I’m curled up in my extra long Sesame Street blanket, listening to the wind wondering what exactly makes it howl and thinking about life.  The force of invisible air is causing the floor to shake and the slapping of electrical wires against the wall outside my bedroom is reminding me that despite my best efforts to hide for a short while I will always somehow be connected to the outside world.  The absence of heat within these walls is keeping me alert but I know that slumber is patiently waiting on the porch.  With sleep comes a temporary respite, a giving in; the day’s seduction to a state of remittance.

At the same time I am curled up in the comfort of familiarity and the restless wind of the insistent call is also howling.  The unknowing nature of the call is causing my foundation to shake and the prevalence of perpetual providence is serving as a reminder that this call is something I cannot escape; I will always be connected to the world beyond myself.  The absence of something is keeping me alert but I cannot decipher what is missing quite yet.  Submission to what will be will eventually come.  In the meantime, though, I guess I listen to the invisible life that billows around me and continue to try to decipher what makes it howl.

Something is moving.  Something is shifting.  It’s disturbing me to my core but it is invigorating and exciting.  A lady with a dying husband collapsed in my arms and wept.  Flat out cried.  I was there to catch her when she fell and it was a moment that will be hard to match.  Are these things signs of providence or silly coincidences?  I don’t feel worthy of such a privilege.  I’m not strong enough to hold a crying woman as her husband faces the ultimate challenge.  I don’t have the courage to look a dying cancer ridden man in the eyes as he tells me I am a sign of hope.

Does Godde really call women who are 6′ tall, scared of thunder and lightning storms, who name their pets weird things like ‘Hotdog’?  Does Godde call those who find comfort in the bottom of tea mugs and who laugh to the point of tears at children who ride the mechanical pony in the mall?  What about sporadic insomniacs?  Are they called?  I can’t help but think I am an unlikely candidate for all this.

The winds are breathing life in to my inadequate self and I’m left wondering what to do.

Ok, so today was a writing fail.  Great, day three and I’m finding ways to wiggle out.  But a photograph is a form of artistic production, right?  I learned a lesson about recharging my batteries today and enjoyed the company of Mother Nature on this perfect fall day.  Hey, pictures are worth 1,000 words, right?  So maybe this isn’t a cheat.

The sky was a dull first of October inspired grey, and the morning was producing a small amount of sporadic rain.  I awoke from another restless night and saw your pain.   When I returned from the bathroom where your red-scarlet tears, absorbed in tissue, lay in the waste bin, the wind was stirring the curtains that drape my window.  I sighed and broke inside when I saw the evidence of your cry.  I walked away to repress, I ignored to grant myself serenity and I wept to let you know you are not alone.  The curtains continued with their aimless dance as the breath of our world brought them to life.

You were gone, but your life, now dead, remained in the waste bin.  And remained in my internal.

The day, as all days do, proceeded.  The greyness remained present, as did the rain.  You went about your day oblivious to the impact you have on me, and I went about mine trying to process it all.  How can you bring yourself to scar your arm with the thumbtack I jokingly attached to your desk?  What illness consumes you enough to produce this action?  Why do your sick actions weave themselves into my existence?

I relaxed by cleaning and purging tangible objects from my life.  I relaxed by cleaning and purging your life from my life.  It pains me to do so, but I’m ignoring you.  You have to learn and overcome this battle yourself; it is your fight, not mine.  Out of great respect for a struggle that is not my own I am pleading the fifth, emptying the accusing waste bin and walking away from the mess of your existence.

I returned to the safety of my room after seeing your pain and I wept and broke on the inside.  I did not weep because of your pain, but because of my pain in realizing that I can do nothing.  I drew the window to closure and the curtains, once dancing carelessly while fed by invisible life, ceased their movement.  Reluctantly I drew back the covers, crawled back into the warm comfort of familiarity and slept in the windless silence of my room.  Accompanied by the darkened grey morning, I slept while protected from the drops of rain, like tears, that fell around me.

I seem to like challenges.  Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that challenges like me.  Like the shadow who is never far from my side, challenges are always in my realm.  From a mere twenty-five years of experience I am starting to notice a trend: there will always be challenges.  So what are my options?  Ignoring the challenge?  Dancing around it?  Running from the challenge?  How about embracing it; and, since practice makes perfect, I’m setting up another challenge for myself.

I’m going to write.

I know.  How hard is it to set aside time each day to do produce a few words?  Well, the challenge is greater than it should be, especially if you are the writer who doesn’t write and who is working on her undergrad, majoring in procrastination.  Excuses or no excuses, I’m writing everyday for the next thirty-one days, for the duration of the month of October.

The ideas what have been caged in my head may finally be allowed out for a short period of exercise.  Maybe I’ll water the seeds that have been planted.  Maybe I’ll prune and harvest ideas to make room for more.  Or maybe I’ll over water the plants and drown them and put myself out of inevitable misery.  My hope, though, is that the budding writing in me will emerge from beneath the earth, stretch and reach for the sun.  If the roots run deeply enough this shouldn’t be a difficult task; my biggest concern is the pests and threats of life interfering.

