Crappy First Drafts

Memories spring before me like a surprise visitor in my window -     t he bird on my sill,           the squirrel up my tree,                the butterfly flitting by. Their moments compiled, one on top of the other -     unforeseeable,          unnoticed,                unexpected. Sarah saw, Hagar looked away, Bartimaeus pled.      Oh give me sight! Eyes that see your truth without protective fear, Eyes that witness miracles in place of death, Eyes clouded by mercy, for the clearest of vision, making me faithful and true. Someday said the bird on my sill.     One day said the squirrel up my tree.          Today said the butterfly flitting by. These memories spring before me like the surprise visitors at my window.

In a world, not so far away, sunlight yawned over the drenched hilltop. Its light, magnified by the wetness of grass and wild brush. The trees gently swaying, a morning stretch to mark the start of the day. Though just a block from home, this hill is somehow otherworldly. It harkens my mind to fairytales and dreams. While my body continues to briskly pass by, my soul lingers, captured by the light, thrown from the floor of the hillside. Everything sparkles, illuminated by dawn. In some other time I would lay out a blanket. I would lie myself on the hill and become another being capturing and casting the light from its surface. I would absorb the warmth of the rays, feel the gentle brush of breeze. But instead of awakening as the hill does, I would sleep. I would close my eyes and float away. Away to you, to rest, to life and abundance. Though the air carries no word, I would hear you speaking. Words without sound, life without expense. Simply being. No exerting. Your presence sufficien

A dream is growing. Seats filled. Anxious. Broken. Worried. Depressed. Grieving. Miscarried. Sorrowful. Hopeless. Lost. Dead. A haunting melody consumes the air. It is pain. Misguidance. Confusion. An anthem of strength overpowers the weight of the melody. Hard. Heavy. Worthy. Sure. A stage with a story. A man giving tools. A woman peddling good news. Seats. Leaning in. Wonder filled. Caught in curiosity. What is that stirring, that lifting, that . . . Hope? A dream is growing. Looking for the T[ea]

It's like a wash cycle. Press play and it knows what to do first, the thought that follows, the spin cycle that takes over, and the short calm that exists before it all begins again - the drum never getting emptied. Just an endless rinse and repeat, no change of clothes, no new soap, nothing new at all. It's these same old thoughts, the same old process of attempting to wring them out. To finally cleanse them of their soil and fill the drum with something fresh. Yet it seems like nothing new will ever get added. There will be no opportunity. The laundromat is closed, or indefinitely broken. Relational struggle filled with critique and complaint - all righteous of course - it's what's stuck in the drum now. I desire new thoughts but, somehow, it's always the toxic parts that want the longest wash cycle. Sometimes I open the detergent drawer and add in a heavy dose of bleach, "that'll do it, it should come out clean this time." But it's hard, trying,

Sometimes it feels like a necessary way to get what's inside of me outside of me. Somehow, writing allows me to process and dump my thoughts and feelings in a liberating way. I don't have to consider who's listening or how they'll feel and respond. I don't have to mitigate. I just get to say the thing and think about what I said afterwards. So much less vetting and mental gymnastics.  Also, sometimes it feels like the only space I can say the thing I want to say. But then I struggle, what's the point? Is anybody even listening? And if nobody's listening does it even matter. I read in a novel last night, "The sun was slowly rising, dipping the park and the gorgeous mountaintop in a sea of light. There was nothing to do or say. Sophie was experiencing the moment, witnessing this earth-old spectacle in silent. Sunrise and sunset always created emotions in her. There is so much unseen beauty in this world.  An incident from her childhood came to her mind. S

 The Container. The Wheezer. The Chuckle. The Giggle. The swelling, gathering, guttural exhale. To fill the anxious space. To respond to an awkward moment. To mask your pain. They say the feeling of being tickled is produced by an overwhelmed sense of discomfort. Pain. But the joy-filled laugh. Bellowing or chortling or snickering between your teeth. The type that's unstoppable, uncontainable, unforgettable. Where you recall the moment and are forcefully launched, with immediacy, back in as if you never left. Looking for the T[ea]