Whichever Way the Wind Blows

Photo Credit to my Incredible Half-Sister-In-Law, Crystal Brown

I know...

It has been too long. I realize that the irony is thick around this one, but I was busy writing so I didn't write. Here. (Rolls eyes... Takes deep breath.)

Life gets in the way sometimes and lately I have been letting life get in my way more than most. You know, I have these afflictions. Afflictions like parenting and making a living (several, in fact) and every now and then running away from home... FAR away from home. These all have gotten woefully in the way of writing here. Not that I haven't missed it. I have.

Here is where I feel free. I can be who I am, write the short stories, be the scattered person in my head with the thoughts all a-tangle and the wine glass full to the brim. I will still check in... I will. I still have writing prompts that keep at me and little pieces of myself to explore. Here is where I do that. Here is where I dare to be unprofessional and not authoritative and not at all in control. Here is where I live.

I am a dandelion seed, blown about on the hot winds of summer.
I am hither and yon, lighting only momentarily to take flight once more.
I tilt and careen, carefree in my path, never certain of my landing.
When my updraft-umbrella-seed finally alights,
I am there only enough time to push through the surface, bloom briefly and take flight again;
Rebirthed and rejuvenated, lifted by the breezes to fly again.
Aloft is where I find peace, the earth cannot hold me fast.
Aloft I am renewed and invigorated. Earthbound is not for me.

Of Bangles and Silk

Photo Credit

I have a gypsy shadow… She rises from the steam of my bath, curling, twirling, spinning madly, arms raised entwined above her head. The tinks and clinks and tiny bells upon her skirts hypnotize my busyness, slow me down, calm my buzzing brain. She is a froth of activity, but so free, so wild, so unencumbered I forget to worry, I just watch…

She twirls into the depths of me and spins herself around my heart, releasing all of the things I should not do, could not do, have not done. She opens the gates on my fears and sends them fleeing out into the openness, away from me and my soul. She laughs at my reluctance, dances through my anxiety and flings my insecurities and doubts far away.

She unfurls my confidence like the silky scarf tied fast around her hair and opens me wide with the flick of a ringed hand, bangles clanking against her wrists. Refusing my hesitation with a hearty cascade of laughter she reaches in deep, caressing my inner secrets, cherishing my awe and wonder wresting from me the gems I never thought to possess.

The silver bells on her ankles bounce and sing as she beckons me to loose the wild, to dance with her in abandon and unbridled joy. Her cascading laughter and whispered sighs encourage me to dive and spin and twist beside her, to open that vault of mystery and explore the delights inside. She pulls the burn of my desire from my deeps and spins the flame, unafraid, into an orb of bright and inviting light. She is revealing the hidden and giving wings to my dreams in ways I could not do.

I have a gypsy shadow and she's never far away…. Listen and you can hear her sing.

Watercolor by Quincy Brown

I see you…

I see your intensity, your smiling eyes, your mouth pursed as you create the life you imagine through your art and your writing.

I see your desire to do right, to choose wisely, to make us proud.

I see you…

I see that spark that lights within when your friends reach out, when they touch your heart, when they hear your silent cries.

I see a woman with incredible drive, a lust for life, a laugh that reflects immense joy within.

I see you…

I see my shadow, pale and waning; not much of me now, but all of you.

I see your heart, vulnerable and soft, in your touch and hugs, your breath on my neck.

I see you…

I crave your voice, the laugh that cascades like water, the way it floats on air and sings back to me all of your secrets and dreams.

I feel your loss, the stepping away, the testing of boundaries and I see your cautious look back.

I see you…

I see the day fast approaching when I will wait to hear your call, to watch you drive in the driveway, to feel your hug around my neck.

I see your wings, stretched out, ready for flight and new, adventurous views.

I see you, darling girl, with all of your shining little gems. I see you when you are sure nobody sees. I see you and I am filled with joy!

Getting Affairs In Order (Short story: Long post)

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

She was there, kneeling on a low gardener's bench, her aged hands gloved and working steadily, a large brimmed hat with a festive floral ribbon pulled down on her greying head. She alternated between the small spade and her hands, turning over the earth and plucking out the unwanted weeds. When she sat upright and reached for the glass of lemonade not far away, August decided she could interrupt.

"I was wondering when you would come through that gate," her grandmother grinned sidelong at her as she replaced the glass at her side and began her work again. "What's up, Buttercup?"

August sighed and sank to the railroad tie that delineated one of her grandmother's small flower beds. She fidgeted with a dandelion that had been yanked from its purchase and tossed to the side. Just the thought of speaking to her Gran was causing her eyes to sting with unshed tears. What was it about voicing a problem that made her puddle like a school girl?

"Take your time," the old woman offered gently, still turning earth over and creating a soft dark pillow around the plants and flowers. "I'm not going anywhere."

August took a long breath as an attempt at steadying her voice. Still unsure, she took another, watching as the gnarled hands of her grandmother worked gently, lovingly, but steadily; turning with the spade, sifting with her gloved hands, the freckles along her papery skinned arm shifting and flexing with each movement.

Finally August offered softly, "I don't know what to do anymore. I feel so lonely and lost," and with that, the tears began to fall. She watched as her grandmother kept on working, shifting her gardening bench into different areas, but still the same methodical movements. She was giving her room, permission to find the words in her own time, with her own voice.

"I don't know, Gran. Maybe I am making a mountain out of a mole hill but he's so distant, and I am so angry and we fight all the time. I wonder if it's over," her voice cracked and broke, tears coursing down her face now, her breath coming in ragged bursts. She swiped at her cheeks, and blew a breath out through her pursed lips.

The old woman rocked back on her haunches and wiped at her craggy forehead with the back of a gloved hand, "Do you want it to be over?" She gazed at her granddaughter with clear, bright eyes, concern etching her thin mouth in tiny, fine lines.

August could only shake her head no, too afraid to risk speech lest she begin to bawl incoherently.

Gran nodded to herself and returned to the earth in front of her, "Then it isn't over."

"But how do I do this, Gran? How do I keep our marriage from imploding? How did you do it, all those years with Poppy?" She listened in desperation as the hat bobbed up and down, rhythmically keeping time with the movements of her hands in the dirt.

A grin crept along the corners of Gran's mouth as she delicately placed an upturned earthworm back into the shade of a peony bush where it burrowed quickly into the soft black soil. She turned her gaze on her granddaughter and chuckled, "I had affairs. Lots and lots of affairs."

August  dropped the dandelion and gaped at her grandmother, working ceaselessly non-plussed in the hot sun. Had she heard that right? Surely not! "Gran, what did you say?"

"I had affairs." The hands turned and flicked, sorted and sifted, leaving behind newly turned earth, breathing new life to the roots of her precious garden. She was smiling to herself and patting at the brown carpet before her before turning round and sitting on the kneeling bench, her knees the color of coffee, the wet dirt caking her khaki capris.

August could only stare in shock. Her grandmother had affairs? She couldn't make her head wrap around the image of Gran in another man's arms. It was unfathomable.

"I think one of the things that we women do to our men is put them up on these pedestals that they never asked to be elevated to," Gran continued, "We ask them to be our everything: friend, lover, confidant, provider, and the weight of that is crushing," She took a long draught of the glass heavy with condensation before offering it to August. She refused with a shake of her brown curls.

"We think that once we are married our lives should center around this one man, this one thing about us: our marriage. We think we have to concentrate our entire effort on being the best wife, the best mother and the best couple among our friends. We lose ourselves in that single solitary thing about us and we expect that our husbands will lose themselves too," she glanced at August who was watching her intently. "and when they do not, we are crushed. We wonder what we did wrong, why doesn't he love us they same way we love him? We forget to be who they fell in love with; we forget that we are vibrant, loving, talented women and we wither in our lopsided bitterness."