I just hope the next month doesn’t produce a really healthy weed.

Peace,
Rhonda.

The day is longing to be put to rest but I’m not sure I am capable of granting it that privilege.  My tired body is going through the motions and my muddy mind is making an honest effort but time seems to be on the winning end of this battle.  My resources are low but I need to collect to carry on.

I’m emerging from a period of darkness, a period of lifeless-existence.  Reluctantly I am pulling back the covers, stretching various appendages, yawning and my feet are being set back on the ground.  The light of life has stirred me from my darkened slumber and I’m preparing to face this newly exposed reality.  Hesitantly, reluctantly and groggily I emerge from my survival-hibernation and set out to explore life again.

I’m finding, though, that there is a certain amount of comfort in the darkness.  Things are safe there.  With the absence of light comes also the absence of reality.  Everything is underexposed and therefore cannot be examined.  My personal flaws and weaknesses are as absent as the light during these dark times and there is calmness present in this.

But the sun is rising, a day is dawning and my eyes are adjusting.  The brightness of imposing light after an extended period of darkness is often cruel and this is no exception.  There is much exploring to do and this exploring is proving to be exhausting.  Clarity has been granted but making sense of what is now clear is proving to be a daunting and humbling task.

This day of life-inspiring light after a period of darkness has been long but I’m not able to put it to rest yet.  There are still things to be explored, still things to be discovered and still things to be examined.  I am thankful for the cruel light that has awaken me but I’m also longing for rest.  My period of hibernation is over and I’m rapidly collecting the simple things I need to continue.  The void was large so there is much to collect but the collecting will be a lot easier in the light than in the dark.

I’m considering a new camera.  I’m feeling limited by my SLR step-down and I want to make the leap to a full digital SLR camera.  But my draw back is this: I want a macro lens and the lens costs more than the camera.  I enjoy capturing the small details that are often overlooked and a macro lens would allow me to do this.

Last week was a lesson on appreciating the little things.  With the words of ‘brain aneurysm, hemorrhage and tumor’ being tossed around like salad things were set in perspective.  As if there wasn’t enough fear on the Tuesday morning when I went to the ER Wednesday night I found myself sincerely concerned and frightened about myself.  I loss consciousness.  I couldn’t speak.  Vision was sporadic.  I didn’t know who I was, where I was or what was happening.  I had no balance.  I couldn’t stay awake and I couldn’t sleep.  I was scared, flat out frightened.

It was almost a relief when I was admitted because I knew that regardless of what happened I was in close proximity of the help I needed.  But after four days of being in hospital I found myself missing the simplest of things.  The comfort of my own pillow, shower and the gentle purrs of my furry feline.  My vision difficulties, nausea and head-pain made reading impossible.  I couldn’t think clearly.  Couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t check my email.  I couldn’t run (the IV pole would have gotten in the way).  All these things that make me me were absent.

I was a lifeless being in a hospital bed.

But I emerged.  I was discharged and was allowed to return home.  If nothing else this experience was incredibly humbling.  I had to reach out and ask for help.  I had to overcome my stubborn ways and admit that I’m not capable of doing everything on my own.  And this was a huge lesson for me to learn.

Physically I am a little weaker as I continue to heal but there has been increase in my personal strength.  I’ve learned that we all need a shoulder to lean on from time to time and that this is okay.  I still struggle to reach out when I need but if nothing else I learned last week that I am capable of doing this regardless of how hard it is.

In a way, last week caused me to examine myself through a macro lens.  The past few months have been less than stellar for me but mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually I feel like I am on the mend.  I reached an extremely low point and the only way out was to summon the courage to climb up.  And, well, I couldn’t find this courage on my own.  So some friends stepped in to fill this void; and for that I am thankful.  I was forced to acknowledge my own struggles in a magnified way.  All the small details I often overlook within myself became obvious and exposed.

And this is why I want a macro lens with the new camera.  It is easy to miss the little things, but by exposing and shedding light on them the little things are brought in to focus and can be examined.

I know there are lots of things in life that I will never be able to do.  I will never kick a winning field goal for the NFL.  I will never engage in space travel.  I will never be able to change my history.  I may never be able to stop time but there are some things I should be able to do.  I should be able to sleep.

Sleep.

S.
L.
E.
E.
P.

It’s a pretty low feeling to think that I am somehow incapable of this natural human function.  I’m exhausted.  Flat out exhausted.  But I cannot submit to a state of rest.  My body is longing for recovery.  My mind is crying for temporary silence.  My spirit needs time to rest from the fight.

But I’m awake.

My mind is racing with unfinished thoughts.  With ideas.  With concerns.  Cares.  My mind is trying to solve problems.  It’s running the ultimate marathon because it is as stubborn as I am.  I cannot stop the internal battle because I must win.  I’m not a competitive person but I am a determined one.  Even if it is not healthy I will fight until I can fight no more.

And when I can fight no more I will end up in hospital for a week, I guess.  I will end up hooked up to IV, being dosed with morphine while lying face-down on a stretcher in the trauma unit.  But even this forced period of rest has not placated me.  If anything it has done the opposite.  I have more to digest and process now.  There is more to fret and brood about.

