talking to heaven

he is sitting here, in the room, even though it feels like he is miles and miles away....a tiny dot on the horizon that i have to strain my eyes to see. but no, he's here. i don't feel him, but he told me, he's here.

he wants me to say something, to open my mouth and talk to him. he didn't use audible words to tell me this, but i know it's what he wants. there are words here, in my heart, in my head, making their way into my mouth and moving over my tongue like liquid. they become bitter the longer they stay on my palate and i tend to swallow them to get rid of the taste. he waits for them, even to be spit out like a child who thought they were eating a packet of sugar but got salt instead. i know it doesn't have to be glamorous, adult-like, sophisticated.

he waits. patiently. i feel no nudging from him to begin although somehow i know its what he wants and what he waits for. id rather him reach out and touch me, push me forward, bring me closer, but we stay put in our places and dont move an inch towards one another. in fact, i move further away, make myself busy. i check my e-mail, and enter amounts on receipts into my budget; i glance over my schedule and contact some people. i try to fill my head with names and dates and numbers so they push out the real thoughts. everything crowds together and what was there before, working its way forward, is pushed to the back of the line again.

i know what he's thinking, logically as usual: it would make sense to just let them go, those words, those thoughts. it would be a relief, in the end, to have finally said them instead of tasting them over and over and over again. fear is what makes them bitter and pushes them back instead of out. what if he rejects them? what if i look like a fool? worst of all, what if i let them go but he doesn't hear them? then they are out there, and bouncing around the floor and walls in empty space--meaningless. is it worst to have said them and get no response or to not say them at all? obviously, my actions answer the question.

my stupid mouth

i find myself gagging on my own foot these days. maybe i should just keep it in there and save myself embarrassment and heartache. i end up saying what i dont mean to say or doing things that i dont realize have far-reaching implications. i dont know which is worst--realizing ive done something wrong and then needing to correct it a few days later, or realizing im doing something wrong as the words slip out of my mouth. is it better to instantaneously recognize your failure or wait and let it seep over a few days until its nice and thickly flavored?

its frustrating. a small piece of the pie chart of my heart (my heart is circular for this illustration only) doesnt want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i hate to see people hurt or offended or angry and i want to be sensitive to them. the jolly-green-giant sized piece of the pie is the part that doesnt ever want to do hurtful, ignorant or irresponsible things because i dont want to have to fix them--i dont want to have to have to recognize the wrong in what ive done; i dont want to have to feel stupid; i dont want to have to be honest; i dont want to have to say im sorry. sadly, id almost rather live very small and safe than large and messy.

once upon a picture

the figures stare out at me from behind glass that is reflecting light and images from the room around me; an imperfect mirror.
i recognize the faces and their smirking smiles. i try to concentrate and remember, too, what it felt like to be them on that day, before they were snapped into still photography and planted on my desk to gather dust for years.
they stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads close together, with only a small sliver of sky pouring through the gap between their ears. their stances are firm, arms flexed to showcase impressive biceps.
i remember when my body aged out of that shirt, and when those watches broke, and i had to cut off the hemp necklace in exchange for a more professional appearance. it speaks to the time that has passed between then and now.
holding the photo close to my nose, my eyes pour over our bright features, carefree expressions and smooth, young bodies. vaguely, i recall a feeling of freedom, of exhaling, of moving and doing and thinking with little difficulty or consequence. we lounged about at will and acted impulsively. we ate what we wanted, and spent time lavishly and without regret.
i am drawn to his younger image, gazing across his shapely face, his startling eyes and confident gaze. his mouth seduces me once more.
us. frozen, a motionless moment to remember the then before time moved one tick-tock at a time and here we are growing old, wrinkly and in love with one another like we did that bright, timeless day.

play by play: class on june 19th; written june 19th on the porch while consuming iced coffee

words come in and out like sounds flashing by an open car window at 80 miles per hour on I-40. she takes a moment to wonder how rude it would really be to put in her headphones.

he babbles on about geography and timing and this or that translation.
she traces around her hand, palm-down, then makes smiley faces within each empty finger space.

he changes the slide to another black and white striped with several bulleted points stated with careful rhetoric. her hand slips and a finger-face frowns back lopsidedly.

