Again

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Again, it happens.

First, his words.

Then, my inward wince and the inevitable tug on the one loose thread that dangles in my periphery.

I struggle to keep it steady, that thread. I will it to stay connected in all the right places, feeling its pulsing connection with the garment wrapped tightly round my heart. Knowing that one good pull will begin a great unraveling and soon my heart won't be the only thing naked on the floor.

And, again, I choose wrongly.

For some days, no amount of teeth clenching or deep-breath-taking or willing.it.away... can stop the torrent of vitriol that spills from my mouth. And in a blink, the thread lies in a pool and its shapeless form mirrors my heart space.

Again, I have failed him.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And eyes become shimmering pools and faces blur and why can't I err more on the side of grace and less on that of spoil?

And everyone just wants a do over.

Again.

Cherish

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seven years old.

Completely taken by the joy trail that fluttered on his arrival.

Immediately accepted.

Embraced with a love strength that surprised and delighted.

Carried constantly.

Squeezed and kissed, seventy times seven.

Gazed at, caressed, completely delighted in.

Held by the hand in everything, but most connected when alone.

Despite lengthening years, the love growing roots and clinging deep.

Loved so hard until thin places developed, serving only to reveal his center, the stuff he was really made of.

+++++++++

Could the way that I loved this childhood plush grant me a glimpse of the divine?

Could it reveal, in ways new and yet examined, that I, too, am cherished?

Dive

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

The only way to pull this off is for me to willingly choose to lose my footing. Otherwise, it is no different than being pushed off the edge. 

I don't want to be pushed.  

But, in order to tilt slant I have to let the total of who I am pitch over itself. It means plunging headlong towards the bottom of the murky depths, despite my fears of what lies beneath.

I have to let what is known beneath my toes give way to nothingness. 

And then, for a moment, there will be freedom. 

For that in-between space, the one where I am neither on land or in water, it is just like that first day. That journey between darkness and light when I burst forth this side of heaven with a splash? It, too, was the yoke between the known and the unknown.

Only, this time, I must risk becoming unseen. 

For the flipside of leaping is a necessary descending.

But that arc? It is just part of one big cosmic circle and so there will be a rising.

My face will split the waters and I will breathe again.

"If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking."

-John Mark McMillan

Opportunity

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"It's not a competition. It's a doorway."

-Mary Oliver

Too often, opportunity is this fleeting concept. Something to jump on before its too late. The one chance to do something that changes things. A singular moment that can turn a life.

But maybe, opportunities are more akin to falling snow. 

When the first white flies, it is gift and happy and sparkly wonder all wrapped together. We run around trying to catch each flake and we marvel at their exquisitely unique shapes. It is magical. Inevitably, flakes land on our coat sleeves and then melt and we never get to see what crystalline shape they took. But we don't lose hope because there are others, falling one behind the other, and they all feel as if they were created just for our eyes to see.

No, we won't catch all of the snowflakes.

But we've walked out the door.

Photo credit: _Zeta on flickr

Wonder

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

*************************************

Each day, we are moving closer to the long darkness, the season of night everlasting. 

When days melt quickly into inky blackness and linger long on the edge of dawn. The days, they grow colder. The trees, they stand rigid and bare and stoic. 

How curious that in the deepest parts of this season, when there is more darkness than light, we would be offered the gift of wonder.

For who among us can abide in this darkness? To dwell here is to live among the walking dead.

So, the Wise One, He drew back the veil of stars and entered in. In a place at once dark and dingy, the bearer of light broke through the shadows.

It is on such an Eve that wonder lives and breathes and has its meaning. For there is no precedent, nor moment following, that can outshine the resplendence of Love made incarnate.

Even the moon seemed to feel the depth of darkness as it hung low and heavy in the twilight this week, full to bursting and burning with a fiery richness. Almost as if it was wondering as it wandered across the frosted sky. 

Stay

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

I bend low, nuzzling cheek and ear, drinking in the smell of boy and soap. It is warm in the crook of his neck. And his arms, they circle round and round my neck. And this child, he won't let go. Not tonight, at least. Or tomorrow. Or even the day after that. This nightly ritual, this silent clamoring, this desperate appeal...it is, at once, constant and fleeting. Everything in him cries out for me to stay.here.always.

And I should listen.

Because there will come a day when his cheek will be coarse and his smell will slant towards manhood. And his arms, they will lengthen and his reach, it will widen. And that wish for me to stay will cool in the wake of shifting winds.

So, for now, tonight, I will stay. 

And as I nestle into the folds of his fleeting boyish charms I find my soul has a clamoring all its own. 

Stay. Here. 

Remain. Here.

"Stay joined to me, and I will stay joined to you."

