One of those Days

Do you every have those days where you are out of sorts for no good reason? Today appears to be one of those days for me. I have felt a little sluggish all week and the Seattle weather has been true to its advertised nature—rainy, gray and too cold for June. I pondered as to whether or not I might have seasonal affective disorder or maybe I am hitting a middle-aged something. I completed my morning pages thinking an answer might pop out in the writing. I considered listening to favorite music, going back to sleep, meditating more with God, but you know what? Today just feels like one of those days that Lucy would pull the football out from underneath Charlie Brown and smile when he falls. It’s certainly not a favorite side of my disposition and in reality I think I would have more restraint than to deliberately cause another harm. My psychoanalytical brain really wants to get to the root of what may be going on, however, Lucy kind of wants to grovel in her grumpiness for awhile and let the gray clouds do their thing.

How about you? Ever have one of those days?

Space for God

Sometimes I am overcome by the blessings that abound in my life. I am privileged to be part of a transformative process for others and in the process am continually renewed and transformed myself. Last week, I spent time in West Texas at a ranch some would call barren and desolate. I would call it anything but that.

I wish I were a poet so I could describe all the wonder around me; like the army of minuscule ants streaming up and down the porch pole; the small bird so confident, swaying and speaking from the top of a cottonwood tree; the soft brown bunnies frolicking in the grass; the paintbrush of color spread across the field—shades of red, maroon, violet that I cannot describe mixed with layers of yellow and golden wildflowers; the occasional fuchsia petals looking like purple round porcupines perched on top of gentle stems so inviting yet hiding the tiniest barbs to protect their lovely necks; the buzzing flies and biting mosquitoes, while not my favorite, also have their place.

The gentle breeze touches my skin—Yahweh speaks; clouds so light they look like feathers; a bobwhite calls in the distance. The earth sways with the voice of God, so soft and tender this morning in stark contrast to the majesty and power of the booming thunder and brilliant light show witnessed the night before. The pounding rain turning the red dirt into clay ready for the potter to mold.

My heart cries, “Mold me. Shape me. Wash over me. Cleanse me. Make me pure of heart and gentle like the breeze; strong as the storm yet pliable as the clay. Meet me here, oh God.”

The gentle wind responds, “I am here. Give me space, and time will cease to exist.”

The grass blows in the breeze like stalks of wheat ready for harvest. The grape vines are gone, left in their place a pathway of tiny white flowers. The earth continues. Nature finds its path, its rhythm. The breath of life. The voice of God.

What if with every breath we call God’s name? My heart is here giving God space. God--the ultimate poet. Romantic. The scribe of the world. Magnificent artist. Ultimate in glory. Amen.

Remnants of Childhood

Remnants of childhood. Mudpies. Dandelion & purple flower soup. Feather beds. Legos abandoned in the yard. Cows on the farm. A hint of manure. Generations of childhood memories woven together. Playing in the dirt. Connecting to the earth. A child’s sandbox. Digging and building. The simplicity of life.

"Whoever inquires about our childhood wants to know something about our soul." --Erika Burkhart

A Story of Laughter

"Laughter is carbonated holiness" -- Anne Lamott

"The human brain forgets ninety percent of what goes on."
--Jan Milner

"There were two women who shared a house and raised their daughters, two toddlers, together. Then one of the women got transferred to another city and moved with her daughter.

Ten years later, they had a reunion. The mothers asked their kids what they remembered about living together. Did they remember all the books? No. Did they remember a mom in the kitchen every morning, fixing eggs and toast? No.

What they remembered was playing in the pink bathtub for hours, pulling the pink shower curtain shut for privacy. And the morning the mothers sneaked in, turned off the lights, threw plastic cups and spoons over the curtain and cried, "It's raining spoons!" They laughed and laughed.

We are lucky in this life--our minds think laughter is what's worth remembering.

What laughter from yesterday can I remember today?"

from Today's Gift, author anonymous

No original words from me today, BUT I am most deeply known when I dissolve into fits of soul lifting laughter. It is impossible to fake a belly laugh. Think about it. :-)

photo by bill hughlett

Is It Safe Here?

Over the last several days I have written page upon page of words. Some have been in my head and some actually put onto paper and yet I cannot seem to produce a post. Everything seems to be either intensely personal or bland. I can only speak from personal experience and my experience is anything but bland. It is full of love, hate, fear and passion. I have lived being numb and I hate it. I refuse to live there anymore and still at times I feel trapped as to where and how I can safely share my passions. So where is the balance between sharing what is me and crossing a line where it does not feel safe anymore?

I know that it is my choice what I put here for you to see and yet I have had this nagging feeling of unsafety for the last few days. Maybe it is a result of watching other blogging friends struggle with their own honesty and vulnerability. Maybe it is due to encounters I have had recently in my own life. It also feels a little creepy to know that dozens of people visit this site each day and yet very few (in fact no one for the last two or three days) leave comments. Is this a community as many have suggested or is it a spectator sport? Do you simply want to observe or will you choose to engage? What feels safe to you?

In closing, here are some words from Mark Nepo.

"We waste so much energy trying to cover up who we are, when beneath every attitude is the want to be loved, and beneath every anger is a wound to be healed, and beneath every sadness is the fear that there will not be enough time."

photo by bill hughlett