"this is an important revelation because it reveals a point about..."her face is screwed up into a look of intense concentration as she holds her notebook on her lap and draws several ecstatic clowns. they juggle and smile widely. she struggles to get one atop a unicycle when a five-minute break is called.

all she can do, seated at the front of the room, is write AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! in the margins to convey her mounting frustration and boredom to her neighbor, who giggles to show amusement.

back in the squeaking, felt-covered chair, sipping 7-UP from a dented Styrofoam cup, only 3 more hours to go and just 3 behind her. she starts the hour with her water bottle modeling, imitating it carefully, looking discreetly from bottle to notebook so as not to reveal where her attention truly lies.

he noticeably clears his throat in response, as he can obviously see her drawing from his perch at the podium. she quickly looks up in interest and copies from the slide:

"*The Message
*The Match
*The Marvel"

astounding alliteration. she doodles a picture next to each point to help "associate meaning." the super-hero's cape next to the last point trails off and becomes the stem of a cartoon flower with spots in the middle. soon there is a garden and a bee dances on one of the petals of a smiling daisy.

"and what do we know about this?" ah, another rhetorical question beaks through the invisible dome allowing her to ignore him. a voice behind her, the only other male tone in the classroom, responds smartly. the same voice that's been snickering at the teacher's corny jokes all day.

floppy ears emerge on her paper, joined soon by a long snout and mouth with buck teeth, open wide in a long , loud HEE-HAW!

"Here are some visual representations. As you can see..."

the home stretch. she draws a gigantic clock in the center of the page and scribbles out new hands every time they move forward. underneath, she adds a picture timeline of what happens each minute: a stick figure points to a projector screen; another, face-down on a desk, surrounded by Z's.

he finally moves between the desks and she puts her finishing touches on a scaled-down sketch of the desk sand chairs before her. she flips her notebook over and smiles innocently as she receives her seminar evaluation form.

she connects a row of 1's down the right side of the page like a gigantic arrow that points to a grinning smiley face under the word, in black, capital letters:

COMMENTS.

the look of love; june 19th on the porch at night by the light of twinkling bulbs.

i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as i stand and re-adjust my jeans around my waist. my hand goes instinctively to smooth the fly-aways of my honey-colored hair. i dare, for a moment only, to imagine that my long locks are actually quite pretty. honey-colored. i imagine walking back into the office and my husband looking up from his computer carelessly only to be enraptured by the sight of me. "darling," he says breathlessly, "i am so lucky that you chose me. sometimes i can hardly express how beautiful you are to me; your slender waist and silky, honey-colored hair." suddenly, he is next to me, fingering the irresistible follicles.

rather, suddenly i realize that i don't really want him to say such things because i would laugh in his cheesy-cheese face and not believe a word of it anyway.

what i really want is a lingering look. to catch his eyes on me when I've been unaware, as opposed to when i stare him down and then nonchalantly return to the task at hand, moving extra seductively when i think he has glanced my way. a look is all a wise woman ever really requires from her man. it would communicate all the desire and appreciation needed without bothersome words in the way.

words...there are only so many of them and they've already been used in the usual pathetic combinations. did i say pathetic? i meant poetic. being original can be such gut-wrenching pain.

but a look? that is truly unique...
unique to the relationship;
the moment and the feelings therein;
the face...
the eyes themselves are entirely one of a kind--no two people can offer the same soundless expression.

i want him to leave the words up to my fantastical imagination and just...
stare:
unhurried,
enduring,
entirely,
occupied by nothing but that one task.

my brain

a new obsession with coffee has erupted out of my soul!
namely, cappuccinos,
caramel macchiatos,
iced coffees and
iced chias

why?
because i can make them myself! a-huh, foam and everything! i've unchained the wild and delicious abilities of the French press, the stove-top espresso maker and a bottle of caramel syrup (thank you laura jo and girl's night left-overs).

and so i slink off to the porch with my book, iced caramel coffee and twinkly lights.

but before that, i am here in the office with mikey and tim keller. we are listening to how we really are greedy even though we dont think we are. we are listening to him telling us that when we dont treasure jesus, we are treasuring something else.
"you will always pay any price for your treasure, but jesus is the only treasure that paid the ultimate price for you." he says.
"you only die for your most precious thing" he says. that means we are his most precious thing. we are his pearl of great price that he gave everything for.

i am torn between burying myself in my book and being in the presence of mikey. i want mikey to be able to do what he wants to do, but sometimes its not the same as what i want to do...okay, a lot of the times its not the same as what i want to do...so i dawdle and play around on this here machine and look over at him once in a while with dreamy eyes and admire his beard.

