Category: Poems {Going Quietly Sane}

I Am More (a poem response to Blackhawk’s Sermon “Who Is Your God?”)

I Am More

By Melody Harrison Hanson

The future disturbs,
chases at my sanity and sensibilities.
I am scared of each intake of breath, every thought
and this moment. I am stuck.

The only thing that makes sense is Jesus.
I lean in to Him.  I cry, ready for anything.
If only I could cry actual tears. 
That too soon reminds me I am only partly healed.
I feel barely human.
What kind of person cannot cry?
The weight on my chest is unimaginably heavy. 
Hope is cloying and oppressive.

I am scared of the future, looming dark and cold.
I am afraid of these days I am living now.
I want to believe that eventually this life of mine will have a purpose beyond this day.

I am more than the money I don’t earn.
I am more than the things I do.
I am more than what I give.
I am more than what I take.
I am more than the words I write, slipping them into the cosmos with trepidation.
I am more than merely a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a friend.

Why doesn’t being beloved feel better than this?
In the end I am stuck with myself, I am barely human.

I want it all to mean so much more.  I want
the children I meet to change me.
I want the people I love to make me feel alive.
I want each action I take to mean something.
And yet it is all utterly meaningless unless
Yahweh is everything.

———————————————————————————

This poem is about the greatest of idols self-identity — allowing our meaning and purpose to come from anything but Yahweh.  The sermon at Blackhawk this week kicked off a series titled American Idols.  The premise is that anything in your life, even a good thing, that becomes more important than God is an idol.  In an age of psychology and self-healing, through medicines and talk therapy, self-worth can all too quickly become an idol.

For me, the journey of finding my way back to faith and belief was so huge in my development of a healthy identity.  Still, many days, as I search, as I long for, need, wander, hope and fear — the process becomes an idol.  The process becomes this thing that distracts me from who God is, what it means to be his beloved child, and the few things that he calls me to each day.

Here is what I wrote last week in response to the sermon Stop.  It is a part of a series I am writing called: Be Real.  

One of the ways I’m going to do that– be real — is by writing a response to the sermons I hear at my church, Blackhawk. These responses are not from the church, just my reflections.  I am always challenged by teachers at Blackhawk, sometimes profoundly, but I don’t — to be honest — always take the time needed to apply them to my life. But, if life is too busy to apply what you’re learning about your faith and if you don’t change and grow, what’s the point? So here goes.  Many people are busier than I, including my husband, and I just hope that this helps reinforce in some small way what God was already saying to you.

Do You Trust God? (A response to Blackhawk’s sermon “Stop”)

BE REAL.

One of the ways I’m going to do that – be real — is to write a response to the sermons I hear at my church, Blackhawk. These responses are not from the church, just my reflections.  I am always challenged by teachers at Blackhawk, sometimes profoundly, but I don’t — to be honest — always take the time needed to apply them to my life. But, if life is too busy to apply what you’re learning about your faith and if you don’t change and grow, what’s the point? So here goes.  Many people are busier than I, including my husband, and I just hope that this helps reinforce in some small way what God was already saying to you.

Stop

I’m privileged I know.  I don’t have to work.  And through that I have learned I am more than my job.  I am more than what I do.

I’m “unemployed” and have been for ten years, since I left a busy career with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship.  I quit my job the year of the tragedies of 9/11. But I had worked through three pregnancies.  I had been “successful.”  Why did I quit?  Why did I stop?  I can tell you that today I would have considered that decision more carefully — found a way to scale back responsibilities rather that cut all ties.  But one cannot live in “what might have been.”

In 1991, I had a few months old baby, a two-year old and a three-year old, and a pre-teen and worked in full-time ministry.  I don’t think I would have admitted it then, but I was utterly overwhelmed by my life.   I was tired, burned out, bored with my job, and looking for change.

So I quit.  I thought it would be simple to stay at home with the kids.  What I found was that I was uncomfortable in my skin.  And not emotionally or spiritually healthy.  Produce and get things done was how I operated.  I was competitive by nature.  I was busy by choice.  I was productive, one of the 20% that does 80% of the work in a church or non-profit.

Here’s something I wrote about myself, looking back at that time:

It struck me, how sad it is when one spends their whole life striving, working, driven by the next “important” thing.  Having worked in a not-for-profit ministry for thirteen years and having grown up in Dan Harrison – the missionary leader’s home — I know about striving!!!    I used to work like that.  I used to get such a rush from doing — it defined me.  It drove me.   I would wake in the morning frantic that I was somehow already behind and go to bed at night anxious over what I had forgotten or worse NOT gotten done.  