August sighed at the recognition. She had done just that, but was the answer really another man? She shook her head from side to side, "I don't think I could do it, Gran; take on a lover?"

Her grandmother burst out laughing, the peals of it cascading around the brick foundation of her home and trickling down the vining roses along multiple trellises, "Oh my word, child! I don't mean I had affairs with other men!" Her laughter echoed around the copse of fruit trees and trotted back to them on tiny unseen hooves, "If I am having issues with the one man, why on earth would I invite another into the mix?" It was Gran's turn to shake her head, grinning from ear to ear as she patted August on the back.

"No, dear child, I had affairs with myself, with my interests. After almost leaving my marriage in only the third year because I had mistakenly made it the complete center of my existence, I decided I had to find another focus. I began to explore me and who I was, who I wanted to be. I gardened," she gestured at the fabulous beds surrounding her home, cultivated from years and years of attentive grooming. "I painted, I read voraciously, I volunteered, I even traveled. I did it all without the aid or company of your Poppy. I had to."

August nodded, recalling all of these things in her Gran's life. She was here because she admired this woman, so strong and vibrant, even with the sudden passing of her husband after 48 years of wedded bliss.

"Once I quit making that man the sole center of my existence, once I released myself to take care of me," she pulled her gloves off, one finger at a time, "I released him to remember I am capable of living without him. It eased the burden he already felt heavy on his heart. It let him breathe."

She lay the gloves on the bench beside her and clasped her hands around her knobby knees, "A marriage cannot survive inside a sealed vault. It has to breathe," her bright eyes locked with August's. "If you hold a bunny too tightly, soft and lovely as it is, what happens?" Her scant eyebrows lifted with the question.

August recalled holding that little grey ball of fluff as it breathed its last in her hands, having refused to put it down for far too long. She had been just a child but it had been a lasting lesson, and her Gran had been the one to pick up the pieces when she fell to devastation over the loss. She sighed into her lap, "It dies."

Gran laid her hand on August's shoulder, "You have to let it rest, honey. If you overwater and over-tend, your garden will die. There is a time to weed and work and a time to sit in the shade with a glass of something and enjoy the view."

"Giving him some space will remind him how much he enjoys your presence. If there is never absence, there isn't a chance to miss someone. If he never misses you, he will take you for granted. If he takes you for granted, you will want to know why you are trying so hard, why you should stay." Gran stood and stretched out long, her bared shins as freckled with skin as papery thin as her arms, but there was strength beneath that aging skin. Her calves were muscled and wiry, her torso thinner than most women her age. She had obviously taken care of herself, thought August, and maybe this was the very reason she still radiated vibrance.

"Does it get better?" August tried to be hopeful, "Did Poppy appreciate you more?"

Gran's face shifted to a wistful smile, "No." The word hung like a pall between them, "But I appreciated me more." A tear traced its way down her soft cheeks, rosy with the heat.

"You cannot make someone notice you nor change who they are inside. You can only decide whether you will stay and what you will do to make it work for you. I knew I loved him more. I knew I would always be a little bit lonely in the marriage, but I also knew I would be devastated without him. I chose. I chose to stay; I chose to choose me when I needed to and I chose to love him in the ways he needed." She stared off into the muggy humidity of the morning. "It was not a silver bullet, darling. Nothing is. Marriage is hard and often an unequal endeavor, but then I was never taught it would be equitable."

"That is a lie that your mother's generation tried to sell you," she grinned and wiped at her leaking eyes, "Marriage is very seldom an equitable endeavor. There will be times when it is easier to look into each other's eyes and then there will be times you are fathoms apart. In those times, when you cannot see eye to eye, don't look to him for your happiness. Look to the mirror and look to God." She bent to reach for the bench and her now empty glass.

"Gran?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." August stood and clasped her grandmother in a hug around the myriad awkward pieces of equipment in her arms.

"Go do you, August. You will appreciate it, even if he doesn't." Gran pecked at her cheek and waved with her fingers as she turned to retreat into the cool shade of her kitchen, screen door slamming against the wooden jamb in punctuated finality.

August sighed and made her way back out the garden gate. She would have to find a way… No, she would choose to find a way.

Mourning Light

They were gone. The noise, the warmth of their multitude, the chatter of their voices, low and reverent… It was all gone. Now the silence invaded, creeping slowly along the hardwoods, seeping in through the cast iron vents, trickling into her ears and down her neck to her heart held together tenuously with frayed string and tainted memories.

She drew her breath in slowly, closing her eyes to the evening light that fought to remain in the open air of the living room. She listened as her indrawn air filled her chest and seeped out of her in stuttering puffs. The grandmother clock in the hall ticked rhythmically taking on a loudness in the looming silence; the house creaked and popped sharply in the heat of the waning day, registering its complaints to no one in particular. Gradually she opened her eyes.

The fading light streamed through, bathing her in its soft caress. The dust motes swirled and dipped in the golden rays, bandied about by her breath - in and out, in and out, just as she had watched his breath come and go in those last days. In and out, just keep breathing she had prayed, please just keep breathing. Until he didn't.

Until he died.

Tears stung at her eyes again. Here in the silence she let them fall. She didn't stop the flow, pat at her mascara, smile that insipid smile she had recently adopted. She just let them fall, course down her cheeks and drip off her chin to her chest where they ran tiny rivulets into her shapeless navy shift.

She looked around the room, devoid of furniture, the wood of the floor glowing a burnt umber in the sunset. Gone was the hospital bed, the monitors, the tubes, wires and bags of fluids. Gone was the form wasting away under layers of blankets that held no warmth. Gone was the symphony of sound that marked his presence and then his passing. She stared into that beam of sunlight and could almost see him there, faded and blurred against the tears.

She reached into the ray and swirled the motes with her hand gently, just as she had touched him during those final moments.

Photo Credit: Creative Commons

The clock struck off the hour, chiming melancholy tones into the cavernous house where she stood alone. Time to feed, she thought to herself. A sigh escaped her from deep within and the motes swirled in response. There was nothing to feed anymore. They had sold the animals to fund his hospice and final passing. Even the calf they nursed in the laundry room for so many weeks had been sold. She had been a pet of sorts, runted and dog-like, following her around the yard begging for a handful of grain or a stalk of celery.

All of it was gone. There was only her now. She turned toward the doorway and stepped onto the porch as the last of the days light slid below the horizon. She wrapped her arms around herself and drug the night air into her lungs. The light around the place the sun had sunk on the skyline glowed pink and violet, celebrating one last favorite of his as it disappeared with a flicker.

The finality of it was done, marked by darkness and the slow dawning of stars in the azure sky. She would move on in the morning, make decisions and plans, trod the new path of her life without him, but tonight, right now - She would savor the last of it.

She sank to the steps of the porch and leaned her head on the pillar, gazing into the darkening heavens around her. Each star that appeared, shining forth its light gave her heart a pin prick of hope. Even in the stark sunlight of the brightest day she couldn't see the stars in their gentle placement. It was only in the blackness that they gleamed forth. The darkness would allow her to regroup, gather herself gently to her purpose, feed her soul the comfort of silence…

What you don't see….

The early morning light creeps through the slats in the blinds. Tinged petal pink and innocent, it reflects nothing of the darkness it endured in the hours prior. My body is awash with relief that another night has passed and another day is underway. I can see the sleeping form of my oldest, still breathing steadily in slumber under mounds of covers and pillows. I smile at our night curled next to each other, lending comfort back and forth like a brush to comb out our emotional tangles.

I stretch quietly beside her and marvel at the refreshment having her weight on her father's side of the bed lent me. As I watch the light creep into my room, stretching its yellowing fingers along the ceiling, bringing brightness and energy, I am reminded that there is so much that no one sees in my life.

