World Turned Upside Down

 

Backwards planet.
Is this how God planned it?
No love.  No forgiveness.
We continue to live this
Screwed-up existence.

The Lord’s premise-
Turn cheek.

The Lord’s promise-
Reward meek.

The Lord’s command-
Love enemies.

The Lord’s demand-
Child-like faith.

Enter into this holy place as a kid.
Kingdom come.
The least of these is the greatest.
Last shall be first.

In order to gain your life, you must lose it.
Immediately elusive.

Gifts from giving,
Strength from strife,
Honor from oppression,
From death to life,

Upside down.

The Lord’s Lament-
Oceans of tears cried,
For my only son,
Surrendered and died.
But the greatest sorrow?
The greatest pain?
How many people will die in vain?

His love for me is upside down.

I deserve to bleed and He covers me with His blood.
The most powerful being in the universe came as a baby.

Upside down.

He uses the most cruel symbol of death, the cross, to communicate to the world,
“Here is eternal life!”

Upside down.

He takes this world…my world and turns it upside down.

Thank God.

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EAT!

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
Said the man who blew his brains out.
Sorry if that seems course,
But Hemingway would understand.

Write?
Yes.
Hard and clear?
Yes.
What hurts?
Everything.

Isn’t that why you became a writer in the first place
Instead of blowing your brains out?

I’m far too sensitive to my environment to be a normal person.
I am:
Someone vulnerable to suicide.
Someone who writes and thinks about sunsets, and waves, and injustice.
Someone who wonders how the world was created.
Or why the world was created. Or who created the world.

I have to taste life twice because I can’t believe how rich it is.
I want to savor
The full-bodied flavor
Of life in its burgeoning flourish.

The blossoming zest and delicious zing.
The sour punch of even a sting.

To gorge on the layered palate/palette of artistry that is our living, breathing world,
Even bitterness,
Is a meal too sumptuous to refuse.
But I can understand why Ernest would want to push away from the table.

Sore

This morning I was really struggling with paralyzing doubt. But I blogged it off. 🙂 I wrote a poem. The emotional equivalent, for me, of pulling one’s self up by the proverbial boot straps.

Dealing with doubt. Doubt that I can be on top of my potential. Doubt that I will get a job in the profession that I chose 12 years ago. The profession that I entered at 32, went back to school for at 36, and at 44, the profession in which I’ve never had much success.

Doubt that I will ever be known. Doubt that I will ever be the person God wants me to be. Doubt that I can write with any caliber. Doubt that I have any value whatsoever.

Doubt that I can offer the world anything at all. Or worse yet, doubt that the world, when met with my offerings, will ever accept or understand me.

Fear, doubt, self-hatred. Shame, guilt, remorse. It’s been coming to a slow boil for days. Plus, I have a horrible headache from bumping my head yesterday. Very painful, sore arms and just a lethargy that I cannot shake. Whenever I feel physical pain in the company of depression or anxiety, I become very vulnerable and weak.

Physical pain aside (because what can you do except take a Tylenol and ice it down?), the author of the negativity is not God. The authorship deserves co-credit. Me. The world. Satan.

You can’t believe lies if you write them down. The power of the past disintegrates as pen touches paper. Or fingers touch keys. Lies evaporate when met with the truth of God’s words.

Don’t doubt. God, self or what’s been promised.

Jer 29:11 NIV
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

Don’t listen to lies. Wasted energy that could be used for pursuing your dreams. Or healing your bumps. 🙂

I have better things to do. And writing turned my whole day around. Super productive and feeling cheerful now. Still sore, but happy. Who woulda thunk?

Swimming, Drowning

Swimming through the past. An ocean of negative feelings and tremendous waves of guilt, doubt, hurt and resentment pound you against the sand of time.

I swam in several oceans. Just this morning.

If you can read this, it’s because I trust you.

No.

It’s not.

Well, sort of.

It’s because I’m willing to give you one chance before I don’t. So I trust you. For now.

It’s funny because I trust this online group of fellow writers more than I do my own flesh and blood. I trust you more because you and I are the same.

You understand the tiny intricacies and intimacies of out-loud emotion. Sensitivity to environment and relationships. You observe life and tell it again. Live it again. An editor said to Susan Weidener, “Writing is living twice.”