That sad picture was me!  The world was about getting it done for me. I was my job. It is no exaggeration when I say I got my identity from what I was able to acocmplish.I was always thinking, working, doing.  It was my legacy from my father which he held on to even as he was dying — that he hadn’t finished all he could do!  He wasn’t even able to stop when he got brain tumors.

Stop and Be Filled

But this sermon was not about work being bad, but being able to stop and be filled. It was about trusting God. It was about being mature enough to sit with God, quiet in his presence with an open heart, for periods of your day.

My pastor confessed that he’s constantly on the go and like I once did, he sounds like he also measures his self-worth by his productivity. My pastor is a workaholic, I think, though he manages it.  He seems to have boundaries, he exercises, and he maintains ongoing relationships, and the staff at church seem healthy too and so though I don’t know him personally but I respect his public life anyway.

He is learning after all these years that God says stop in Psalms 46 and the context isn’t one of peace and tranquility, it is chaos.  More like how I used to live my life, than my life now.   The psalmist describes the world gone crazy and things upside-down, where you can’t count on anything — In that moment just — stop.

God is an ever present help in trouble.  I will not fear… This is poetry that shows God offers us refuge —  a “basement in a tornado warning” kind of security.

The Hebrew:  Refuge — Machceh {makh-seh’}; from chacah; a shelter (literally or figuratively) — hope, (place of) refuge, shelter, trust.

“I am your refuge.”   In this poetry, you can understand God is our Safe Place.

Relax! Cease. Stop! Be still!

When the world says go, when things are falling apart, when something reflexive and internal says fix it, do it — God says, when it is most chaotic, raphah!  Be Still!   

“Anyone can stop and not do something but guilt overcomes!” said Chris and went on to talk about how guilty he feels for not “doing.”   How difficult his sabbatical was because he was unlearning a lifelong habit of being a doer.

“Stopping is the same as trusting, which is easy when life is peaceful.  It is more difficult and a sign of our maturity when life is falling apart.”

How is this done practically speaking?  How does one find time to stop and trust who God is for a few minutes in our day.

  1. Put yourself in a different location like doing for a walk.
  2. Be quiet. Turn off the noise. i.e. i-everything.  Find the off button.
  3. Get up early or stay up late.
The world says go.  God says stop.  Relax. Get alone.  Become helpless.  Cease.  Let it go. Loosen your hold.  Wait.  
And this means you have to trust Him.

At Some Point (A poem) This is an old old poem, from 2008.

At Some Point

(May 15, 2008)

Anxious, chaotic thoughts
My fears unexplained by logic or even a specific memory.
I am caught in the tangle of what happened long ago.
This story is about what didn’t happen.

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

Suffering the affliction of neglect.
Anguish is something difficult to define.
It hurts.
It brings toxic thoughts.

Why am I unclear? Do you love me?
Why is it that, continuously, it seems I return,
To anxious, chaotic thoughts.
Confusing, violent, soul-crushing dreams.

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

Again and again, year after year,
no matter how hard I work
Always back to this again,
Do you love me? Why am I unsure?

Boundaries crossed, again and again,
you take me places a child should never go.
And then, you push me away (that’s what it feels like) but it is
More like indifference.

Boundaries crossed, and you share
From your life things I was never meant to know.
Perhaps that is the only way to be your child;
The only open place in your heart.

I must go there, within my own discomfort.
Must I allow you to take me down those twisted paths
That only led to mortification.
Boundaries crossed. I am uneasy.

Distressed.
Nervous.
Unsettled.
Why that’s how I felt growing up!

Undetected was your love.
Like a puzzle missing pieces,
a puzzle that can’t
be finished.

No longer a child, when will I
let you go?
An anxious, chaotic life is no longer for me.
At some point, I must walk away

And find within
what I need to survive.
Acceptance of who I am,
lovable, genuine, predictable.

Moody, insecure, doubtful.
Pulled in two directions,
it is time to Become.
At some point, I must grow up.

Daily, I choose.
I choose the path I will journey down.
Will I walk the path of anxious, chaotic thoughts?
Or will I walk away?

{I Know What “ezer” Means — Further thoughts on being a Woman in the Church}

Sometimes people listen to me.  And I think,
I have a responsibility to talk about what it is like to be a woman in the Church.