So where does this end?  How can I find rest when I am incapable of doing so?  What is wrong with me that I am not able to engage in this natural human response when I so obviously and desperately need it?

I just want to sleep.

Moving has always been a bitter sweet thing for me.  Bitter is the physical labour and packing, sweet is the newness.

It always amazes me how much ’stuff’ I can accumulate in a single apartment.  There are closets packed with boxes of treasures that have not been unearthed since the last move.  There are trinkets that have fallen behind a shelf and from my memory.  There are books in unlikely places and there pictures stowed away in said books.  Once moved and settled I find myself longing to experience the newness and again I suppress the old memories for the next move.

So.  Here I am.  I’m in a transitional phase of some kind.  I’m not sure where I am going to or exactly where I am coming from but I find myself confronted with the contents that were hidden in the depths of myself.  I am longing to settle with the newness but first I have to pack.  I have to dig through the closet, remove the contents and somehow orderly fit everything into a box that I can take with me to my new location.

This is the bitter physical part that I hate.

The rummaging, discovering, wrapping.  The meticulous placing of items in a box as securely as possible.  Item after item.  Box after box.  Memory after memory.  Then lugging and struggling with these boxes to relocate them.  Carrying these boxes up and down stairs, in and out of vehicles and finally in the door of the new location.

So I’m moving.  I’m transitioning and I’m being faced with forgotten items that I am trying to put in a box to take with me to my next phase.  As neatly and as delicately as possible I’m packing myself and preparing to carry myself to the new destination, wherever that may be.

But my hope is this.  My hope is the sweetness of the newness.  I’m tired now but once I reach my destination I will be able to settle.  All my belongings will have come with me, I will be able to situate them in my new setting and they will look different in their new surroundings.

My hope is experiencing new things all the while being familiar with the contents of the many boxes I just moved.

“Faith gives us substance to our hopes and convinces us of realities we do not see.  It was for their faith that the people of old won Godde’s approval.  By faith we understand that the universe was formed by Godde’s command, so that the visible came forth from the invisible.” (Heb. 11:1-3)

Some things are so undeniably Godde.  As I write this I am consumed in the moment.  Unseasonably warm weather has made for a perfect beach evening.  I am facing the ceaseless ocean, sitting on the endless coastline and the gentle breeze is slowly filling my Bible with sand.  The sun is setting.  The sky is radiant orange, the shore birds are calling and the waves are caressing not only the seaweed ridden shore but also my ears with their gentle calming presence.

All of these things are visible and audible expressions of Godde’s love but there is still a certain amount of faith in experiencing Godde in this moment.  Science can offer explanation of all the above mentioned things but science cannot offer an explanation as to why all these things work together in harmony to create such a setting.  Science cannot offer a reason for how all of these things came to be.  Science cannot offer an answer to the age old question as to where all these things came from - where everything began.  All these things are invisible to our knowledge.

The placidness of this moment is invisible but I experience it.  by faith I know that this is nothing other than Godde’s manifestation of his/her love.  The world is as vast as the people withing it - the diversity of this world has many ways of speaking to many people.

I cannot see the people who left the footprints on this desolate beach but by faith I know that a human did indeed leave them.  I cannot see the birds chirping in the trees behind me but by faith I trust they are there.  I cannot see the Godde who created this temporary reality but by faith I know that not only did he/she create this world but that he/she is beside me every step of the way.

This is exactly how I imagine a bad breakup feels.

This feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, helpless, hopeless.  This feeling of having the essence of my being hastily ripped out from my chest cavity, scoffed at, perhaps mocked.  Upon ripping my spirit out the offender laughs while gripping my fragile self - this abstract reflection of me shaped by years and stories is held in his hand.  My spirit is pitched to the ground and begs him to stop but the sole of a dirty shoe comes too quickly and soon my fragile spirit is ground to a pulp, spat upon and left weeping.  The offender walks away and I am left to pick up the pieces, to console my weeping spirit and I’m left with a gaping hole where my spirit once resided.

Even if I am able to salvage the minced form of my being there will forever be an imprint of the sole that saw fit to stomp on me.  Even if I’m able to refill the void with a mended spirit it will never quite fit as well as it did before.  How do I pick up and move on?  This driving force of my actions, thoughts and deeds is struggling to breathe but yet I am the one who has to find the strength to piece things back together.  How can I find the courage to pick up the pieces when my driving force is floundering?

The institution that is supposed to be nurturing for the spirit seems determined on crushing mine.  I’m lost.  I’m searching.  I’m trying to pick up the pieces and make sense of the mess but I just want to run.  I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy journey but I didn’t expect this much anguish.  I didn’t expect this many tears.  I didn’t expect this abandonment.  I didn’t expect to be questioning the existence of the weak flame that kept my spirit alive.

So I scramble to try to revive my marred spirit.  I scrape the remains from the ground, try to mend the holes and do my best to muster up the courage to carry on.  The offender will carry on naturally but I am the one huddled in the dirt of the ground, with my new void, marveling at the destruction.