Questioning the rhythm to which my heart finds its approval I am disquieted within.
Does my joy merely ride behind conditional sighs of relief?
The wells I’m drawing from warn me that they’re empty yet still I pull buckets of thirsty air from their silenced depths.
How long will these hands hold so tightly to the rope which I’ve appointed to save me?
Hunger bruises the walls of my heart in violent protest to emptiness.
I ache.
Will my lips forever defy the cup that’s been so freely set before me?
No, they will not.
This thirst must be quenched.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Farewell
There are varying degrees of goodbye. There is the goodbye that will see you tonight at dinner. There's the goodbye that follows the "Oh, hi! I haven't seen you in a long time. I didn't know you shopped here!" The tearful goodbye confined within the time allotted by the train conductor. The goodbye that says "See i told you that you'd tire of me.." The goodbye that only lovers can know when the beginning of a mere weekend of separation can only leave them feeling bereft. The goodbye that breathes relief at the end of what could only be described as a nuisance. The goodbye that holds the one that you had lost and only just recently found once more. The bittersweet goodbye following the ongoing conflict and the love that stays even when it just can't win the fight. And then there's the goodbye that feels final and forever when 6 feet of earthen clay separates you until eternity finds you reunited.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
But what about the long goodbyes? What about the goodbyes that have layers of color and texture that you can't predict? What about the goodbye that lingers, fingers laced in honest denial yet raw acceptance? This is where you trace your goodbye a hundred times, continually refreshing it in your heart and mind.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Release.
Catch.
Hold. Hold.
Let go.
I've come to the conclusion that there is no safe goodbye. Rarely will you find true closure in the controlled goodbye that you've so hopefully prescribed. Sometimes the end is just a drawn out intermission cloaked in the pretense of love grown cold.
I wish it was as simple and easy as once said and done. There are times that i wish my goodbyes would stick rather than turn around and say hello again.
My heart would much rather say goodbye while love is still alive, than be saying hello only to find that love has indeed truly died.
But, like I said... there is no safety in goodbye. More often than not, it's just a heartfelt line.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
244
Nearly 9 months.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
34 weeks.
244 days.
2,928 hours.
175,680 minutes.
10,540,800 seconds.
It's strange how very real time can become when you're folding each minute and coloring in every second. Suddenly moments hold names and hours find faces.
It's only when you're standing in your home anchored to the center of your favorite room, flames creeping up the newly painted walls, that you begin to count the number of times you stood there and bitterly curse the times that you just walked through. It's at that moment that every inch of those bright yellow walls crave your attention and you, in turn, crave theirs. Suddenly you'd risk your very life to save that scratch near the far right corner that you made 4 weeks ago. It's now that you're jealous for the empty space on the walls that have been yours for months. It's in this fragmented space in time that you have the audacity to wish you could dream for the emptiness within this small radius.
How long has this fire been breathing through these walls? And how long have you fought to just believe the flames away?
You're faced with a choice; scramble to save this domicile you've known as home... as safe... Or, flee with your life and the few precious belongings that sit within your feeble reach?
You'll run. You have to. But you wont run far. You'll stay close enough to at least feel the heat, to watch it's very last heartbeat. And this burning house won't beg you to stay... It will continue to burn until it's embers can only breathe your name.
But what if you had the choice to stay and watch it fall around you, unable to change anything, but untouched by the flames? Would you stay and watch, coveting every ounce of life and death left in it's bare bones? Or would you choose to leave it behind without looking back, rather seeking what seems to be the impossible courage to one day build again?
I can't say that I'd forsake the chance to remain till the very end... But here we are in skin that can do nothing but be repulsed by the scorching heat. Reality gives us no choice to remain yet survive. Death will not indulge idealism.
Still... There is beauty in these ashes.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Strange skin
This morning I awoke to the silence just before the sunrise. Letting the moment seep into my numb I felt my fingers begin to explore the meaning of recalled movement once again. Breathing deeply I shut my eyes tightly just to feel the tension; savoring the shock of bright pressure under my eyelids. The very dawning of the day seemed to sweetly sing the melancholy melody of missing you. The tone was set.
Six hours and four outfits later I'm finding myself still absently tugging at what should have been the answer to my overly self-aware discomfort. No matter what outfit I choose to try and solve the problem in my mind I am left feeling bereft and unlovely. What is it about today that finds me as an alien in my own skin? Nothing seems to feel like it fits even as it hangs so perfectly on my despondent frame. It's as if the ache that holds my heart is attempting to dress me up in what memory recalls to be your favorite gray shirt and the faded jeans you loved me in, but you're not here to tell me that they're not really what makes me lovely. So I'm found wanting.