Sometimes people listen,

so hear me,

this is what I don’t understand

— Why are women still oppressed?

And why do (some) men not understand?
Why do (some) men treat women the way they do?

It’s not like I want to live my life angry.
It’s not like I want to live my life on the defensive.
It’s not like I want to be oppressed.

(Some) men will always question

the word “oppressed.”
They will ask: How are you exploited? How are you possibly offended

when you can be our helper?

Here’s my problem.  I know what ezer means.

Jesus was a liberator.
Women traveled with him,
supported his ministry,
anointed him for burial,
stayed with him at the crucifixion, and
saw his resurrection because they were waiting, believing.

Jesus loved women and wasn’t afraid of us.
He healed us.
He talked to us.
He listened to us.
In the early Church women were teachers, donors, apostles, ministers, laborers.

Why is the Church today so unlike what I think Jesus meant it to be?
I read the Bible and I see
Jesus gave women freedom.  Why do (some) men read it
and see separation? Partitions.
Why do (some) men only see all of our differences?
I am simply a person in love with Jesus.

I look at the Church today—so many men reading and teaching theBible from a masculine perspective. 
I see the Church today, its teachers and preachers—its magazines—its writers—its leaders —its conference speakers.
Man oh man, it is so full of men.
It is so full of entrenched hierarchy and deep biases
that the Church perhaps thinks is subtle, if they even think about it at all. 

But I see and hear the lack—of a Female Voice.
And even when She speaks, is she heard?

He said:
“There is no longer male or female.”
And I say, except— in the Church.
Sometimes people listen.
Are you listening?

P.S. Donald Miller: Women are so much more than simple sexual beings waiting for you to write our story. And you may have erased the “Love Story for Girls” but women have longer memories. You should take more care with your words.

One Perspective. 

You are Beloved

This post is about being loved and feeling loved.  And what can happen when you don’t believe you are dearly loved — to your relationships and to your hopes and dreams for your life.

GROWING UP, I was not told…

I never believed that I was “dearly loved.” This was partly because I grew up in a frightening and unpredictable home and because of my father’s angry raging behaviors.  I have always been profoundly unsure of myself.  I remember how important it became to simply grow invisible. 

Invisible was safe.  If you aren’t seen or heard, you cannot upset anyone.  No opinions.  Eventually no thoughts at all at home, where you might slip up and express them.  This was okay if he agreed with you.  But if not, there was no telling what might happen.  You might be lectured at for hours, or berated in front of a friend. Humiliation.  Threats.  Intimidation.  Blame.  It just wasn’t predictable.

When I look at my children I’m appalled by my upbringing.  I want nothing more than to see my kids discover and grow into unique people.  I see incredible things in them and I tell them often, out of love and a wish to affirm those truths.

 “Those are beautiful words you have written.”

“God made you full of joy.”

“You memorize things so easily. That will make life so much easier for you.”

“You are careful and precise and that will serve you well in the future.”

“You make people laugh, what a gift!”

“You care about others.”

“You are gentle and kind and the world needs more men like that.”

“You will grow into someone who washes others’ feet.”

“Yes, that is sexist it pleases me that you saw it.”

  “You articulate yourself so well!”

I speak these truths and other, because I believe children need help to discover their talents and abilities and to experience the spirit of God.  I believe we don’t naturally know.  My place in God’s world, made in his image, is something that I never discovered in that shrouded, hidden place that I disappeared in to for so many years as a child and young adult.

THE CHURCH didn’t tell me …

Secondly the Church sent subliminal, and sometimes outright sexist messages to girls  where I was growing up in the south.  I “heard” that I am a second class person; less valued by God because I (somehow) need men to support me, protect me, and teach me, especially about the Bible.  I was to subordinate myself to men.

Though I heard those things, in my gut I knew it was wrong.  I have always believed that if you believe in the world of Gen 1 & 2, and in the hope of lasting and true restoration by Jesus on the Cross, then you cannot accept the cultural Church practices spoken of in the NT.

MARRIAGE

By the grace of God I married beautiful, ennobling, questioning complex thinking person of faith.  He lives with me in the land of questions and he does not attempt to tell me what the answers are.  Together we began the journey and partnership of marriage in June of 1993.  What he spoke into my life was hope, and goodness, and empowerment. He listened for my voice and I began to heal. 

