Rights All Things

Whirl of images, blurred and unbalanced.

Out of nowhere.

My living room, a spinning funhouse. Walls rocking like sides of a ship, sharp, yet unable to focus and still the swirl.

Then, rubber. Left arm shaking and bucking its control. Loss of feeling, all I could do was watch it move up and down, around, unable to grab hold of anything solid.

The speech. Slow, slurred. My brain knew what it wanted to say, and say at a normal rate, but the words wouldn’t come when called. Stutter, heavy, anchored to another dimension I wasn’t meant to reach.

I am so glad I was sitting on the fold-up chair at my table. If I had been on two legs, I would have found myself buckled by them and on the floor as the world lurched on and I could not catch up. //

How in the world did my brain throw off balance?

How in God’s unfathomable grace, did He still the spin and set me right again?

Monitors blink into the inky night, murmur of nurses muffled down the hall. Here, all begins anew. One breath, one beep, at a time. I hope the needles can come out of my skin soon, but now, they are reminders, along with the leeds strapped along my chest to check my heart, that my life is not my own.

Blinds down, shade the hospital room. The world has righted itself, but still there are pieces of me frightened it will happen again, that I will lose my place in this life and oxygen once more be doused from my brain.

But He is here. In the still, in the holding cell, the sweetness of His presence in a terrifying topsy-turvy turn of events filling me with gratitude more than I could imagine. He is Emmanuel. God with us. Even in the upside down, the out of control.

I rest my mind, my body as best I can with the heart monitor in place and IVs poking my veins. God is near, and He has never removed me from the palm of His caring hand. And so, I believe. Believe in Him who sees me through, whose mercies never cease and watched over my ordeal with careful, unblinking eye. Believe in Him who keeps the stars aligned and time itself in balance. Believe He remains faithful, that there is more left for me to see and love and align with His heart.

He rights all things, our hearts and our heads. Keep believing. Great is His faithfulness.

 

 

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Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Balance.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

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Grand Amusement

I was born for something. Born to be someone. But what? And whom? This is the question that has hounded me as I gained years, gathered lines in my life. Always, whether I was aware of it or not, my purpose, my deepest desire for approval, has followed me through seasons, through laughter, through furious tears. And always at the end of the day, draw of dark, the edge of my heart stitching itself into the hopes of others.

I’ve longed for a grand amusement set far beyond this bound of land and time. A sacred realm stretched sweetly through the fabric of my soul. Stepping lightly through this world, ears tuned for echoes of Eden.

In the balance, in between. Longing for the memories and events that pierced my heart in the purest sense.

Drizzled Moments

It comes so unexpected, a few light drops at a time.

Steady, certain, a gentle rhythm that pings atop the roof. The softness is quick to slow me down, sink into the cadence. I open my windows to listen better, let in the scent of just-damp pavement, tap of soaking leaves, whisper of wind. For me, there is nothing better than a gray, moody day where the rain glides for hours on end.

There’s room to breathe, a pause from the frenzy and feeling of cozying up with a warm cup of coffee or tea.

It’s in these drizzled moments where I allow myself to pull out memories of dreams when I was younger, to explore what would have been if life matched up with my mind. I allow myself to remember those tender beats within my breast that begged God to let me write, let me be loved. //

The cries of my heart.

In those times, I’d bundle under a blanket and pull a notebook to my lap and close my eyes and move my mind, my heart, between worlds—reality and words, feelings, images—and weave what I could together. Poetry, my love, mingled with rain—both make my spirit come alive. And I imagined that what I wrote would rock the world in the best of ways.

Gray goes right through to my bones.

It is my strength, these strands of rain that fall to the earth, the brooding melancholy laced with unreasonable hope. I write away, bring out those dreams once more and let them take me to another place, another time, another future in which I can live both worlds—the world that is, and the world for which I long.

 

 

Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Rain.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

Recluse

I started out lonely, a fern among flowers. I hid deep in the shadows’ underside of woods, where the fingers of the sun never stroked my face. I craved corners, deep crevices where I huddled in the underbelly of obscurity. I was a recluse. I bathed in new moons where my face was sheltered in an enveloping ink of black velvet. I was far away from life. I was far away from you.