Padding to the kitchen, rinsing the coffee pot in ritualistic steps, I realize much of my life is hidden, sheltered, isolated. No one sees the long nights, the television playing well into the morning hours to drown out strange sounds, the sudden way I can awaken and sit bolt upright in bed. No one sees the kink in my neck, the knot in my hip, the drag in my gait because I cannot sleep when he is gone. No one sees the tears of frustration I have dropped off the end of my nose because timing was off and there was no momentary break to hear his voice, read his words, feel his love.

I sip at my mug and recall the thank-yous, the compliments of my support, and I smirk to myself. I return those honest and genuine sentiments with a forced smile and an easy "of course," but in my heart I am jealous, envious, seething. I want to scream at them, "Do not thank me!" I want to cry, "I get no choice…" But I don't, I only smile and nod. It is vastly inappropriate to be so territorial, I tell myself. I shouldn't covet, I chide, but therein lies the rub.

Like a child learning to socialize and share their toys, I must continually give more, not just of myself, but of him also. Like that same toddler, I peer sideways as they take him off, reveling in his talents and his gifts and I want desperately to yank him back. I want to tell them, no - I changed my mind… I will give you anything else, but not him. I know it isn't possible. I know it isn't fair.

I realize in my thoughts I have drained my mug and I wander back to the pot, once more. The ebony liquid swirls against the cream and crystalline sugar and becomes a shade of warm caramel. It's transformation sparks me…From black and bitter, adding the milk and the sugar I create something I can enjoy. If I want to stand beside a man with so many dreams and desires, I have to be willing to drink my cup without resentment. I don't like black coffee, so I add sweetness and light to make it more palatable. My life is the same. I cannot live in a world of isolation and bitter loneliness, so I add to it the sweetness of friends, the bright light of social interactions. It is a constant battle to push outside my comfort zone into the illuminated world around me, to resist the pull of my own darkened heart waiting sullenly for his return.

So much of me is hidden, deep in the folds of sleepless nights and broken hearts, and like the moon I will shine forth the face I want seen, but she is there, that jealous one. She is there slinking in the darkness and only by adding the tiny flicker of a friendly candle can I keep her at bay. Always, always, she is there…in what you don't see.

Photo credit Creative Commons

Colorblind

Photo used with permission from Antonio Ysursa

The bus rocked and tipped along the narrow dirt road, crammed to the rafters with the small brown people she had lived among the past year. Even from the concealing folds of the modest hijab she wore, she felt conspicuous; a lumpy pearl among shining, dark amber. What the hell was she trying to prove anyway? She didn't belong here, she didn't have any business inserting herself into this culture, and yet going home seemed like failure.

She peered from the headdress and bowed stance to gaze at the occupants packed with her into the rickety, creaking auto bus. There were young girls in plaid school uniforms, old men reading crumpled day-old papers, women coming from market with bamboo encapsulated chickens and ducks. It was a cacophony of sounds and menagerie of color; bright saris and drapes, the crisp white of the men's tunics, all against the exotic mochas and deep chocolates of shiny brown skin.

No one looked twice at her, despite her towering height of five foot nine. She was just another traveler on this dusty road, bumping along, grabbing for any purchase as the driver slung the top heavy bus around narrow corners and swerved to miss oncoming traffic. She was nothing to them. She was an outsider, a European, a White.

She sighed as she returned her gaze to her lap. The fringe on the edge of her wrap had drug on the ground as she had run for the teetering bus and it now lay caked in mud from the gutter. She picked at the small dried clods with her fingers and reached into her bag for a bottle of water. Using a few precious drops, she cleaned the bright pink and red silk. She turned back to replace the bottle to safety and that was when she saw her.

She was the only person on the bus who didn't seem to ignore her, with her giant stance, her pale skin and her auburn hair. It took just a moment to recognize that the child's skin was freckled, pale like hers and her eyes were blue, glinting steely from the slate blue head covering. Her heart stopped and she was reticent to draw breath. Where was the child from? The woman sitting next to her had nodded off, being elderly with her craggy brown face bobbing about as they swayed and dipped along the road. Her mind whirred with mystery and she looked up and down the crowded aisle of the bus, searching for anyone who might lay claim to this porcelain skinned youngster. The girl just continued to stare, unblinking, unbending… Unnerving.

She tried a smile but those eyes bore into her; accusatory, excavating her insecurities and exposing her fears. Those eyes were not youthful eyes, but weary with mistrust and brimming with hatred. The gaze of a child so filled with contempt was startling to her, but the look itself - it was familiar.

It was a stare that she had become so acquainted with, matched with cat calls because she was white. Of course she would be a whore, she had been counseled before her trip: she was American, her hair was red, she was labeled with all of her un-Indian-ness a devil. She had no business being there, despite the humanitarian organization she worked for, she would never, ever fit in. While this had been drummed into her, she had naively pressed on in her insistence that she was perfect for the work, that her heart would overcome, that surely it couldn't be that bad.

Despite the open antagonistic nature of the people among whom she lived and ultimately served, the mission statement of the organization held her fast. The compassion she had for Hindu women and the deep longing she held for rescuing those ensnared in the sex trade quelled her desire to leave. She could take the stares and the vile propositions launched at her in broken English. What she couldn't take was the horribly calloused way she had seen Indian women, women of their own hue, beaten, raped, slashed and tossed away like garbage. It was heartbreaking.

The bus hissed and screeched slowly to a stop at a small town, dusty and rural. The old woman, opened her eyes as if by clockwork and grabbed roughly at the child's hand, dragging her toward the exit, pushing slowly through the close press of bodies. As the girl reached her seat she whispered in Hindi, her eyes mean slits in that angelic face, "Go back. You don't belong. We hate you!"

She sucked in breath at the vehemence of the statement. Even as the old woman tugged at her hand, those eyes accused her, looking back, staring through her to some unseen threat, coated in loathing and contempt. She lowered her gaze as the tears began to sting her eyes. It was a confirmation of all things she had taken for granted, the simplest act of friendship slapped away in a hail of racist abhorrence. She realized then that just because she looked the same, because their skin was the color of milk and not coffee, she was still recognized as outside the norm. It ran deeper.

Racism ran chasms into any culture, no matter the origin, and here… Well, here she stood out like a beacon ablaze with enticing neon light. But could she quit? That was the question that kept at her. That was the meat of the matter, as her grandmother would say. If she did quit, what did that say about her convictions? What did it say about her heart and her determination? It was always going to be hard. It was always going to have someone telling her she couldn't do it, she wouldn't fit, she would fail. Failure meant so many would go without, some would perish, many would starve disfigured and alone, and why? Because her feelings got hurt? Because some nasty little man asked her to perform fellatio in the streets of Mumbai? So what.

She took another breath and waited as the bus refilled with faces that didn't match hers, with women who tsked and whispered and pointed, with men who leered. She adjusted her wrap and sat a little straighter in her seat. No one had said it would be easy. In fact, most had told her she would fail, she would be home inside a month. Well, she had been here a year. She was by no means a super star, but what she was doing, what she awoke each morning to accomplish, it was her dream. It was a terrifyingly difficult task and she may never see success, but what would she see if she quit? Nothing. And if only one woman was saved, if only one girl was plucked from the sex trade, still intact and unscarred, then maybe she could say it was worth it. It would be so worth it...

Briefly

Photo Credit: http://woodennest.tumblr.com/post/66372025456

Maybe it was desperate. Maybe not. There was something about the moment that needed touch, as if tactile affirmation could somehow coalesce into the forgiveness she was seeking. It was an olive branch of sorts, a white flag not of surrender, but of comprehension, understanding… Acceptance.