I was a fanatically hard-working ministry leader when he met me.  I worked for my father (ironically) so at the end of the day, I finally had my father telling me what I was good at by giving me promotions.  The more I accomplished the more responsibility I was given.  I discovered I had many talents, I was a hell of a hard worker and I had a need to constantly be proving myself and my worth.  At the end of the day, week, month, there was always more to be done.  More to prove.  More to do to validate myself as a daughter, as a woman, as a leader, as a human being.

I still didn’t believe I was BELOVED.   Skip forward from my mid thirties to today.

TODAY I am …

44.  I have been out of the workplace for ten years.  I “used” my children as an excuse to leave an acrimonious place where (I felt) I had hit the glass ceiling. I was burned out trying to prove myself.  I didn’t know the grace of God in my life.  I didn’t really believe.

Over the last decade I have walked a painful path but I have discovered that I am beloved.  Oh yes, those difficult lessons (my experience with clinical depression, my alcoholism, losing my parents) were so vital to my becoming human again and the reason that I am alive today.  I got sober, which took courage in the Christian community.  Actually I didn’t get any help from Christians but by God’s grace, my life is living through and beyond being an alcoholic or being depressed.

Today my life is so incredibly rich and full.  And now as a woman, a burgeoning feminist, a feeble follower of Jesus, a sometimes photographer, a frequent writer, hungry student of the Bible, I am asking for others to speak truth into my life now about my unique contribution to be made.

If I let myself, I quickly become focused on what I am, who I am, why I am … and the fact that I am so afraid.  (I think) I want to study and learn and be able to articulate Truth by going back to school. When I look around my community there are needs everywhere.  I see them.  I feel them.  My heart breaks for it.  As a white person with affluence I believe I have a unique responsibility and a unique place of financial privilege.  As a woman, and a feminist and a follower of Jesus I believe my voice is unique.

The Jesus that washes our feet wasn’t a macho oriented, “women should be in the home cooking, cleaning, having babies and bringing me my dinner” kind of man who has been written and preached about in the Church.  He preached that we are to live in peace, he offers us a life full of victory (over our sin), and he makes us generous and loving. We are to speak against injustice. That’s the Jesus I know.   That’s my kind of faith.

But I am afraid and I can no longer blame my upbringing.  I can no longer blame the Church.  I can no longer blame my father.  With no one left to blame, I am here with my convictions and beliefs, greatly needing shape and formation.  It is time to act; to step out in faith that God is with me each step of the way and that there is a reason for each experience I have had.  In some ways I “woke up” just a few years ago.  A late bloomer doesn’t do it justice, but you are never too old to do something.

At fifty, my mother began a process of waking up.  She is now in her seventies and to her credit is a person continuously searching for truth.  I greatly admire that about her.

Andy Crouch, on his blog Culture Making, says disciplines are the key to excellence. Ten thousand hours is a good benchmark—that’s one hour a day, five days a week, for forty years (with two weeks of vacation each year!). If every Christian decided to spend 10,000 hours developing their capacity in a single cultural domain (painting, stress fracture analysis, genomic sequencing, you name it) and also 10,000 hours on the spiritual disciplines that embody dependence on God (solitude, silence, fasting, study, prayer), in forty years we’d have a completely different world. How are you spending your 10,000 hours?

I am a white woman of privilege, blessed by living a beautiful life, a feminist and Jesus follower, who finally knows she is BELOVED and is finding her voice and asking:  How should I spend my next 10,000 hours?

The Act of Sleeping (a poem)

rope
Image by -= Bruce Berrien =- via Flickr

the days of late have been quite enough for my heart, mind and soul to keep up … and so…

I was

drifting off to sleep,

taking an illicit nap in the middle of the day,

when it hit me.

I have always loved the act

of sleeping.  It is a thread

that holds my life together, connecting me

                     to health,

                     to sanity,

                     to strength.

It is safety, a place I have run to all my life.

For life is full of danger and pain.

Life is sometimes more than I can bear.

I do not know if there is anything

I enjoy more than sleep.

Sunday Morning [a poem]

Sunday morning was
the ticking of the clock, each second in my head.
Time stretched beyond eternity, hung over.
Awash with a thousand regrets swallowed the night before.
I thought I knew in my anxious thoughts
what I needed. My thirst was constant.

Fully knowing, the need for living water was
stronger than the thirst that sits
on me,

in me,

around me

smothering hope all morning long.