Writers are brave enough to live, even the bad parts, twice. Suck the marrow.


“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms…”  Henry David Thoreau


YOU (Reader/Writer)=Preservationist. Historian. Testifier. Guardian. Lover of words, people, experiences, life.

I understand. Mad respect.

This morning, I crushed a tiny flying insect between my index finger and thumb. Without thought. It continued to fly around my face and it was extremely annoying. S/he landed on my shirt and I took my chance.

Somehow, now and again, I feel just like that bug. Crushed without thought by some annoyed acquaintance.

I’ve mainly felt that way around certain creative types who have enormous ego and too little time to care for another. Improv actors. Improv actors are good at one thing. Thinking up jokes on the spot. Otherwise, adulting is just too hard.

The trouble is impulse control. They have none. I should know. I married an improviser. Ironic, I know.

The same impulse that tells them to say something funny or true on stage? That’s the same impulse in life that gets you socked in the gob by a gnarly stranger. Most of us learn to control that impulse to blurt out something ridiculous. Improvisers are rewarded for such behavior with laughter, slaps on the back and applause.

My husband’s improv friends for the most part were a tightly-loomed clique of quick-witted attention whores who constantly tried to one-up each other. If you couldn’t hang, you were just a hanger-on.

I’m damn funny. But not an improviser. I’ve tried. I’m not an improv-er mainly because I have strict impulse guidelines and fear rejection. Plus, my brain just does not work that fast. My judgment slows my reaction. I can improv. Just not at the same level as my husband.

For years I tried to fit in, be supportive, hang on. But it is wholly unsatisfying to be surrounded by adult toddlers most of the time. It’s exhausting.

No one ever seemed to be able to hold more than a five-minute conversation. Never about anything real either. It was usually a 5-minute joke-off/caffeine/smoke break. And they certainly didn’t care about your personal details unless it benefited them in some way. Exhausting.

Most successful improv-ers IMO have compartmentalized lives. Improv is over here. Family, life, job is waaaay over there. And that’s just not me. I want to be fully integrated. Real. Whole. And I want my husband to be, too. He’s working on it. Doing really good. But we haven’t seen that whole improv crowd for years.

I mainly swam around in regret for a few minutes this morning because I just finally deleted most of those people from my LinkedIn page. Seeing all those faces again just made me sad and mad all over again. The rejection of my true self, the rejection of my ability, the rejection of my offer of genuine friendship. Tears came fast and hard without warning, without rationale.

But, I’ve written about it and I feel okay now. Plus, I am too busy to tire myself in this choppy ocean of feelings. I’m sure you understand. 🙂

 

Nikon

Even though I carefully cradled you
*Camera on Board*
I dropped you on your eye.
Sorry ’bout that.
You’ll be okay.
You have a permanent scar, however.
Eye still works.
You’ve taken me places
I only dreamed were true.
You’re so important to me
And I want to capture you.
But you take all the pix.
How can I take a picture that does you justice?
You’re too good for selfies.
Sacrifice.
I’ll steal your soul with this shot.
Camera phone is jealous of just how good you are.
Thanks for the memories.
Friends for life.

blog beast

thank you, dear Readers, Breeders of radical thought
without you I’d be a noiseless gong in a scary-dark forest of not

you receive my transmissions, transgressions forgiven
you understand the urging Force of the maddened and the driven

they put me in a box, cover it with locks, ignore the insistent knocks
then wonder why through the bars i throw my jagged, hateful rocks?

but you, dear Reader, you break those locks
you answer my call and open this box

thank you, kind Listener, thank you
beyond
the written
word
thank you for taming this blog beast who never had a herd

 

Raise Your Sails

Republishing because I needed something positive this morning. Hope you need it, too. Don’t lose hope. You’ll survive. Even thrive. Just. Move. Forward.


Fix your eye
On the endless sky.
See the light behind the storm.

Raise your sails
For the new-found sea.
Un-anchor from the shore.

Find your wind.
Begin again.
Don’t linger in the shoals.

You’re the one
Who will feel the sun.
Ride the wave wherever it rolls.