It was the recognition that although it was nothing she had ever comprehended could be, it was amendable to her. She would accept it, assimilate it, absorb it into her being and allow it to become a part of her. Like tendrils of wild ivy, she would reach out and touch him, pull him closer, wrap him safely in her grasp and cement him to her, the softness of her touch deceptively strong in its persistence. 

There was only a moment in time marked by the tender caress of her fingertips, trailing soft and gentle over his bared forearm, only seconds to convey the warmth that had been missing from them that morning. Only briefly did she touch his skin, but the magnitude of it, the sincerity - they swelled and cascaded over him like the waves on the beach of their honeymoon, making love in the sand. In that one gesture, that one sacrificial motion, there was tranquility.

She need not look at him, his eyes forward on the road as it unfurled before them, to determine the effect of it. She felt it in his exhale, in his shoulders dropping, in his thighs relaxing into the seat. It was all that she needed. To know there would be peace, even at the expense of her desires, was more important for now. To be right, righteous, confirmed - it was hollow victory to being happy.

Something inside her shattered and it was a revelation to her heart. Sacrifice was no longer about an exchange, one giving now to get later on, but about the joy that was created in the extermination of one's ego. Suddenly and without warning she understood what it was to be married and the comprehension filled her with quiet triumph, stretching beneath her skin slowly, languidly. The lesson permeated her with its quiet surety, parts of it looming with the painful reality, parts of it lulling her into a sleepy welcome.

There would be more of it; more sacrifice for him, more disappointments and exposition of her fairy tale misconceptions. There would be more taking than giving and more misunderstandings. That was the nature of this life. In this moment, however, right here in the warm sunshine on the road to celebration and cacophony, there was peace and acceptance and it felt like a gift to herself as much as a bestowal on him.

She inhaled deeply of it and allowed her hand to fall from his warmth, ready to return it to her lap and the hum of the asphalt before them. Before she could move herself away, return to her own bubble of isolation, he grasped her hand in his and squeezed, holding her fast to him. His answer to her touch was one of firmness, of steady solidarity, it was his declaration without saying a word.

Yes, marriage is about sacrifice, about loss of oneself into the joining of the two, but it is also about union of mind. Marriage is about the welcoming of one lover's selfishness and enfolding it into our undeserved caress with the realization that they too have released expectations in order to return our love. Marriage in surrounded in inequality, in unrequited desires, in shattered dreams. It can only be successful if we lose the desire to keep score and in that moment, with less hesitation than she could have imagined, she erased the board and slung her chalk along the shoulder of the road.

It was only a touch, briefly delivered in the moment of a morning, but it was a lasting declaration of the rest of their lives.

Fifteen things I want to tell my younger self...

Photo Credit: http://500px.com/photo/4934431

I realize now that there is no way that I would have listened…. I get that. But in a perfect world, where we take the sage advice of our elders and apply it to our daily lives, I have a few things I wish I could have imparted to a younger me. Having teenagers on the verge of big life decisions is at the core of this post… Bear with me.

1. Never be afraid to try. Failure is so much easier to overcome than regret! Try new things as often as you can: new foods, new activities, new music… Try out things you aren't sure you will be good at, stretching yourself into uncomfortable situations in order to view the strength of your fabric. You may just find your life's passion by stepping out of your comfort zone.
2. High School is so temporary. I swear, there will be so few people you keep in touch with and you won't remember the names of some of the most prominent, "popular" people you think are so important now. Take it with a grain of salt and laugh at the absurdity of it's woes. 
3. That boy/girl will not be the center of your world in two years… Just trust me on this one.
4. You aren't fat. You will get so much fatter. Really. Very, very fat! (so fat…)
5. Travel with your parents. Yes, I know they are so dorky, or 'derpy' if you prefer, but they are footing the bill for only a short time and if you keep your eyes open you just might learn a thing or two. Even if all you see is Western Kansas, you can log that in your 'been there, done that' file at no cost to you.
6. Tanning spray over tanning beds. Trust me, they are getting better. And skin cancer or a sunburn are a complete harsh to the groove. No one looks sexy with either one…
7. Drink more water. Filter it, buy it, pull it from ancient wells, but drink it. It will serve you so much in your later years. Your skin with thank you.
8. Learn to listen. When you are young it is in your nature to want to rattle on about nothing, to hear your own voice, to confirm what it is you think by saying it and saying it loudly. Don't. Listen more than you talk. Folks will not only imbue you with qualities of patience and wisdom (which you may or may not have) but they will tell you things you wouldn't hear otherwise and some of those things will be valuable.
9. Instead of finding a job to make money to fuel your passion, work your passion and find a way to make money at it. So many of my colleagues now are sunk in professions that suck them dry rather than inflame their passions. If there is any way you can follow a dream and make it reality, risk it. If you fail, so what. There is always a toilet that needs scrubbing somewhere and a guy willing to pay you to do it. If you succeed, you have now conquered the biggest life-hack known to man: Loving what you do never feels like work!
10. When you are dealing with someone who has a terribly bad attitude and it is pointed straight at you, remember this: Recall in your mind the worst day you have ever had and imagine that this person is having that same day. Empathy goes a long way and you just don't know what someone else is dealing with. Don't add to it with your hurt feelings. Chances are they won't even register that you are irritated anyway, so all it will do is wreck your mood. 
11. Nothing is ever free. No matter what it is, it came at a price. Be grateful, be cautious and pay your way whenever possible. I am not saying be suspicious of generous souls but I am saying realize that generosity should always been gratefully received, and where ever possible, repaid. Whether you repay with gratitude, a generous tip or a smile, give something back.
12. Hug your mother. Yes, this is blatantly self-serving, but something I wish I would have understood more as a kid. The simple fact is, she is pretty certain she is screwing it all up and a hug from you would make her at least stop and wonder if she is getting it right. As moms we go along, day in and day out, giving of ourselves without a second thought. You squeezed out of our tired bodies, you demanded food immediately and we have been hopping to ever since. Hug her, she needs to know you aren't really in need of deep psychotherapy because she lost it in the grocery store when you dropped the jar of pickles.
13. Put your phone down. Yes, we all know how terribly important you are and that your entire social network counts on you for witty responses and funky e-cards (I know mine does). Put it down. When you are in the company of someone, value that they chose to spend their time with you. They didn't have to, they could have picked someone else - anyone else. The world will not stop spinning if you actually look at someone while they speak to you. Turn off the notifications if you need the less distracting option, but look up, meet their gaze and smile.
14. Take walks. Yes, outside. Yes, without your phone, if you can. Yes, without music in your ears. Listen to the sounds of what is around you. Quiet your mind and take a break from the distractions you face every single waking moment.
15. Laugh more. Every day if possible. It releases tension, increases dopamine and seratonin levels, burns calories (that will help with #4) and it's attractive. Well…. Don't do it while drinking a liquid, that can be disastrous, but in general people are much more approachable and attractive to others when they are smiling and laughing.

I am sure there are more… Add to this list if you wish! But these are my top fifteen. I would never have listened, but it's a nice thought...

Play Misty… (warning: long post)

She hated weddings. The always awkward 'singles table'; the constant, "I'd like you to meet…"; the terrible food concocted in hopes of keeping deranged, over-lubricated Uncle So-And-So from wrenching the microphone from someone at an inappropriate time - which was, of course, inevitable. She hated it all.

And yet, here she was. Again.

She stared into the large mirror and reapplied her lipgloss, ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted the bright red gown with the plunging neckline. A pair of younger women washed up behind her, chatting about this guy or that guy, ever hopeful of 'love in the air'.

She gazed back at her reflection along the empty granite vanity with a sigh. Damn, she hated weddings! she dropped the tube of gloss into her clutch and clicked it shut.

She stepped into the corridor and thought about heading back to the large room, bedecked in fluffy pink tule and white peonies. She could hear the sound of that dreadful chicken dance wafting down the hall as the doorway opened to release another giggling gaggle of girls.