Sunday morning is
time stretched out, relishing the moments.
Slow and graceful, time is on my side.
Grace is found in Sunday mornings where not only do I wake to the sunshine, but
hope and glory meet me as I slowly come awake to realize the gift
of lingering with my creator.
Sunday morning is undeserved for surely I have toiled at foolish things.
I have wondered what you have already answered, what your word proclaims.
If only I would stop and be here more often, I would find the answers.
I would see that I get to start again when I wake up Sunday mornings.

finding the dead on facebook

So I got to thinking the other day, how I wish I could find my dad on Facebook or some other social media outlet.   An odd, really weird thought I’ll admit, since he died years ago of brain cancer.   Before the cancer stole his mind, he was a complex and interesting person.  Sometimes he could be one of the kindest people you could know.  He knew how to encourage and loved to compliment a person, telling you what he liked about you.

But when the rage came over him, somehow he ‘forgot’ he loved you and that he wanted the best for you, and he’d yell, chide and berate.  Castigate.  Criticize.  Condemn.  It is difficult to explain how it happened — starting from nowhere and becoming a living hell — if you didn’t experience it.  He could and would utterly demoralize a person.

Still, he was my father.  And, I miss him.   I think?  As I think I possibly do actually miss him the old fear returns.  The dull panicky stomach ache.

My life is so much better without him.  And I wonder if all my siblings feel that way?

So, I am not so naïve as to believe that we shouldn’t have any difficult people in our lives.  I know that my response to my father makes me the person I am today. They shape and form us.  But pain is pain.  And I was particularly shattered by my father’s treatment.  Perhaps it was my temperament and sensitivities.  Again, a conversation I’d like to have some day with my siblings is who we are and who we might have been as it relates to him.

Do you have someone in your life that you love, but you know that you would be better off without them in your life?  (Not necessarily dead, of course.)


You Are Not Alone – Thoughts on Sobriety.

A glass of red wine. Photo taken in Montreal C...
Image via Wikipedia

At times I detest that I am an alcoholic. It’s damn inconvenient.  Those are the days that it seems the whole world drinks – except me and perhaps James Frey.

I dreamt of drinking last night. That scares me a little, because in my dreams I seem to “forget” that I can’t drink.  Now that’s a nightmare – an alcoholic that draws a blank on their past.  Even if it is only in their dreams.  I recall now that I just wanted a small glass of red wine. No we don’t need to order the bottle. A red, to accompany whatever I was eating.  Harmless.

I have never actually taken a sip in my dreams, thus far.  The dreams come unbidden, which may make you think that drinking is on my mind a lot.  Most of the time, these days, I never think about being an alcoholic. But when I do, sometimes I resent that I cannot drink.

Lest you begin to feel sorry for me and think that I am an innocent former drinker, I must set you straight. In the end I was a falling-down drunk. I had to quit. I would have lost my life eventually. I never hit “the bottom” which some say you need to do to recover. But I got close enough that my conscience, and my husband, and God finally said enough is enough. Some people will need to hit the bottom to change. But most of us feel it building in our lives for a long time and finally one day we know.  We are ready.

For more than five years I had wrestled with the knowledge that I might be addicted. I didn’t know enough about the disease to make a good call on it.  But in my experience your gut is usually right. If you are wondering whether you just might be addicted to alcohol, listen to your soul. Hear the voices that talk to you late at night after drinking too much. Or the ones that pop up with the morning hangover.

Recognizing that we have a problem is a drawn-out and bit-by-bit process, at least it was for me. No one wants to think of themselves as an addict or alcoholic. Unfortunately our culture says getting addicted to it makes you weak. It is shameful and definitely not for Christ-followers! Christians do not become alcoholics, because they “trust in God.” Ironically, addiction is no respecter of race or religion or status. And all that stuff about just trust in God is bullshit.

Once I finally quit, July 17th, 2008, I have never relapsed.  I’m fairly certain that is because I have a family. They are my accountability. My kids are my Program. I am intentional about talking to them about my addiction to drinking and I think it is important that they know and understand the nature of the illness is hereditary.  And I am not shy about reminding them of the ugly side of drinking.  When I passed out in front of them. Or threw up all over myself in the car. Those memories return for a reason and that is to help them see the unglamorous side of addiction. And remembering keeps me sober.

Seeing others who clearly struggle with drinking is a good reminder for me, but it is not a reason to stay sober. I feel pity and empathy and hope they’ll figure it out soon. Because life is beautiful sober – in full color in a way that being a drunk is living in sepia tones compared to full color, 3D. It is loneliness vs. living in community. It’s living in starvation when you can live with a full stomach. You get the idea. Living in your addiction is like living in an ugly broken-down smog filled factory.   Sobriety is living in the glorious Grand Canyon!