I don't know this person I've been so deftly impersonating. I don't recognize this edge of reason that I'm living on. I'm just not usually this nonsensical.
But here I am... changing my outfit four times in one day; just trying to be more than okay. Feeling like a stranger in my skin.
Six hours and four outfits later I'm finding myself still absently tugging at what should have been the answer to my overly self-aware discomfort. No matter what outfit I choose to try and solve the problem in my mind I am left feeling bereft and unlovely. What is it about today that finds me as an alien in my own skin? Nothing seems to feel like it fits even as it hangs so perfectly on my despondent frame. It's as if the ache that holds my heart is attempting to dress me up in what memory recalls to be your favorite gray shirt and the faded jeans you loved me in, but you're not here to tell me that they're not really what makes me lovely. So I'm found wanting.
I don't know this person I've been so deftly impersonating. I don't recognize this edge of reason that I'm living on. I'm just not usually this nonsensical.
But here I am... changing my outfit four times in one day; just trying to be more than okay. Feeling like a stranger in my skin.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The fugitive
There used to be safety in the moment when my head would meet my pillow; a comfort in sleep discovered. I'm finding that this is no longer true. Sleep is the fugitive I so violently seek.
It seems that as soon as I try to rest my tired eyes that I am assailed by the vivid memories which wait just beneath the delicate haze of my fatigue. My minds eye is forcefully commandeered by bright scenes set on repeat. Looking around I'm suddenly realizing that I'm the only one in this theater. The screen is larger than life and I'm front and center; paralyzed by my own need to remain.
This is a silent film, yet still the empty space cannot help but pull sound from this quiet, my chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the running color before me. Rebellious tears liberally traverse my porcelain skin, falling noiselessly upon the hands that rest in my lap. Shadows play upon my face as the figures on the screen before me dance between the darkness and the light. I am held in timeless reminiscence; caught in the layers of my blurred consciousness. This is where agony earns it's infamy.
The moment I catch up with the fleeing feet of sleep the room I'm in suddenly vanishes and my minds eye succumbs to the coma I so desperately seek.
Now you could tell me to direct my mind elsewhere, and you'd probably be right, but I'm finding it to be harder than my preconceived "three step guide to stewarding your thoughts" that I had prescribed for myself. Maybe I've been foolish or maybe just not as strong as I wanted to be, but still, I'm not giving up... Don't worry.
In the meantime, I chase sleep and hide from my dreams.
It seems that as soon as I try to rest my tired eyes that I am assailed by the vivid memories which wait just beneath the delicate haze of my fatigue. My minds eye is forcefully commandeered by bright scenes set on repeat. Looking around I'm suddenly realizing that I'm the only one in this theater. The screen is larger than life and I'm front and center; paralyzed by my own need to remain.
This is a silent film, yet still the empty space cannot help but pull sound from this quiet, my chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the running color before me. Rebellious tears liberally traverse my porcelain skin, falling noiselessly upon the hands that rest in my lap. Shadows play upon my face as the figures on the screen before me dance between the darkness and the light. I am held in timeless reminiscence; caught in the layers of my blurred consciousness. This is where agony earns it's infamy.
The moment I catch up with the fleeing feet of sleep the room I'm in suddenly vanishes and my minds eye succumbs to the coma I so desperately seek.
Now you could tell me to direct my mind elsewhere, and you'd probably be right, but I'm finding it to be harder than my preconceived "three step guide to stewarding your thoughts" that I had prescribed for myself. Maybe I've been foolish or maybe just not as strong as I wanted to be, but still, I'm not giving up... Don't worry.
In the meantime, I chase sleep and hide from my dreams.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Aisle 10
I found myself pacing the other day in aisle 10 of the nearest super market, staring down the pens set so perfectly before me.
This isn't a new habit... I've found that I can be quite obsessive when it comes to buying a new pen. I can spend over 15 minutes trying to decide which one will be the one I risk buying.
I'm sure that people passing by, accidentally overhearing the conversation i've been holding with myself, must think that I'm slightly off kilter. So they make it their business to get in and out of aisle 10 in record time, which of course I won't complain about.
By the time I've chosen the pen that I've been seeking FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE (or at least that's how I'm acting, isn't it?), I can barely contain my need to use it right away! So since I'm in the aisle which also has notebooks, I quickly grab one off the shelf and declare it a match made in heaven. I lose no time in making my purchase and getting out to my car.
Settled in my comfy and reliable Sven, I proceed to shred the casing off of the pen and notebook. Sven so willingly receives the gifts I so generously offer to his floor... While the pen and notebook remain with me.