"Nope." It was a declaration of freedom. She didn't want to go back and she didn't have to. She was a grown woman, she reassured her wavering conscience. She wandered down the opposite direction, toward the lobby of the grandiose hotel and the revolving doorway that would mark her escape. She could go anywhere, she reasoned, her obligation had been fulfilled: gift delivered, cake cut, first dance observed. She didn't have to stay.

The lobby was ornate and welcoming with large overstuffed sofas and wing backed chairs arranged in groups designed to facilitate conversations. She recognized a few wedding guests who had also escaped the bubble gum fray of the reception. They guiltily ignored her as she strode toward the entrance of a dark paneled pub as if it had been her destination all along.

The sound of a drawling saxophone splashed toward her lazily as she entered, pausing a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the soft lighting. A musician dressed in a herringbone blazer and dark pants blew into the sax on a small stage to one side, his eyes closed and an ancient felt fedora with a wide ribbon tilted precariously to one side of his natty head. Candles in tiny holders flickered a welcome to her along low slung polished tables and posh leather swivel chairs. The room smelled of expensive cigars and aged scotch mingled pleasantly with lemony wood polish.

She strode to the bar and perched like a flamingo, one leg exposed from the slit in her gown as the bartender took her order, "Martini, rocks, very dirty, three olives." She lay a twenty on the bar and swiveled on the stool, crossing her bare leg over the crimson silk of the other, to watch the musician as he coaxed his instrument into sounds far beyond its capacity. The music swirled and dipped around her, embracing the sharp edges of her mood and polishing them into softness. She assured herself that this was a good idea and took a relaxing breath, whooshing out her tension and letting her shoulders drop from their uncomfortable perch.

She sipped from her cocktail, nodding her approval to the bartender and slowly let her eyes take in the low-lit room. That was when she saw him. Pushed up against a corner not far from the stage, legs kicked languidly out in front of him, his arm resting on the table, toying with a glass of dark liquid. He was dressed in a white coat tuxedo, black ebony buttons glinting in the candle light.

Photo Credit: http://nalisest.tumblr.com/post/6550918036

He was staring right at her. She shifted on the stool, suddenly aware of the plunging neckline and open slit of the gown. Her face flushed with the realization and she begged the darkness of the pub to cover her insecurities. She looked away from his stare, unblinking in his boldness.

She tried to concentrate on the musician at the microphone. She sipped from her drink, silently praying that she wouldn't fumble and spill vodka down her front. His gaze was unnerving and she could feel the heat of it from across the room. Her hand quaked ever so slightly as she set the low ball on the bar.

Too soon the musician spoke softly into the mic and excused himself for a break, leaving the stage empty of anything to capture her attention. She smiled at the man in the fedora as he made his way to the bar and took a soda from the bartender. He winked at her quickly and strode to the darkened corner and sat himself down with the man in the tuxedo.

While they chatted together she watched, keeping her eyes low beneath the shroud of her dark lashes. He was exquisite! His hair darkened with a smattering of pomade and combed back from his brow, a slight scruff of beard beginning to show in the late hour on his strong jaw, he oozed confidence and easy attraction. He was trim, but sure strength lurked just below the elegant tux and starched white shirt. Even the bow tie seemed to sport a cavalier, almost mocking grin from below his chin, now broken in a wide smile as he conversed and chuckled quietly with his friend.

He reached for his drink and raised it to his lips as she watched, now openly enthralled, her shyness forgotten in an instant of unguarded appreciation. His eyes locked with hers. She could see his smile behind the glass, transmitted more through the smoldering gaze of his deep brown eyes than anything she could see of his mouth. He lowered the glass and she watched his adams apple move up and down as he swallowed the liquid.

No matter that her mind was screaming at her, panic rising in her exposed chest, she couldn't seem to break his gaze. He reached across the table and patted the musician on his shoulder, still staring right into her eyes as if he were boring into her very soul. He rose from his seat and said something in low tones to his friend, hand still resting on his shoulder as he started her way.

He was coming across the bar, a smirk beginning to form at those perfect corners of his mouth. Oh good Lord! Her mind was reeling, her heart pounding a rhythm in her chest so loud she was sure he could see it thump in the bare spot at the neckline of her gown. It was too late to run. She would probably trip in these shoes, anyway, she thought wryly. She was a grown woman… Surely she could handle this.

He eased his way to the bar, across the chasm of the all but empty pub and leaned on an elbow in front of her. He said nothing as he observed her slowly, letting his eyes flow from her face, down the neckline of her gown, coming to rest at her crossed legs and back up again. The move would normally have left her cold and irritated, but something about him muffled her usual responses. Confidence emanated from him and enveloped her so completely that all she could feel was the giddy rise of heat in her blood.

He smiled easily at her and reached for her hand. And as he opened his mouth to speak a sharp, shrill beeping began to trill in her ears painfully. He looked past her in startled wonder. Desperate to silence the sound she cupped her hands over her ears to no avail. His mouth opened and closed, clearly trying to communicate something to her but all she could hear was that horrific screeching! Was it a fire alarm? Damn it! She could feel the pull of something hard against her, dragging her from the stool and his grasp. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a blinding light...

She groaned in desperation as she rolled from the warmth of her comforter and blankets to slap at the alarm, railing cheerfully at her from the nightstand at her bedside. She kept her eyes closed just a moment longer, but the dream was gone. The man in the tuxedo was gone, as was the fedora clad musician, slipping from her like mist burning off in the intense sunlight pouring through her bedroom windows.

She blinked against the bright light of the morning and turned to gaze at the numbers on her bedside clock. It was time to get up and get showered. She had a wedding to go to.

She hated weddings...

Moments

** Please be aware that I do not always write Christian inspirational stories. I understand that some are offended by secular writings, but it is also a part of my bent. This is one of those writings. I can promise you that I will not write anything here that is considered "erotica" or graphic in nature. My aim is romance not arousal. I will tell you that when I see pictures of many types and compositions, my brain instantly devises a story to go along with it. It is in this nature that I warn you. 

Photo Credit: http://jlthomasauthor.tumblr.com/post/65695250005/

There it was again. That moment… It flooded back to him unbidden, halting him abruptly, jerking him back in time like a dog at the end of some unseen leash.

He couldn't always tell what triggered it; sometimes the scent of her perfume would waft by on another woman entrancing him. Other times the way the light spilled through window panes carrying motes of dust on the invisible currents of air would send him reeling into remembrance. It was disconcerting and comforting at the same time and this time he closed his eyes where he sat and drifted on the memory, letting it propel him gently back to that day.

It had been only a moment, the way the light had cascaded in from the windows, unshaded and bright in the early afternoon. Yet it had seared itself into his brain like a fiery brand. She was there, laying atop him, her body warm and soft against his, kissing him and pulling him deeper into her spell. His hands were tangled in her hair, savoring her every taste, every touch, every scent. It had been only a moment, but it was everything.

The play of light across her bare shoulders, the scent of her perfume in his nostrils, the feel of her soft and supple and yet tightly toned against him. He had pulled her back to look into her eyes, to swim in the pools of deep green and savor the depth of her soul. He had wanted to stay like that, to lay there motionless, drinking her in thirstily with all of his senses, but there was urgency in him too. A feverishness to possess her, to claim her… It had been only a moment, but it had been everything.

Too soon they had parted, spent and moving quickly into the current of their very separate lives, carried into routines and events, parties awash in chasms of division. He had never intended to think on her again and in his naiveté, willed it to be so. But there was that moment… And he realized too late he would never be rid of her, that possessing her had been folly when she so utterly and completely owned him.

It had been only a moment, but it had been his undoing.

Conversations and reunions...