But people do relapse and I hope you know this too is a part of the journey. A few years before I quit for good, I decided to go to counseling to “learn about addiction.” (That’s what I told myself.) I settled into about seven or eight months of not drinking, because that is what they require of you to receive alcohol counseling.  I learned all I could about the issue.

Near the end of my time I asked my counselor if she thought I could be a social drinker.  You know, if I wasn’t “up for” quitting.  I could still not imagine my life without alcohol.  I loved alcohol.  I didn’t go through a day without thinking about it or craving it. I wasn’t giving in to it right then, but after seven months of sobriety I thought I was “strong” and got the notion in my head that I would simply be “a social drinker.” I would just stick with one or two drinks in any given setting and definitely not drink at home.  I would be okay.  My counselor answered the question like this: “If you continue to drink socially, I predict I’ll see you back here in three or four years.” Yeah right, I was thinking, not me.  She does not know me.

She may not have known me, but she knew an addict when she saw one.  It took about one year – Yes, that was all it took for me to fall on my face literally and figuratively. I remember walking out of there, thinking “At least I’ll enjoy the next three years.”  That was how seductive alcohol was for me at the time. I did not believe AT ALL that I could be happy or have joy without alcohol in my life.

I walked out of that building full of the idea that I hadn’t been drunk for a good long time, so it would be easy to limit. Or at least it would take a while for the problem to present itself.  Honestly, I didn’t really care either way.  I was just glad that I could still drink.

Oh, it presented itself alright! More strongly than ever. With a vengeance.

I do wish that I could drink.  It still lures me. It teases and ultimately lies to me that it is a simple thing to drink. But those lies I can overcome and made my peace with in time. I stop them as soon as they pop in my head.  And remind myself that I and my life are worthy of my sobriety.

Sober people are some of the most brave people I know.  And that includes me.

If you or someone you love ever wants to talk confidentially with me about this, I am glad to do it.  I can only share my experience.  The answer is different for each person.  But knowing that you are not alone is important.

MHH

Here’s something I wrote two years ago about being an addict.

the ebb and flow

Those words, ebb and flow, gifted to me by a friend offer a hint of relief as they innocently imply a constant fluctuation.  She is alluding to the in and out movement of ocean tides —  a perfect metaphor for the dark moods that come over me.  A decline and increase.  It is true the dark moods come less and less for me as the years pass by.

I hate this day. 

I hate the day or two after a I write something like yesterday.  (That was a major dumping — discharge — purge.)  Though the writing is therapeutic for me on one level, in the sharing of it publicly I am left sitting here alone in my study anxiously worrying that people will think I am a narcissistic, egregiously self-absorbed person.  Which I am.  Didn’t I just say I want to be my own God?

But the ebb and flow metaphor only barely works because the moon pulls the tides.  The tides do not control themselves.  The tides are daily, predictable, constant.  Are my moods predictable? No.  Are they known for their patterns?  To some extent, yes. Ironically, as time passes I forget how dismal this mood genuinely is; it is utterly insufferable.  God forbid this thing was foreseen!

I had forgotten how bad it feels to slip into the murky place of in-between.  I go through the motions.  Though some are too difficult, already. I have random thoughts.  Do not kill the dog.  Cannot make the lunches.  I find myself wearing PJs for half the day only because I can’t bear to choose what to wear.  I can lean down and pick up book after book from the library bag that has spilled over on the floor.  I must bring order so that “they”, the ones I love, don’t have to be afraid.  Won’t start to worry.  Don’t worry about me I want to say.  I resolve not to be anyone’s extra concern.  The weight of the day is enough for most people.  I sit and listen to my son tell me about aliens and zombies in the book he’s reading.  It’s noise.  Even though I want to care, because he cares.  I can’t get up and make lunches (the task at hand) even though I know I need to make myself engage.  I try to pretend the cement is not in my veins.

How’d it happen, this time? 

How could I possibly have let this happen? I know.  I think.  I am absolutely dejected about the future and my lack of purpose and even perhaps my inability to accept the purpose put before me.  I am afraid of what others think of me, unless I find a high-powered job or pursue a degree that will puff up my sense of self and be something esteemed by others.  I am afraid to enjoy the garden, photography, writing or family! 