Insatiable

I am the long, spindly shadow of beach grass
coming alive in the wind.
I am the spread of white foam washing to shore
on the last breath of a wave.
I am the horizon that has no distant land,
always leading farther.
I am the rise and dip of sand moved
by feet and storm and age.
I am the limber limb, lush leaves of trees
spreading arms in praise.
I am the eternal pull from a pulse of beginning,
there as you formed within the womb,
expanding, always curious for an insatiable
longing you cannot name.

Bring Forth To Become

Summer’s swinging in after a long and barren spring, which wasn’t much of a season in Wisconsin, like always.

There is a warmer sun that can border on hot on a given day, breeze off the lake that stalls the scorch. Beds of lilac bushes burst in fragrance and color, the routine bloom that comes around my birthday.

I am finishing my move into the lower flat in a neighborhood atop a hill in my favorite harbor town. A space I never imagined, I have carefully constructed the insides to bring color and comfort—National Anthem and Free Sky blues in the living room, buttercream honey yellow across the kitchen.

When I cross the threshold, slip to my porch in the early morning, my eyes migrate immediately to the sprawl of Lake Michigan gleaming like one majestic jewel against the sky.

This is my view.

Every day.

Who am I to receive such a gift?

Kansas City and its jazz, barbeque and battle remnants of growth within me still reside in my rearview mirror. It’s hard to believe it has been seven months since my tires rolled through Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, Illinois to find their way back to Wisconsin, to the house of my childhood, to family, to a new season, new job, new life to forge, including a new home to call my own.

I still cannot believe this is the direction of my life.

Back where I fought so hard to stay away.

Back to the moments, ways and prayers that made me part of who I am today.

Back with burst dreams and difficult beginnings.

Back home.

// Though you return to a place, a memory, people, have you ever really gone away?

The senses, words spoken, emotions spread through your bloodstream, it’s all still there, swirling in your past, pointing to your present.

Though I have traveled thousands of miles, dug my faith deeper and cracked open the skin of new soul, I have found my way back to land familiar, lanes shaded with crab apple trees and dips of gravel and pavement broken from years of wear. Though I am back to my hometown, after fighting to free myself from its constriction as I forged a life in Kansas City, here at the edge of the water I realize I never truly had rid it from my body, from my history. It was always still a part of me, even in learning the ways of a city smack dab in the middle of the country, it sat dormant, this quiet call for simple, as I pushed it to the farthest pieces of my mind.

I tried to be free of the town and people that raised me up, to be my own person. And I am, in gentle and needed ways. But I am also still tethered to the small towns with young and old lined up along the street for Memorial Day parades, for walking through the grocery store and someone calling my name. //

How I’ve missed the sound of my name from the tongue of someone familiar.

Listen to the way they speak, to the way they welcome you again.

I cannot go back, but I can bring forth what I have become. In ways I was too stubborn to recall, maybe a part of me is returning that has long been forgotten. The girl who ran through fields and marveled at the beauty of long grass billowing in the breeze. The girl who held wonder in her hands, believed the best in everyone and was not afraid to imagine incredible things. Who hoped with heart wide open, and refused to let the world and its troubles beat her down.

I am glad for the salt on my skin, tan arms and light that has come back to my eyes. I am glad to roll the windows down while I drive the highway, let the air course through the car, ruffle my hair. Feel that what has already happened may just be a precursor for what is to come.

Sometimes we need to return to where we came to remember where we will go.

 

 

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Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Return.   // symbolizes where five minutes started and/or stopped.

Elements of Silence

Today’s the kind of day where the damp goes straight to your bones.

Where the wind laughs wildly and slaps the waves of Lake Michigan and makes them jump ten feet in the air.

Where rain and snow merge amidst the clouds and storm to earth as slick and sharp sleet. Like your skin’s stitched with daggers.

The boards of this house creak and rock like a ship sloshing through the mass of water. Cold filters through the windows as if there are no panes at all.