Well, hello there… It has been long time, hasn't it?

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Yes, I'm back.

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Not sure how long yet… I am still finding my way.

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What have I been up to? Oh, stuff… Writing stuff…

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I proved to myself I could finish. Finished a novel.

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Well, I sent it to six agencies, so I am trying.

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No, haven't heard back yet. The waiting is hard, but not writing is harder, so I started again.

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Yes, another novel, but this one is different. Harder, but right. It really feels very… right.

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I missed you too. I want to try writing here again. It was good for me.

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I think this time I will bring you short stories. Ones that make me better. Ones that stretch my courage…

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oh, I have a few ideas. Pinterest helps, when I am not hiding in it.

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Yeah, it is great to be back! I'll see you tomorrow, I hope!

A Letter to My Blog

I want you to know today that I miss you...

I miss the talks, the things I learned, the incredible way I feel when I am with you. I miss the laughter, the goofiness, the revelations in the early morning and the way you love all of me, warts included.

You are a delicious, wonderful, amazing, beautiful distraction. Leaving you is hard. Leaving you is a risk, but one I have to take...

Some will understand my choice, some will not. That is not my concern... I just wanted you to know today, without a doubt - I miss you.

Gone Finishin'

Photo Credit Creative Commons

I take on too much. I am a project starter, not necessarily a project finisher. I have been out there in the crazy maze of my imagination and I have been creating. It has been energizing and fun and full of potential and all of it is unfinished. It's unfinished because: 1. I have so many commitments I am like following around an ADD kid without their medication, 2. I get impatient with the process and the outlines and the actual typing it takes to get it on paper, and lastly (and most telling), 3. I am afraid of finishing because then I have to "ship my work." It's one thing to write stuff for me and see if I can do it - It's a whole other ball of wax to actually open up and show it to someone, let them tell you it's bad... really bad, or worse yet, let them tell you it's good.

The point I am trying to make here is that I have decided to concentrate on these other projects for a time. I will be out of the blogosphere for a while as I explore what it takes to "finish." I need to finish. I need to know that finishing is in me and that no matter what gets thrown my way I can press on and come to the end of something.

I look at the four book ideas I have and I see that each one is about taking an ending and creating a beginning from the ashes. Endings are a catalyst for beginnings and while it is scary to face, I am excited to stand in the starting blocks once more. I can feel the tension in my body, straining to hear that gunshot... Writers ready....

FINISH!

Blessings to all and I will see you on the other side!

Stacey <3

Dream Big

Hope dreaming big for a little filly

Photo credit Eli Paulsen

I remember it almost as clearly as I remember the day I knew. We were standing in the driveway and our friends looked at us and said something to the effect of "This is just too big to take on."

We had been searching for a way to buy the ranch. We were exhausted emotionally, intellectually and financially. All of our creativity was gone. It felt like a punch in the gut. Even our friends thought we were crazy. Maybe we were. I asked Shane if he thought it was too big. He said, "Maybe." I was not encouraged.

The thing is, I KNEW what God had said. I knew He was going to put us here and none of the talking or planning or scheming we had tried was going to work. I was aggravating in my steadfast belief that He would deliver. So much so that my husband let me have it one afternoon. I had been ignoring the bullet points in our planning meeting with a business advisor and Shane asked if I had any input. I shook my head. He was frustrated and asked about my lack of participation. I explained that all of our planning was fruitless; I knew we were going to buy the ranch, I knew we wouldn't have to split it up and I knew exactly where our house was going to go. He had had enough. He all but hollered at me, "Well, when you get all that set up, you just let us know!"

It was hard. I didn't have any answers, I didn't have a cohesive plan, I just knew it was coming - would come in a huge rush - and there was nothing we could do to stop or sway it. But explaining it? Ya... Nope. I couldn't do it and it made me feel like an idiot.

Two years later we were moving into the self-same ranch we were told was impossible. God had been the author of our dream and He had brought it to fruition with a chain of events that sound like one of those Hollywood feel-goods. It shouldn't have been possible. It wasn't possible without God. He did it all.

That's how God works. He takes your biggest, most impossible, unachievable dream and He produces a miracle. Sometimes, like He does with dullards like myself, He lets you know with certainty that it's coming - but He doesn't hand you a road map.

It's about trust. It's about trust and obedience. He doesn't inform you of the next step because you will jack it all up with your "helping." He doesn't need or want my help, as much as that pains me... He wants to bless me, and He wants me to tell you about it. That's the part that is almost too easy. I am supposed to tell people that God takes an impossibility and moves every obstacle out of the way so that His plan is accomplished. My only role in the miracle is to move when He says move and then tell people how awesome God is. That's it. Be obedient and pass it on...

Do you have a dream you are certain is unattainable? Are you convinced it will always be just a dream?  Is it just too big to handle on your own? I challenge you to lay it at the feet of the Almighty and then just listen for Him to tell you when to move. You may have some real work to do in that "move" command, but I assure you it will all be worth it when you are sitting in your kitchen telling someone how awesome God has been in your life. When you are able to look back and see how many obstacles He removed, how much He lined up to make it all possible, how amazing it is to be a child of the Most High - you will be in awe of His love and humbled by His gifts.

There was a quote from Joel Osteen this morning that inspired me. In effect he said if my dream is doable with my own abilities, my own resources and my own time it isn't big enough. I don't agree with everything that man says, but that? That I agree with wholeheartedly. My dreams are big enough that I cannot do them alone. My dreams need God. Are you willing to dream that big?

Be blessed and dream big... SCARY big!

Fair Warning...

Photo Credit Creative Commons

I am having one of those moments this morning... One of those, I-really-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me moments where I go all bat-crap crazy and say EXACTLY what is on my mind. There it is... Fair warning, the shot over the bow, whatever you want to call it - I have given it.

I am feeling pissy and defensive and downright self-ritous. Yeah, yeah... I hear the doomsday music too, but sometimes you have to forge ahead and say it anyway, right?

I am so sick and tired of defending my stance that Christians are not these sterile, never have any fun, never laugh at themselves, never take a drink, never crack a sideways joke types that once they "drank the Kool-Aide" have to sit on the sidelines with pursed lips and wagging index fingers, judging everyone who does. Sick. Of. It. I don't believe it, I don't ascribe to it, and I won't be shut up by those who do.

Let me make this crystal clear - No holds barred.

I AM A CHRISTIAN WOMAN. I am not perfect. I say things I shouldn't. I drink. I don't smoke now, but I did at one time. I have tried certain drugs. I slept with men that weren't my husband as a young woman. I made mistakes. I found Christ. I pray daily that I never forget the place I have come from because: #1 - I could be back there with the blink of an eye; #2 - My testimony may be exactly what someone needs to know the unconditional love of Christ. I have developed a love for Christ and His desires for me that none can know but myself and Him. If I offend you because you don't like what I say, if your sensibilities are affronted because I refuse to pretend perfection, if you somehow have managed to excise all sin from your own life and cannot be party to me and mine - I wish you well. I will not beg you to stay. I will wish you no harm.

I believe that there are plenty of people out there who have been wooed by the Holy Spirit, only to be chased away by those same pursed-lipped, wagging-fingered zealots who started out the new Christian's education with all manner of "don'ts". I shake my head at that and the frustration rises... How different would the body of Christ be if we could somehow shake our preconceived notions and let all manner of person revel in the love that He wants to shower on us. How amazing would life be if the love of God was allowed to be experienced, untainted by our own fears and baggage? If I were covered in tattoos, piercings and had a drug addled past am I any less acceptable to God? Am I somehow damaged goods? If I love Him and He loves me, how is it right to hear people say I somehow cannot have purchase unless I cover up, shut up, look more the part? What does a Christian look like anyway?