Should I write the book about my spiritual and psychological journey of healing?  Much of it is written here.  And I have more than fifty poems.  I also have a book of photography waiting for printing.  I am frozen and disgusted by my self-pity.  And terrified that once again I find myself anxious about the little things (which intellectually I know I can handle.) And even more so, I am wondering if I have the book in me.  If these experiences would be worthy to put on the printed page to help others.

For today, all I have is my excuses.  My brain, clouded over by this mood, aches.  And all I can do today is resolve to get a little exercise, to not isolate, and I shake my fist at the ebb and flow wondering aloud to the One who controls the moon and her tides.  What do you want from me?

Melt Down

I am my secrets.  They make me human.  And yet, if I don’t trust you enough to share them, I will die of my shame.  I need you to know my despair.

I need to tell you that today my heart is aching. I need you to believe that my masks are not all lies.  You do know me, because I always tell you the truth.  About my despondence — my anguish that comes too easily.  I need to tell you about the internal corruption that sits with me night and day mocking me.  And that I sit with my secrets wondering where are the friends to reassure me that everything will be okay?

Where is God to say that his Truth is all that I need?

Damn you, fear. Damn you pain that sits lodged inside me.  I am choking on it right now.  I thought for a minute I kicked this habit of despair.

I don’t doubt the fact of knowing you God.  I am certain that you are there. Knowing you love even me.  The tears I cannot cry, you wipe away.  No misunderstanding there.  But what I have come to understand is that some days — it makes no difference at all.  I hurt anyway.  Your song, God, offers no comfort today.  The music at times so poignant.  Nothing about that seems to matter, when I know you don’t care what I do with my life.  Universal truths don’t matter, today, as I sit here thinking about what I now know.   What I think I want.  Sitting here smothered by the heavy weight of my self doubt.  Begging you to help me understand what is happening .

Damn you, fear. Damn you pain that sits lodged inside me.  I am choking on it right now. I thought I kicked this habit of despair.

Why do I have to feel my life is so important?  Why can’t I surrender to simply living each day. Loving. Others. Quietly.  Unknown to the world.  Anonymous. Why can’t I just do it.  Instead I sit here under the black cloud of the sinkhole and my need stares back at me in the mirror.

I. want. to. be. s.o.m.e.b.o.d.y.  I want to be important.  I know what I can do.  I know my own potential.

But that is what I thought you took from me — God — in my Exodus years.  I know you took my heartache and salvaged my soul.  Gave me forgiveness and in the sojourn to hell and back you promised to take this hideous ingratitude, ambition and greed.  The need for accolades and esteem.  That part of me that I loathe, that wants so badly to earn my worth.  That thinks I can prove something, anything.  Those ghosts of ambition crowd out all that you have taught me through my affliction.  Face it.

I want to be immortal.  I always want more than you.

It should be enough that you love me.   The knowledge that somehow you are rebuilding the frame of this crooked broken heart, that aches and thinks it is something, anything without you.  My secrets remain.  The fact that some days I don’t want to serve you.  I want to be my own deliverance.  I want to be God.  As if I could.

Damn you, fear. Damn you pain that sits lodged inside me.  I am choking on it right now.

This is me melting down.

Open Window [a poem]

These are the days I walk with leaden feet.
I am heavy with the memory of you.
And I wonder.  Am I free?
These were your last days in April.
For me, each feels more than twenty-four hours long.
In the cold nights of April I lay awake remembering
losing you.
I hear the car wheels spin and splash in the icy rain.
I am over thinking the past, again.
And again, heavily blanketed by my disgust
and a sadness I cannot explain.
A sadness I do not understand.
We knew you were dying, though you would not acknowledge it.
Your thoughts once sharp, were flat and strange to me.
Your words once so clear and resolute were fading from us.
Your eyes became vacant, as your smile was fleeting and confused.
I knew we were losing you.
We lost you long before the rainy nights of April came. 
But you wouldn’t let us say goodbye.
I woke on Easter morning feeling the weight of memory and the sounds of the night.
I lay as still as I could, not wanting the day to come.
I sensed the rain was gone.
I heard the bird’s joyous song.  The sun appears.
As I lay there thinking, I knew suddenly with the morning
that freedom comes in looking back and then,
in looking forward out the open window.
Freedom comes.
Yes, I am free
as I allow hope and expectation into my heart.
Freedom is found in the cool morning breeze
of resurrection.

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