woah-he just winked at me. flutter flutter goes my heart. :D

freewrite and prayer

scooters
vacation
fall
fall i miss fall. i am cutting out pictures of me and my husband in the shape of leaves. all that's missing are the brilliant colors that can't really be duplicated by anything man-made. they are unique, every single leaf. i especially love the mix of colors, one leaf that achieves bright red, brilliant yellow, rich green. i wish i could do that, could be many beautiful things at once.

here i sit trying to write an hour and only 21 minutes have gone by, even though I've already written a poem for the day. a poem about my own panic at having the summer wide before me. why is it so difficult to rest well? i have had several lazy days off here at home but don't know how to balance between doing exactly what i want to do, what i feel like doing, and what i should be doing. i guess that is precisely because i don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. chores at home? errands outside? there is a world of possibilities for me but I'm not sure which ones to take. i am used to being around people, talking to people, listening to people, being with people, and here i am alone in this house with only the sounds of the clocks ticking on, and the outside world creeping in through the windows in all its loudness. i want to be quiet, to be restful without feeling like i have to fling myself into the rush of the world outside--ill just spend money if i go out there anyway. but i guess i feel like i should at least be able to read my bible, pray a little to make my day worth while, and those things haven't found themselves a very routine part of my "summer vacation."

why cant i rest? i want to be able to rest, to be with God, or to be with myself without freaking out. do people rest and not do anything, not read, not watch TV, not browse the web, not knit or walk around or sing or listen to music or be on the phone? is there resting beyond doing things that you like to do but normally don't get to do? i mean, what kind of rest is sitting there staring out into nothing? it just seems boring--nearly impossible to achieve! i sit there for maybe 3 minutes before i run off to get my book or involve myself in some activity. how can i be still? is there any value in being absolutely still? how long do i have to be still before something magical happens; before i unlock the inner mysteries of my being and hear my true self in dialogue? or is there a time period that, if you get past it, God truly starts speaking...i mean, you hear his actual voice and then he clear up all those questions you have? why doesn't this spell check accept the correct spelling of the word "dialogue"? i know it exists!

wouldn't that be terrible, if dialogue didn't exist, no back and forth between people. it would be impossible, wouldn't it? our world cannot function without proper communication--well, i guess that's not true entirely because there is very little proper communication in this world but it still spins on and on and people get by. there is so much missing beauty because of a lack of proper dialogue--i mean, a real back and forth session of truth-telling. too often we say what we think we should say and keep behind what we really feel and then its all a dance of who can be the most eloquent and tasteful. what a dance--circles and circles and circles without actually going anywhere, without any actual moves to embellish and perfect the movement. no real beauty...just circling like sharks. mark my words, in the end of bad communication, there is a death.

death. I'm reading in a book in which one of the characters sleeps in her coffin. i am not terribly superstitious, but i think it would freak me out to sleep in my coffin. maybe i shouldn't see it as so unusual, perhaps I'm already living daily in my coffin...i mean, i keep wanting to push time forward...what's next for me, what do i do next year, what do i do this year if, if, if....wanting to know what's ahead when the ultimate piece of information is that i am going to die at the end of one of these stretches of time. why am i, essentially, pushing myself towards it? i guess it wont be so bad, being dead. heaven. there is no fear in being there.

i want to write something meaningful, something really cool (except id like to be able to write something without any N's because the N button just fell off and is cramping my writing flow. but here i am just typing my flow of thoughts, and its hard to see what value there is in just writing for the sake of writing. how long will i be able to keep up this writing every day thing? this is only the second day. i need to go to the library and get a book with prompts in it to help me along.

i read in the book "WRITE" by someone i cant think of right now, that we should write if we have the inclination because no one can say what we can say, but i don't know if that's true in my case. maybe i feel like lots of people are saying what i want to say and doing it better than i am. so what's the point then? i still want to say it, but my reason for saying it is gone according to her.
i want to believe that i have stuff to say and that it is unique and special and necessary.

i don't know why, but i hate relating things back to God. maybe i should do so in this case, though. what does my writing have to do with God? what does he have to say about me writing. i feel like i have a talent in some capacity, and that i have a love for language and for this ability he's put in me. i know i am fearfully and wonderfully made and it includes this writing part of me, this language part of me, this feeling part of me. what does it mean to use my gifts to the glory of God without falling into a trap of being cliche and cheesy and unreadable?
God, what is it you want from these typing fingers and this thinking brain and these words and the mind that is putting letters and sounds and ideas together?
what can i do with this? i want to exercise it, not to neglect it as i have been but i want to have a purpose to do that.

