Finding My Way

I was supposed to be doing the vacuuming and laundry and dishes--the normal cleaning that makes the house livable. And the house needed a good cleaning. It had been a busy week.

But though I don't even remember opening the cabinets or walking into the pantry area, the next thing I knew, I was taking everything off the shelves and working toward a serious purge.

Connections

I hadn’t seen Amy in years, but during a mini-reunion with old high school friends she asked about my poetry.

“I still have the poem you wrote for me when my dad died,” she told me.

I didn’t remember writing the poem, but the idea that words, poetic words, would help connect me to a grieving friend sounded familiar. It’s how I still cope. Just last week as I was facing an anxious night myself, I pulled out a book of poetry a friend had given me. One after another I read through the verses.

Contrary to the stereotypical poet sequestered alone with a journal and a bottle of wine, poetry has always provided a way for me to reach out to others, to invite them into my life or join them in theirs.

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(Today I am writing over at TweetSpeakPoetry.com. I'd love for you to follow the link above and join me there!) 

Photo by -= Bruce Berrien =-, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.

What about the Shop around the Corner?

The hardware store around the corner closed down sometime in the last few weeks, and it’s my fault.

On Sunday, I made a stop for some batteries and saw the sign on the door. But it was dusk, and I didn’t notice the plywood in the windows. I wondered how they could stay in business with such limited hours. Then, I went to the chain pharmacy that shared the same parking lot instead.

I don’t think it was the limited hours that caused the hardware store to close.

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(Today I am writing over at Curator magazine. I'd love for you to follow the link above and join me there!) 

Photo by SallyB2, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons license.

Being Still

Monday night, the night before another doctor's appointment, I was lying in bed expecting a sleepless night. Not that I wanted to go into a day of potentially bad news feeling tired and irritable, but I know the routine.

Earlier that evening, feeling on the brink of more life-changing news, I decided to make a list of everything that would definitely not change. I started naming them in prayer: "God, you and your character will not change; the work of your Spirit in my life; the work of your Son on the cross. None of these things changes tomorrow."

Amazing Body Human

"I'm going to try out for the Olympic swim team," I told my friend Kelly, bragging about the progress I have made in my recent efforts to get in shape by swimming.

She laughed, appropriately. No way would I ever be qualified for any kind of Olympic team, much less the swimming one.

"I think I must be rotating my torso with my strokes, though," I explained to her, knowing she used to swim competitively, "because now that I'm swimming more, I always end up with a sore back. I would probably be faster if I didn't wobble so much."

"Well, that might hurt your chances for London in 2012," she said, teasing me.

"Yeah, but there's always 2016," I said, moving on to a different topic of conversation.

2016, I thought as we talked about weekend plans, I wonder if I will still be alive in 2016?

Through the Waters

She came out of the water, dripping and happy, and I couldn't believe that I got to witness this cousin of mine, this cousin I hadn't seen for years until recently, soaked through to the soul from the waters of baptism.

I barely remember Carmen as a child, our two families having little to draw us together except blood, and that running thin because of religious differences. Her mom and my dad, sister and brother raised in the same house, had chosen different paths. Her mom walking in the tradition of her parents; my dad walking away from the restrictions, the deceptions.