I keep the lights off and let the muted gray move its way through the halls; pace the room and collect the silence, save the howl.

Howl.

Is that what this noise in me is doing?

Looking for you in all the wrong places and lashes out in frustration when you’re nowhere to be found? When the truth slips my feet from under me and turns me upside down?

Wind rolls sideways, upturning the tree branches. The sky is turning slate quicker than I would have thought. Can I light a candle not in remembrance, but to forget?

Let the elements roll in. Limbs become submerged in ice and face turns to the tide. At breakwater’s edge atop this hill that holds these howls for what has been, I drink the mist into my eyes, translucent fuse of fog and dusk, become a myth, the silence.

Same Verse, Separate Song

Scenes of choices I didn’t know were wrong or right plague my past with pictures I can no longer stand to see.

Deep early hour conversations that sock the air out of my gut when I learn things have never been quite right, pushing past red flags with excuses to validate my desire for love.
Curled up in a knot beneath the covers, full of a cold that goes deeper than my bones.
When the phone goes silent, no matter how I will it to light with words to tell me we go on.
Hope stretched for years, quietly wishing for truth to unfold and him to choose me.
Realization wiping empty my heart when I land alone, ardent actuality unveiled of an incomplete desire becoming ash and smolder, embers of my envisioned life grown cold.

Waiting, always waiting, on the one with galaxy eyes and a canvas-painted view of the world.

I wish to wipe away the twinges of guilt, paths chosen that I believed would turn out right, and youthful hope within my heart for an elusive love I dared would come.

We can try all we want; still, when the world we fashion in our hearts isn’t meant to be, there is no amount of effort or well-meant surrender of our destiny that can breathe it to life.

Regret is a fresh fruit plucked repeatedly from the branch.

I regret the way I opened my heart, tentative as always to break beneath the surface of my scars once more, and yet the smile of him who set my hopes ablaze sprung wide across the expanse of sky in my dreams.

I had tentatively stepped into the wonder that is what if, and tumbled head over feet in lost dreams and sharp edges that sliced me in places I had carefully left exposed.

To regret my paths is to doubt God, that He can take my mess and make it clean. That He cannot come so close to what I have destroyed, what I wish was not, the acts of life that still roll over the film-strips of memory, how I long to change some of the parts of my story I opened myself to in attempt to find belonging. I cannot take back how naïve I was, how jaded I became when the pulp of my heart was ground and slain. And how it took forever to begin to try again, and what became of the same verse, separate song. ///

Regret is an old wound that festers, spills and refuses to heal.
These wounds remain intact, raw, callous. And I keep slicing myself on the same shard, reopen the same gash, watch tiny red pools swell and drop, swell and drop. We all have the capacity to never fully heal.

I can let these scales of sadness dry and tighten on my skin, encapsulate my decisions and see them disintegrate as one by one, I lose my happy ending, invite an endless mass of gray I cannot understand.

I could berate myself forever with questions that dig under what I most crave, itching at what is just beyond the reach of my soul’s hands.

How do I live with the constant pang of alone?
Why do I keep coming up short?
Am I never enough to make them stay?
Am I too much, my past too twisted, to truly be seen and chosen all the same?

This feeling of inadequacy sinks me low, takes air from my lungs and pushes me dangerously closer to the bottom. If I continue to store the what-might-have-been miseries within my glass breast, the weight will push and surge to burst my chest clear apart. Doubts assail my most sensitive bits, and I fight with every ounce of faith I have to prove myself worthy of love. That I am enough.

Please tell me I am enough.

Enough to find.
Enough to see.
Enough to give a happy ending at last.
I can be seen. I can be found.

And someday, these regrets will lead away from the ache to a burst of joy, as if seeing the sun after months of continuous night.

I blink, adjust my gaze, and unlatch my heart to take in that for I’ve waited long and true, unable to contain the wonder.

 

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Continuing my attempt at the Five Minute Friday weekly writing challenge. Five minutes to write on the assigned topic. Raw and unedited. (Yikes!) This week’s topic: Regret.   /// symbolizes where five minutes stopped, and then I continued writing.