Monday, October 7, 2013

[if you could channel surf on a blog...]

Pastor Steve spoke yesterday. He said a phrase that he's said many times before. "If you are better tomorrow than you were today, God won't love you any more. And if you are worse tomorrow than you were today, God won't love you any less, because God loves you to the maximum." I really enjoy this quote.... I really need this quote. It's easy to hear. Easy to like. Yet it's hard to live day to day like you actually believe that it's true. My head knows it. Yet the thought fades rather quickly. He went on to speak of "barrels of love" being poured over him at one point in his story. Which got pen flurrying over paper...

Your Love
Your love
washes over me
like a mighty ocean
onto my rocky shore
slowly wearing away
eroding my rocky exterior
smoothing the rough eadges
pulling the excess
sand into you
the stuff
I have too much of
my intellectual, emotional, spiritual
as your waves of love
wash me
into another
of your exquisit
works of art.

Sunday was great. In case you missed it, & would like to hear...

Though, I didn't get to be with Mick as much as I planned. I felt sick off & on. Fri night & Sat morning. I didn't go into full fledged "BRAT diet" mode. I did have a banana, which makes me think of Despicable Me. 
Her sister sent one of her homemade cards. I love that she does this. [thanks Mel, they are always cool]
Oh, for those of you not familiar with the Brat diet. mom & I have trouble with our stomachs from time to time. So this seems to work better than anything else for us. B.R.A.T. Banana, Rice, Applesauce, & Toast. I usually start with toast, Mom usually starts with Rice Crispies [no milk].
Saturday afternoon I seemed to rebound & we got to run around together. Sunday, for some reason I had a bit of trouble breathing in church. So I had to move to the coffee bar. Which seemed to help. [not sure what all that was about] Thankfully that is a rare occurrence.
Well, since I seem to be in a switching gears throughout mode....

This is the casualty of the storm that rolled through York today. Mick's mums fell over & the pot cracked. Which reminded me of something that seemed to make it's way into my head a few weeks ago. I think I posted it, perhaps not. So if I did sorry [I know, in the dictionary under redundant it says: "see redundant"] We are are cracked. The patterns may be different, yet we are all cracked. And the cracks are all the same depth. We can't "hold water till someone fixes the cracks. Bono sings "...Some people get squashed, crossing the tracks, some people got high rises on their backs, I'm not broke, but you can, see the cracks, You can make me perfect again, all because of You, ...I AM...."
I have this friend. Kind of a new..."er" friend. Who's been praying with me for some of the friends I've mentioned. We somehow got to talking about this blog, the fact that I write, & somewhere in the middle she asks me if I write stories. I've thought about it. I have a few vague ideas floating around in the ether. Then somehow writing my story came into the conversation. Well, I've been writing it. It's strange, which is kind of easy to be. A lot of my poems are "stream of consciousness" writing. They come out pretty much done. I rarely go back & tweak them. THIS, however, is a totally different animal. I've resigned myself to the probability that it will come out as a jumbled mess. So much so that when [if?] it's ever finished just for my own sanity I'll have to, at the very least, cut & paste it together into some semblance of the timeline it occurred in. Which is fine. To allow myself the complete freedom to get it out at all, I refuse to publish it. At least in this first, raw, terrible form. I think it's too graphic to put "out there". A more "redemptive" form may present itself at some point. The emotions are, well, every one you can think of. At points it is re-living it. At points I have to "come up for air". Which means looking up & realizing what year I am actually in. What place I am in in reality. Some days I write pages. Some days I write 1 to 3 sentences. All of which seems to allow me to go to the "edge of the cliff" without going over & getting lost. If I may say so, this is the strangest journey God has gone on with me yet. So we'll see where this leads. I've written at least 10 poems to this person, about not sharing my story. She seems excited to read it. [which I cannot figure out for the life of me why, it's so not: tame/pretty/clean] However, in the midst of writing those poems... I've been writing a few to myself, I guess. That seem to suggest that at some point I should share my story, somehow. In some form. I've told some things about myself. And as time goes on, I may share short stories from parts of my life. Though I will avoid the darkest part for now, at least.
So here is [after all that long winded-ness] one of the poems I wrote to a friend who wants to read my story...
[untitled. or why not, or why share?]
I know
you would like me
to share
to put my story
out there
the exposure to
day light
has it's merrits
I know
I've been glad
to hear others
no matter how
parts of them

my story
tells explanations
of idiosyncrasies
yet it's not who I am
it's how I got to be
this person
so it's not a definition
by any means
you do need a life
outside of your
past story
and the labels
it thrusts upon you
I'm not sure
the redemption
have been written
so I don't have
a "resolution" to it
so...why share? 
do we need anything
that is devoid
of hope?
so I haven't
now you know
why not.

The sky tonight.

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