why is it so much harder to write for an hour today than it was yesterday?

a prayer:
papa,
you are my creator. you have a reason for me being here, or else i would not be here. i was a thought in your mind before my parents began to consider me. you watched me grow, not occasionally on the ultrasound screen, but daily, moment by moment. every single time my heart beat, you saw the pulse. you watched the tiny molecules of my organs, of my skin form and grow. you made me, wonderfully. fearfully...what does that mean, fearfully? respectfully? in awe? does this mean that even you were astounded my the beautiful mystery of my birth-of me?
all of this must mean that you care for me, that you pay attention to me. that who i am is not an accident in any sense--even the parts of me that long to be motivated and disciplined but aren't. its not just the me that "reaches my goals and expectations for myself" that you love, right? it is the whole me. the laying in bed reading until 9:30 me; the going through the whole day yesterday without cracking the Bible me; the me whose voice you heard twice this week in prayer as i struggle to talk to you but not doubt you are there. the me with dishonest doubt and sometimes, if I'm lucky, healthy, honest doubt.
what does all this have to do with now? i want to know that every day of me has some purpose, even when I'm NOT accomplishing something. that i don't have to be doing this or that task to be wroth something--that i am worth something right here, tapping away at these keys, eating oatmeal and reading Hispanic literature. i want to know that you are gazing at me with love. how can these things not effect me, not make me want to express something in whatever ways i can??? i want to express these intricacies of me in writing, but i get really frustrated. i am swamped with feelings of inadequacy, feeling that nothing i do has worth, that i am pathetic and my words lifeless and meaningless. just like i feel my day is if i don't get out there and DO something. show me how to use the gifts you've given me, show me how to be the ME you've made me, without living moment by moment in regret of the things I've chosen, of the things I've done, and wondering if i could have made a better choice.
what would you have me do this summer? what would you have me do this day? what purpose is out there for me right now?

let me be still and let you speak--or not speak...but let me be still and shut up so that i can hear wisdom. i am distracted by this pouring out of questions within me, this pouring out of doubt and unrest and regret and uncertainty. i am haggard by it, i am tired of it!

transitions

she routinely mixes
strawberry and peach instant oatmeal in a bowl of milk.
she likes the way the flavors mix in her mouth when they are
cooked together and satisfyingly
mushy.
the day is wide
and open and empty before her,
waiting to be filled,
but it fills her with dread.
she rocks back and forth in her chair,
eating her oatmeal and staving off thoughts.
her breakfast dries out her mouth but still
she sits,
paralyzed by the possibilities of the day and unsure which to indulge.

she is alone without the grumbles of kids flooding into her classroom at the start of the day.
it is too quiet without cheerful good mornings in the teacher's lounge,
and weekend updates over coffee the color of milk chocolate.
she is too still,
used to pacing between rows of desks and back and forth from classroom to copier.
she misses the company of students,
the conversation of colleagues,
the purposefulness of meetings,
the need to write and copy and type and plan and organize and lecture.

the smell of home is trash that needs emptying, dishes that need loading,
clothes that need washing.
she can't miss the dirt of the un-vacuumed floor and the un-mopped bathroom tile.
the sound of home is whatever happens to seep through the walls from the outside world;
the apartment creaks with emptiness, save herself.
the liberty of laziness makes her feel guilty.
the liberty of busy-ness makes her feel tired.

she is a teacher off for the summer.

coming to an end

i guess it's easier for some than others.

breaking up. or perhaps that's just how they "come off" after the ordeal, and it says more about how much they were really committed to the relationship than their innate abilities.
which is the worst part? recognizing the need for change or going through it? the feeling of the approaching demise of a relationship is like no other. weights drop in the pit of your stomach; bile rises in your throat; hot tears are constantly in waiting, so much so that there is the lingering taste of salt; breathing becomes a task and shutters as it draws in and releases out; it is accompanied by any number of sounds: screaming, moaning, swearing, wailing; like hot flashes, emotions change in an instant: from disbelieving to defensive, from hopeless to heated.
its easy to feel personally attacked and solely hurt; its difficult to truly know what the other side is feeling.

i guess this is not just "breaking up." it is the death of a real relationship, a commitment that seemed interminable. is it the pain of losing that person that is the greatest? or the pain of realizing that what you thought had value, had longevity....is vanishing? that you were naive?