Let's pretend (and let's all thank the Lord this isn't real!): If it were natural for a mark or scar to appear on your body every time you sinned, even though you love Christ, would it be fair for those with fewer marks (if there are any), to judge you? If for every sin, the mark was indiscernible from the next (because all sins are equally horrendous in God's sight), could you stand in judgement of another, not knowing what it was they earned the mark for? Even if you knew what caused the mark to appear, do you have the right, as a sinful human being with marks of your own, to judge your brother? Or is that domain of the Almighty alone? Maybe God doesn't mark out our sins because we all have them and every one of them is a personal affront to him no matter how "big" or "small" they are. Or maybe God does mark out our sins by covering us in human flesh. Just a thought...

I am not an idiot, I get it. We should all attempt to be more like Christ with every moment we have on this earth. I understand that there are new Christians out there that may find my brand of frankness off-putting and confusing. I am not saying I don't have flaws or that my sins are justified. Not at all. I am saying that living out loud is incredibly important to me. I am also recognizing that Christ sat with sinners, ate with prostitutes, associated with crooks, thieves and political aspirants. He didn't deny them a seat at his side. What right do I have to not do as Jesus did? And He also states very clearly in His Word, that there is no way on Earth that we can ever possibly be sin-free. Hmmmm....

(Takes deep breath...) Not everyone has to like me. I am not going to be everyone's brand of Christianity. I am ok with that. But do not mistake my admission of my fallibility for acceptance of such. I try daily to balance out the "bad dog" inside with the Christ-loved aspirations I harbor. I want to reach as many people as I can but I refuse to do it behind a faćade. I will love all of Christ's people with arms that once did nothing but evil. I will listen to them confess Christ with ears that once heard nothing but despair. I will encourage them with a mouth that cannot be tamed and fails in constancy. I AM A CHRISTIAN WOMAN, and I am loved by One who knows every hair on my head and every hope in my heart. I dare you to tell Him I am not worthy...

Hope in My Heart

Photo courtesy of Eli Paulsen

I could hear the other horses milling about in their stalls. The quiet contrast of the barn at night is so stark it's hard to comprehend how busy we are during the day. I was here on a whim, running something to the freezer, but something told me to look in on her. Standing outside the stall is never good enough - I had to go in. I squatted down, back against the wall and waited as my legs fell painfully asleep. Just being in her presence calmed my breathing, slowed my mind, made things simpler in an otherwise exhausting day.

Her mother eyed me suspiciously. I scratched her neck and she relaxed with a sigh as I squatted to peer at the foal, standing opposite me at her mother's side. The big mare dutifully snuffled at my hair, lipped at my cheeks and generally checked me out before turning to allow the foal a closer look. This little one was not like the last. She was not as curious, not as willing to fly in the face of her mother's protective stance to check out the two-legger encroaching on their night. I held my breath and prayed my legs would hold up.

She nursed from her mother and stretched her neck to sniff at me, tiny nostrils flaring with each breath. Her big brown eyes were tranquil pools of mild curiosity. I cautiously reached out with fingertips to touch her  muzzle... Softer than I could imagine and such a treat, I sat stock-still, hoping for her curiosity to get the better of her. She inched closer, walking under her mother's belly on tiny, halting hooves. The mare nickered her approval softly and I quit breathing for a moment...

The filly stretched her elegant neck out as far as it would reach and lipped softly at my fingertips. I closed my eyes and felt as her mouth determined that my hand held no milk. It was only a second, a short fleeting moment after long stretches of waiting and legs that couldn't move any more... But in that instant my heart melted into the goo that would love her all the more come morning.

Her name is Hope and she is filled with promise...

It Isn't Fair...

Photo Credit: Morgan Nati

He stood there, amazed. Slack jawed and more than a little irritated; he was fuming! After a long day's work in the fields he was returning to bedlam. Where was his father? The revelers were dancing and playing instruments, the smell of roasted meat filled his nostrils and not far away a familiar but heartbreaking sound of a man's voice filled his ears. He pushed his way past the partiers, to find his brother seated with his father. Laughing and feasting he was wearing one of Father's finest robes over tattered rags and as his hand reached for another chunk of succulent meat he caught a glimpse of the ring as it shone in the firelight. A ring? The robe? Really? Fury began to build in his gut, fiery and acid with the taste of betrayal. As his father looked up and saw him, he spun on his heels. He couldn't stand it any longer - He had to get out of there before he exploded.

"Son?" His father caught up with him outside the large tent. "Won't you come in and celebrate with us? Your younger brother has returned! He is back!"

"How could you?" His heart pounded loudly in his ears, his chest near bursting with anger and humiliation. "How could you treat him like a king when you know as well as I do he was laying with prostitutes and wallowing with pigs? He wasted everything you gave him! Why on earth are you celebrating?"

"But he is back! Your brother is back - We had to celebrate!" His father looked genuinely confused.

"He doesn't deserve it. I never asked you for anything, yet he demands it all and you give it to him! You never threw me a feast for being the good son... It isn't fair!"

Have you been there? Have you ever watched as someone less deserving got the best piece of the pie? Have you ever wondered if there is justice in this world? I have. Many times. I have watched as our own family struggled, ate less than glamorously, didn't vacation, prayed as our business languished. I have looked up from the devastation that I felt and seen those that are so smug and wasteful, less than Christianly, prosper and flourish. I have watched as others enrich themselves on the soil of our despair... It was terrible. It was excruciatingly painful. It wasn't fair.

So where is God's justice? I mean, we hear about how fair He is and how He will be our ultimate Judge at the end of time. Does that mean that we don't get justice until then? We have to wait until the Rapture and return of Christ to see those that are undeserving get what's coming to them? Well, do we????

If I am waiting for that kind of justice, I hope to be waiting a very long time. I hope, for all of our sakes, that it is never fair.

God's love isn't built on justice. It isn't measured out in deserving spoonfuls based on what I have done for Him or how much I have tried to be a "good girl." Thank God for that! God's love - What we all crave whether we are aware of it or not - God's love is based in Mercy and Grace. I cannot earn it or achieve it. I can only ask for it. The very best part about having Him operate that way? If I ask for His love, genuinely and humbly, He will give it every time. Without fail, God will never deny me His love and His grace. That means no matter how ugly I have been, no matter how selfish, how hateful, how murderous my heart, God will always open His arms and welcome me back to His celebration. I am never turned from His table of plenty. He will never ask that I sit in the corner and watch as others eat. He always has my seat reserved for me.

I am comforted by that - for me. I don't much like it when I see others I judge as unworthy allowed the same grace. Why? Because my justice is skewed, my grace is nonexistent, I am without mercy in my heart. I am human. He is God. I look at the situation and want to view the repentance in action. I want to see that the person is really going to be sorry and change their ways. I look at the outward view of a man. God looks at the man's heart. He sees the repentance where it starts, He looks into the soul and judges there - There, where I cannot go.

It seems too easy, doesn't it? That someone can just say, "I'm sorry," to God and He accepts it without prejudice. It doesn't seem fair or right... It is the same with salvation. You don't have to DO anything. You only have to ask and viola! It is done for you. You instantly become a part of the family with all rights to inherit the kingdom of God. You would think that people would be signing up by the droves to get that kind of booty. They don't. It's too easy. Our human nature says there has to be some kind of ceremony, some sort of sacrifice...

The ease in which you and I are saved from an eternity of darkness came at a very high price, the ultimate in sacrifice. The only person to ever live this life without sinning (not even once) took all of it on for us. He did it all! Christ did everything we couldn't do, so that He could climb onto a cross and be covered in every sin - EVERY SIN - past, present and future! His own Father, who vows never to turn from us, turned from Him so that we could have it so easy.