I then take the liberty to finally use this pen of ultimate destiny!
So that's usually how the story goes when I'm on a mission to purchase a pen. Sometimes it's a success, sometimes an utter failure. It varies.
But this past time that i went on my pen pilgrimage it resembled nothing of my previous visits to aisle 10. Yeah, it started out like every other time. I even had a smile waiting just behind my eyes. But instead I was met by yet another bittersweet memory; and it's focal point was a pen.
My smile remained for a moment to celebrate the sweet portion of this memory, but knew that it would flee before the bitter finish.
My adventure in aisle 10 was immediately cut short. I quickly and mindlessly chose a pen that i already knew to be reliable and then retreated to my own thoughts.
A pen. A small object that can be found in basically any room if you look hard enough. It bears no visible marks of emotion. It's a pen.
So here i was trying to escape memory lane, but instead i found it in aisle 10 with the pens.
This isn't a new habit... I've found that I can be quite obsessive when it comes to buying a new pen. I can spend over 15 minutes trying to decide which one will be the one I risk buying.
I'm sure that people passing by, accidentally overhearing the conversation i've been holding with myself, must think that I'm slightly off kilter. So they make it their business to get in and out of aisle 10 in record time, which of course I won't complain about.
By the time I've chosen the pen that I've been seeking FOR MY ENTIRE LIFE (or at least that's how I'm acting, isn't it?), I can barely contain my need to use it right away! So since I'm in the aisle which also has notebooks, I quickly grab one off the shelf and declare it a match made in heaven. I lose no time in making my purchase and getting out to my car.
Settled in my comfy and reliable Sven, I proceed to shred the casing off of the pen and notebook. Sven so willingly receives the gifts I so generously offer to his floor... While the pen and notebook remain with me.
I then take the liberty to finally use this pen of ultimate destiny!
So that's usually how the story goes when I'm on a mission to purchase a pen. Sometimes it's a success, sometimes an utter failure. It varies.
But this past time that i went on my pen pilgrimage it resembled nothing of my previous visits to aisle 10. Yeah, it started out like every other time. I even had a smile waiting just behind my eyes. But instead I was met by yet another bittersweet memory; and it's focal point was a pen.
My smile remained for a moment to celebrate the sweet portion of this memory, but knew that it would flee before the bitter finish.
My adventure in aisle 10 was immediately cut short. I quickly and mindlessly chose a pen that i already knew to be reliable and then retreated to my own thoughts.
A pen. A small object that can be found in basically any room if you look hard enough. It bears no visible marks of emotion. It's a pen.
So here i was trying to escape memory lane, but instead i found it in aisle 10 with the pens.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Mine own.
It comes quite suddenly at times... the ever tightening grip on my heart... the race against fear that my mind can't seem to win... panic.
There is no pattern to when it happens, but i guess that's just one more piece of this process that i'm only now truly tasting.
I hadn't known what it felt like to suddenly feel like i needed to rip open my aching chest just to manually slow my own treacherous heartbeat as it sought to betray me.
I hadn't known the moments when memories would find me and I'd lose my ability to breathe through them.
So I urgently dig to the deepest part of me for just one ounce of courage to talk myself down from the crumbling ledge of hopelessness. Gently i whisper life to my spirit, begging peace to know my name. It's here that I've learned, once again, to cry out, "Abba, help!"
Slowly I begin to feel my heart remember itself and my breathing begin to fall into a steady and unchained movement through my chest.
Selah.
This is a shade of grief I've never known before. It bleeds to the point of death and then forgets to kill me. It continually tears at my memories like flesh from my bone... Piece by piece.
So I remain.
Here is where I've met the ache that for now I'll live with and learn from, but It will not define me. It will not own me.
There is no pattern to when it happens, but i guess that's just one more piece of this process that i'm only now truly tasting.
I hadn't known what it felt like to suddenly feel like i needed to rip open my aching chest just to manually slow my own treacherous heartbeat as it sought to betray me.
I hadn't known the moments when memories would find me and I'd lose my ability to breathe through them.
So I urgently dig to the deepest part of me for just one ounce of courage to talk myself down from the crumbling ledge of hopelessness. Gently i whisper life to my spirit, begging peace to know my name. It's here that I've learned, once again, to cry out, "Abba, help!"
Slowly I begin to feel my heart remember itself and my breathing begin to fall into a steady and unchained movement through my chest.
Selah.
This is a shade of grief I've never known before. It bleeds to the point of death and then forgets to kill me. It continually tears at my memories like flesh from my bone... Piece by piece.
So I remain.
Here is where I've met the ache that for now I'll live with and learn from, but It will not define me. It will not own me.
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