John 15:4 (CEV)

Quiet

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

I lay down in the field, crunchy with decay and prickly with spent blooms. Such is the bed I choose, sometimes. Down low, nestled among the swaying skeletons of summer, my only view is skyward. The blue expanse is dotted with a billowy white that absorbs my piercing gaze and, if I stay still long enough, I can almost feel the tilt of the globe.  I am captured by the quiet.

I am resting in the eye of the storm and nothing can penetrate this hallowed space. It might be true that a storm rages at the edges and the thunder claps and flashing lights compete to frame this space outright but I choose to remain in this circle of quiet. It is only here that I will be able to hear the murmurs riding atop the gentle breezes. It is here where I can be still and know.

Roots

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

I remember when I first saw this tree. It's massive trunk in stark contrast to its feathery leaves. How I was humbled just standing next to it, painfully and gracefully aware of my smallness. And how amazingly beautiful it was. 

It was October and its usual verdant leaves were caught in transition between emerald and amber. To stand at its trunk and gaze up into its flowing, wide-spread branches was to be at once, humbled and sheltered.

But what grabbed me the most about this magnificent tree was its roots. They were dark and gnarled and expansive and they wove themselves in and out of each other, in route to the water just near.

And the whole monstrous behemoth of a tree leaned.........

It gracefully and beautifully leaned into its life source.

It was as if it inherently knew it could sway and bend, reach and extend, grow and rest

because of its roots, flug deep and far and wide.

I want to be that tree, planted by the stream, who bears fruit at the right time and whose leaves do not dry up.

And so, if I am ever cut down, I will be like the stump of Jesse and branches will sprout from my mouth and I will live.

Voice

Easing my way back into a writing routine after a very stressful week that stole these moments from me...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

Today's Prompt:

Voice

You have been here, all this time. 

You were borne into me in the rushing of waters and the swirling of dust. 

Small and frail, perhaps, but you entered the world on holy orders.

You were called into being by the Voice that spoke life into all of creation and, as a result, you have meaning.

You have been known to hide. 

For years, even. 

Taking refuge in the shadows created by other voices, you believed you weren't as important.

Or as eloquent.

Or as relevant.

But there came a day when your timid little soul could hold back the damn no longer and the words came rushing, tumbling and rattling themselves across time and space.

And, standing there, bare and naked, washed clean by the holy waters, you remained.

And though some days you are an Aspen leaf, shaking wildly in the wind, you are golden.

Go, then.

Fling yourself upon the expanse of creation and sing...echoing, all the while, the Voice that breathed you into being. 

Look

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

You say it so many times a day anymore that I have begun to ignore its imperative.  I brush your entreaties off so easily, like the swishing away of a fly or an errant hair across my cheek. I don't think I even hear the half of them.

"Look!"

It's that simple. 

Stop. Turn. Look.

I used to do that naturally. You were smaller then. So was my world. And the days, the hours, the minutes were filled with that delicate dance of looking and showing and telling. We were all so new back then and so I was sure to miss something if I didn't keep looking.

I'm not sure why I think anything has changed. 

Years pass, you grow, we all look different. But there is still so much to show and tell.

And that looking? That urgent desire to have our eyes meet? If I were doing more of it, there would be a lot less asking for it and instead of dancing around each other's gazes we might already be in each other's arms. 

Welcome

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

Welcome.

I believe that I will start looking at that word as a contraction.

We...will...come.

Maybe that way, I can begin to understand all the facets of its cut.

For I want my heart to breathe with hospitality, acceptance, appreciation, delight.

I want my moments to be less about, "Here I am!" and, instead, sound more like, "There YOU are!"

I want a life that beats from the center of all that is good and noble and lovely.

Consider it another way of scripting the gifts into every moment, every opportunity, every time.

Perhaps then I can really receive all that comes my way.

Because all of it--all is gift.

We...will...come

Focus

Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.

Writing for five minutes.

A sort of writing flash mob.

Focus.

I hear my voice rattling around in my head all tinny and sharp. Impudent. Insolent.

I feel caught in the cramped space between my get-it-together self and my what's-wrong-with-you self.

These voices, they deafen.

I just want to be present.

I want to be here.

But I have become so very scattered and pulled.  

A backlit screen has become my muse rather than the face on the couch bathed in morning sun.

The papers on the table, they fan and crumple and I am so very lost.

There is that epic trip next week, the one that will make memories I will hold onto from now into eternity but

I 

just

can't

pull

it

together.

It is the window that I need.

That flat liquid sand miracle.

I need to gaze through it, turn my face aright.

Let it be my lens.

Perhaps, then, everything will come into focus.

{Five Minute Friday} Change

It moves with grace and beauty, transforming night into day and summer into autumn...

It's there, the silent partner walking alongside my boys, dancing above their faces in the wee hours and stretching their limbs as they move and breathe and have their being...

It sighs sweetly in the habits of my day, as I smooth fresh sheets or fold a handful of napkins or pull a sweet smelling shirt over my head.

