Crappy First Drafts

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]

Their words were disingenuous. Dripping with desire. Oozing with intention. They made her cringe and retreat in the opposite direction of their manipulations. She felt it in the tension in her back, in the slight urge to vomit, in the urge to hide. She wouldn't smile in return, or feign pleasure. What did they want? What did their slippery smiles try to elicit? She wouldn't give it to them, and so they called her a bitch. -j

She was desperate to be good. An A- was a disappointment, a harsh word's echoes didn't quit. Her standards were impossible, but she met them, and the times she didn't were deep disappointments. Success was survival. Approval was survival. Whose approval? God's? Her parents? Her church's? Despite living every moment subservient to it, they never quite gave it. Perhaps God did, but how could she have known? And so she did two things. She found someone who did accept her. He wasn't burdened with religious requirement, and his acceptance was a relief, even if she failed to see the danger in the flip side of the coin, of lawlessness. Next, she went in search of God. Because despite the convoluted image given her, she saw goodness, and wanted sense. She found truth, and she found God. And found the whole point of this Jesus they told her about was that she didn't have to jump through their hoops, recite their formulas, look just so, or behave just so. She could st...

She was the fifth child in a family of ten. She never talked about her father, but she had her mother's laugh. When she was twenty, her country asked for women to aid in the war effort. The handkerchief went on and she flexed her muscles like the riveters on the poster. The man she loved was across the sea. Her family was left far behind on the farm in South Dakota.  War ended and plans for the future were made. Her husband's initials were EGG, so it seemed only fitting that they would gather chickens and make their living from their eggs. One daughter came. Then another pregnancy. She was bigger with this one. Doc finished delivering a precious baby boy. As he washed his hands to leave the nurse called him back. "I think we have another one!" Twins. A boy and a girl. In her shock and fatigue she cried out, "but I don't want another one!" It got harder. She steeled herself. Her husband had to fight for his income and he became bitter at how his intellect...