this one: the last one.

It isn't until the last times that I realize just how much I've lived in this place, just how I've inhabited these roads and these buildings and this chair. Just how much they are a part of me.

It makes me sad, this long goodbye, and it makes me happy. At least I get to say goodbye.

At least I get to say goodbye.

And in truth, it's all goodbye, goodbye and hello. Each moment is a hello and a goodbye, for even if I have this place and these walls again tomorrow, I don't have this moment to be in them. And so the moments are a rich savory soup of vegetables jumbled together, hello-goodbye-hello-goodbye, and if I held all the hellos and all the goodbyes I'd lose my mind.

So I let God hold them. Release them into his hands, his big wide open hands, and ask him to keep them for me, to give them back if I need them, but mostly to keep them, somewhere safe and warm. Because they're treasures, these moments, precious, precious treasures and I don't want them to get cold and old.

And in the meantime, I will live in each moment. I will find what there is to feel and to savor, and I will drink it up because it's the moment I'm given. And my job is to be faithful with what I'm given. No more and no less than that.


Again I join Emily and her precious, imperfect community.






PS I may be around here less, these days. I have another writing project I'm throwing myself into, because it's time and my soul needs some good work to do. Rest assured, I will be here, and I will be on your blogs and I will be back when I'm done.

And I, the Night Watchman

A flame

in the darkness

is as beautiful to this pilgrim

as sunset colors on canvas

or spring flowers

uncoiling

inch by inch in 

April's warm rain.

Winter is long,

and still,

a season for growing

to fill tight spaces

until,

long limbs akimbo

new life scrambles

into the outside world.

We study life,

the how and when and where,

and forget

to sit and watch,

that watching is action

that will wedge its way into our souls

making us different

than those with closed eyes.

So I wait,

for life and light

to draw me 

through a door

into the warm kitchen

where people raise

their glasses around me

and celebrate life

with cocoa and champagne.

Linking with Emily and other friends who will be part of that kitchen celebration, that home-y dance party where everyone is welcome.

Summer Storm

You speak of love
and your words are wet and heavy.
Silver runnels slide over
shoulders, back, buttocks, thighs,
cleansing cobwebbed self-doubt
from places I'd forgot.

Fat and cool,
dropping like summer rain from a storm that
boils up over the mountains in the afternoon,
soaking skin before
I even think to hide.

I am drenched,
beyond hope and power,
hopelessly soaked,
though skin to bone,
and beyond,
to the center and I-know-not-what.

The day's plans ruined,
I can run inside,
where dry clothes and
protection from the elements await,
and forget the drops
that splash across my nose.
Or I can stand out here,
silent and alone
and let them run down my skin in
rivulets and rivers and streams,
world without end.

Amen.