It even makes music as it clinks together in my pocket.

It walked beside a girl who made a promise to a boy one day and ended up with a new name.

And it ushered a heart of fear and trouble and endless questions into a life that continues to be renewed.

{Five Minute Friday} Join

In this space, today--

No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation. 

Unscripted. Unedited. Real.

I see you there in the corner.  Book, or sketch paper, or dragon figure in hand.  Busying yourself with stories or drawings or make believe.

You're there
and
I'm here.

Where I am, well, it is busy and scattered and important.   I would prefer not to be interrupted, thank you.  A few or ten or 60 minutes more and I'll be finished.  Set aside.  Complete.

So you wait.

I catch glimpses of you from the leaky sides of my eyes but I plow forward anyway.  Just a few things more.  Then I'll be done.  And ready for you.

But then, in a moment, when I am distracted from my distractions by a Spirit wind,

I see you.

Sitting there.

In the corner.

And our eyes lock and a power beyond us seals my gaze.

And your eyes, the ones moist with anticipation and impatience and desire, that ooze love unending

they say it so simply.

Join me.

Please.

{Five Minute Friday} Stretch

Linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker for her Five Minute Friday writing prompt.

Taking five minutes, without worrying about extreme editing, perfect grammar, font or punctuation and offering up something unscripted, unedited, real. 

It is not perfect, nor probably is it profound.  Just five minutes of focused writing.

Period.

Today's word prompt is Stretch.

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I can't help but remember that time when I was eleven and I begged my mom to sign me up for a gymnastics class.  I wanted to be one of those girls who bounced off mats and swung around bars and ended every jump with sparkly flair.  But first, I had to learn how.

They had some of the equipment set up, some of the fancy stuff that I wanted to get right to the business of learning how to navigate but

first things first

we had to take all kinds of time to stretch.

Insert extreme moan.

It was hard to be patient and go through the slow, steady work of warming up our muscles.  What did these boring, tedious exercises... that were beginning to get painful, by the way...what did these have to do with the fancy mat work that I longed to perfect?  I wanted to be a gymnast, remember?

But as I leaned into the poses, feeling every fiber flex and eventually, give in, I slowly saw their purpose.  There would be no high flying fantastical routines if I did not, first, do the daily, basic work of stretching.

For to stretch is to challenge, yes, but it is also to shape.  To shape, more fully, into what is possible.

{Five Minute Friday}: Connect

(Today I’m participating in Five Minute Friday with Lisa-Jo Baker. It’s a flash mob of writers writing for five minutes without stopping to edit, over-think, or re-do. If you’d like to join in, just head over to 
Gypsy Mama.  This Friday’s prompt is connect.)

I've decided that I can no longer stand the grit on the floor so I get out the vacuum, determined to eradicate all that rubs my feet the wrong way as I try to go about my business.  I haul the loud machine all over the kitchen, sucking up the crumbs from a hundred breakfasts of toast and the dirt from a week of dog.  I am a woman on a mission.  I keep pushing the boundaries of how far I can drag the blasted machine before I have to stop and find a different outlet.  But my singular focus--a clean floor--clouds my awareness and, suddenly, everything goes quiet.  I've stretched the cord too far and suddenly, my power source is gone.

How many times have I done this?  And how many times, in that moment, have I turned on my vacuum? How many times have I cursed the blasted machine, blaming it for why I can no longer vacuum?

But the real problem is not the vacuum.

It's the disconnection.

Only by reconnecting the cord can the machine work.

When I am plodding through my everyday life, am I the kind of woman who looks for ways to make connections, rather than breaking them?  Or am I the the kind of woman who curses the very thing from which I've become disconnected?

I forget, a lot of the time, that my connection with those whom I spend most of my time is

the most important thing.

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you.  No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine.  Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.  I am the vine; you are the branches.  If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me 

you can do nothing.

If this is the reality in my relationship with God, if the result of not seeking out connection with God is that I can really do nothing, doesn't it follow that the same would apply in my relationship with those who mean the most to me?

When will I see that to seek out the connection is to begin the hard work of binding to another, just as a knot joins two strands together?

The Word

the Word was first
before
even me
before
even Him

a seed-thought
born in the heart of God
swelling and pulsing
ripe with all that
is
or
ever would be

then
that Word was spoken
holy breath blown across
dust
and
there was life

and there was light

a light whose
silhouette
burned life
despite
the darkness

and the darkness
like an ocean
engulfed
and
raged

yet still
there was light

because the Word and the light
they
live

and
like seeds
they have been planted
in my depths
and
woven together
in my secret places
and
they take root

as creation spins
and the heavens twirl
I am grafted into something
bigger

and
it is in the splicing
in the splintering
that I am
made
true

because
that is where 
my story begins