I won't tell you that I don't struggle with the prodigal son thing... I won't tell you that I don't wonder at times why on Earth God allows such painful injustice to wallop me on the head and bring me low. I will tell you I get it. I get that God wanted it to be so easy that to not accept His love would be folly. I get that if I am allowed His grace for every nasty thing I have done and will do, I have to allow others the same process. God's love isn't fair.... And aren't I glad of that?! After all, I am the only one that stands in my way from attending the same feast - And if you know me, you know I rarely miss a party!

Be blessed... not fair.

Simple Stuff

I know! It has been too long! (Reaches out and gives you that uncomfortable "pat-pat" hug.) I try desperately not to give apologies or false hope here. I won't tell you "real life got in the way" or that I have been very, very busy - All of which is true. I will tell you that this is still my happy spot and I miss you when I don't show up here. I have been out in Analog World doing Me.

Me? Well this chick is a mess! She does things like lays laminate floor and crochets sweaters, draws cell phone covers and decorates glassware. She has a card business and lots of creative ideas. She writes reams and then doesn't write at all. She's simple and she's complex and all of that inside a 30 nano-second time span. I won't pretend to know why I have been out of the blogosphere for the last two weeks, I only know that I have accomplished much, gotten some much needed chores done, reclaimed an entire room in my home, lost a dog and been dealing with an insurance company. It has been a little hectic... And yet, I have been happy. Well... As happy as I can be when I am not writing.

Writing is just so much of who I am. It is the essence of Me. When you do what you love it is as if you suddenly exist. When I neglect it - Well, I become shadow - bodiless mist, as it were. Don't feel sorry for me, I can be damned productive shadow-mist! But I still pine for that space in my head that feeds my writer-self. I miss it. And so... Here I am!

It hasn't been an easy week, but I am still here, all of my loved ones are safe and the hard decisions are made. It is in these weeks, when I rely on God most, that I become aware again of how important it is to say thank you for the simple things and take a moment to appreciate them fully. Here is my list:

• I love the smell of fresh ground, fresh brewed coffee, hot in my mug, the color of warm caramel.
• I love to see my dog stare at me. Such innocence and love, unconditional and unwavering.
• I love realizing that the cat who loves only my husband is sitting next to me and allowing me to absently stroke his incredibly soft head. I love that he pretends not to notice I am touching him and I love that I touch him without thinking about it.
• I love that if you leave honey and lemons in a mason jar long enough they ferment into a lovely addition to your Vodka.
• I adore text messages from my love. He gets me... Mostly.
• I love my bed and the sound of my fingernails on the keyboard. They remind me that I am doing what I love in the best spot in the house, surrounded by the things that I love and love me back.
• I love the smell of cut lumber.
• I love the feeling I get when I accomplish something I was afraid to start (Yes, laminate floor and cardigan sweater, I am talking about you!)
• I love remembering to write things down so I don't forget them later and then actually remembering where I wrote them so I have them at my disposal when the time comes...
• I love the feel of crisp, fresh paper
• I love knowing that all of my choices, good and misguided, make me who I am and no one can say they have done it exactly like I have.
• I love feeling my purple converse get wet from the slush because it means we have snow on the ground.
• I love knowing that no matter what I fear, God already knows how it turns out.
• I love the curls and waves in my hair that are so trendy right now and all I have to do is give it a spritz and I am done...
• I love being a sister.
• I love finding a bargain at the Goodwill at just the right moment and confirming that it was a really good deal!
• I love just being...

What are your simple things? Say thank you right now and count them out loud!

Be blessed!

Fitting It All Together

Photo Credit Creative Commons

I grew up thinking everything had to have a purpose. I don't know why and I don't know how it came to be my modus operandi. It just did. Suddenly I was sitting in my grown up life and everything had to have a reason for doing. You ate when you were hungry, you spoke when there was information to impart, you moved because things needed doing... All of it had links to something important in your life. Homework was to get you to college. Jobs were to teach you responsibility. Careers were to earn money and buy things, have a family, do the right thing. It all linked together in this jigsaw puzzle of life and someday, when I was grown up, it would look like something spectacular. The trouble is, I had these pieces that didn't seem to fit the rest of the puzzle.

I had pieces that I loved. Pieces that were shiny, beautiful and touchable but they didn't fit into the puzzle. They didn't have the same tones, the same shape... So I set them aside. I left them there to gather dust and wondered if there would ever come a time where the puzzle they belonged to would surface and I could make them fit somehow. I waited for permission and purpose to use those pieces.

I don't usually watch much tv before I write. It saps me of creativity. Sunday Morning on CBS is different. The format pokes my creative spirit in the ribs and asks, "Did you hear that? Did you see what they did there?" I love it. Seeing the artists they feature and hearing stories of how they came to be so in tune with themselves... It gives my muddied muse a douse with the garden hose and lifts me back up to the easel. I get inspired.

Today I watched a piece about rock and roll artist turned Broadway musical creator, Trey Anastasio, formerly of Phish. It was soothing and pleasantly enjoyable until his parting words slammed into my chest, "I love writing music. It's like food!" Not that I love writing music, that wasn't where I instantly related. It was the "I love _______. It's like food!" Put in that space anything that fills you up, anything that truly rejuvenates you, completes you in ways that all of your chores for purpose don't. That was what struck me today. There are things that I do in life because they need done and there are things that I do in my life because they feed me. FEED ME... It was as if I had in earplugs and I finally removed them to hear that desperate plea, now so loud it was shocking. I had been ignoring that cry because I had other things to do; important, purposeful things... I was drowning out the pleas, waiting for permission.

The epiphany wrung my heart with surprising strength. The puzzle pieces that sit outside my daily life: my writing, my artistry - They are not pieces to be set aside to gather dust or be forgotten. Worse yet, they are not pieces to be used as rewards for a job well done in purpose-puzzle-land but a vital part of me to be cultivated and grown and built upon in their own right. If I cannot fit those pieces into the puzzle of daily life then I need to build another puzzle. I must start by realizing that those fragments, whimsical and fragile and frivolous, refuel my desires and my abilities to stick with a puzzle filled with responsibilities and things I have to do.

I had a meltdown the other day. I was overwhelmed, frustrated and desperate. As in most times like that, my mother called. I don't know if she has a radar for my moods, but she could instantly tell that something was off with me. I poured out my heart to her, I explained my frustration, I cried, I admitted that I hadn't a creative drop of juice left in me. Her answer was not to head into the house and get some laundry done. It wasn't her advice to clean a bathroom or head up to the office and do some accounting or web updates. Her advice was to go out to my studio and soak it up. Even if I did nothing at all but sit on my couch and take in the light, she advised me to go to my happy place and just BE. She told me that not everything has to have a purpose to be good for us. It was like a balm to an open wound. It soothed me and gave me permission to minister to myself.

As a woman and a caregiver I tend to deny myself that luxury of doing for me. I feel guilty if I am not serving someone else's need. I hold myself to a standard no one could achieve and one that I am sure God didn't intend for me to model. I was created to serve a God who wants me to be lit afire, burning brightly and cheerily, giving to others without draining myself of my own fuel. That "food" that I crave it is like a Sabbath to my soul. It feeds me in ways that I don't always understand. Like different cuisines, each of us craves something unique. I am fed by putting words on a page, by creating art that touches others. It becomes a Sabbath refuge for me - A place of rest and rejuvenation. It is in this space that I feel most alive, most myself, most ME. Seems counter-intuitive that I would avoid being more of who I am, doesn't it? It is time to change that perception.

Those odd puzzle pieces aren't a part of my daily routine quite yet, but I am turning them over in my hands now. I am studying them and starting to look for other pieces that will fit. Someday they will become a part of the larger picture. Until that day, I will build on them in their own right. I will create around them and be refreshed by that sensation - The sensation of being full, being satisfied - being Me.


Be blessed - And be YOU!