Wednesday, October 28, 2015

joy break

....and we're off! To a joy break; to lighter things. To fun, unadulterated. To bright lights, big-city style. Side-street delis, actors on stages, Uber, blue-men, music, stacks on stacks of people in buildings; and, I'm assuming: shoes. What else? We hope: big, big fun and sweet soul rest.


Tuesday, October 27, 2015


when you fall to your knees and ask that His will be done
and it is
and it isn't what you wanted it to be
it doesn't mean His will wasn't done.

when you tell me I'm less or further because of my choice
it proves your distance

I'll still admit my distance


not at the expense of my voice.
You choose a pulpit, and that's just fine. Pulpits have their place.
But so do feet and hands
 and unless the two (both voice-box and extremity) are linked
 you can keep your pulpit, made up of
what I can only assume is
everything you say I am or not

but then again
i suppose this might count
as a pulpit

Sunday, October 11, 2015


Sometimes all a soul needs is a heavy wrestling match, a good night's sleep, a long look at everything scary. Once fears have been assessed, abated, there is nowhere to go but up, onward, to the next; goodbye, idle melancholy! Hello, calm center, I have missed you, you boundless giver of oxygen.

If soul is missing from the work, bring soul with you. The reason death becomes a day-job is because apathy is so appealing at first. Eventually, there are drawers full of miscellany, seventeen forks to wash, a missing bowl, and paper everywhere. Funny thing, I don't clip pictures of chaos for inspiration. I am drawn to beauty. I am drawn out by the finishing touch. Beauty and order; beauty and the order of my choosing; and yet, I don't choose it, very much.

There is a story I've heard, about a little bird. Actually, the story is about a wise old man on a mountain, but what a cliched way to begin. I'll begin there anyway, and make sentences to fill in the details I forget.

On a mountain, above a village, lived a wise old man. It was said he knew everything there was to know. Legend had it that you could ask this man anything, and he would have the right answer. Two young men decided to trick the old man. One captured a small bird, and said to the other, "We'll climb up, and, holding the bird in my hands, will ask him, 'Is the bird alive, or is the bird dead?' If he says the bird is alive, I'll crush it and kill it. If he says the bird is dead, I'll open my hands and the bird will fly away. Either way, we've got him." They decided this was a very good plan and began their ascent.

When they reached the house where the old man lived, they knocked, and out he came. "Old man," said one younger, holding clasped hands out as he spoke, "Is the bird alive, or is the bird dead?" The wise man thought to himself, "If I say the bird is alive, they'll crush it and kill it. If I say the bird is dead, they'll let the bird go. Either way they've got me."

He paused another moment more, and then looked at the young men with conviction.
His answer, rightly, came: "The bird is as you will it."

My life is full of little birds, each taking their turn in my tightening grip. I can give life to the idea, or, I can crush it and kill it. Call these past few days a mountaintop, and perspective, now, my village; in my life I can live or not, the worth is as I will it.

Saturday, October 10, 2015

When everything is difficult, the ink dries.

(via Delightful BW Photography / ✕ Moon River)I was told to stop drinking coffee, but I still drink it depend on it. I'm looking for escape clauses everywhere. Makeshift beach, pretend vacation, couch as mountaintop think-spot. Solitude as necessity is nothing new; love as necessity still feels new but I like it. The day job by which I pay for life is killing my soul, which is sad and ironic, if that's the right word to use. Step-motherhood's a bitch, and I fear the self-fulfilling prophecy of it all. As it turns out, being good doesn't mean you'll be good enough. Idealism is a terrible, terrible thing.

There's a fresh chapter starting, somewhere, without me. Right now I'm stuck on the muddied pages of reality and I'm done with it. But I can not be done with it, because life is life. I read the news to remind myself that I'm pompous, and self-centered, and my troubles are a picnic. The spotlight on my life will land on shadows and arrogance, I think.

There's a certain silence permeating my life, because rageful debate and calm demeanor have gotten me nowhere. My audience prefers to be lied to, and I can't do it, so I stay quiet instead. Go along for the ride. Now, I want off.

Thankfulness is always a savior, picking me up from the grave of a new problem. I refuse to be won-over. I need a win, so I make one up. I need another, make one up again. Through it all, God is very quiet.