In the Rearview Mirror

I had a driver's license anniversary yesterday. I've now been legally driving alone for one year! Well, I mean, it wasn't as if I had been driving illegally before that. It was all Mom could do to coax me into the vehicle at all :)

It's exciting to take stock of my own growth in driving. Since I hadn't done any learning that intense since first grade, it kind of shocked me to pass milestones and learn at such an accelerated pace! After that initial instance of roaring up the driveway in the caravan, arms locked to the steering wheel in a death grip, my throat choked with unshakeable fits of nervous laughter-- I didn't have much confidence that I'd ever be able to drive "normally." It wasn't a pretty sight.

I did though, aquired a sort of fondness for driving, after some of the unknowns were eliminated. Such as, which one is the gas and which one is the brake? That's important, you know. You mean I have to cross all four lanes of traffic? And wait...WHY ARE THOSE CARS COMING TOWARD ME WHEN I HAVE A GREEN LIGHT!!!!! Mom and Dad berated me over and over for my timidity, because I was about to get everybody killed wavering back and forth about whether or not to pull into traffic. Dad came up with my battlecry. "When you see the opening, you can't just inch out there, Cassie, you have to Commit. Commit!"

Well, now I commit. Sometimes I commit a little too much. Sometimes I just hurtle through those intersections, causing our poor van to lurch and groan like a seasick elephant (no, I've never seen one of those) One day I took a curve a little fast on the way to youth group and Connor commented, "Gosh, Cass, Mom and Dad would never know you were the same girl who would hardly pull out in the street a couple months ago."

Now, I'm quite happy driving. In fact, it's going to be hard to relinquish control to my nearly-16-year-old brother who has been revving his figurative engine for some time now. When he and I are together, I'm always the nervous one, the protected one, the stay-in-the-background one. I rely on him, because he likes to be relied on, and because I like being protected. But I've also discovered that I rather savor having a little power. Keys and steering wheel. Final say over the radio. Drivers seat. It's all about to go bye-bye in another three months.

Several weeks ago I was driving the two of us to a birthday party, in the evening. I'd had a frazzled day and was trying to calm down on the way there, while dealing with evening traffic. Connor said something like, "Just wait till I can drive. You won't have to worry about driving any more. I'll take care of it." I probably frowned. As I said, I secretly enjoy my rein of...(well, not terror, but...). He searched my face and his playful demeanor took on a note of what I took for masked seriousness. He busted out the question I knew I'd have to answer sooner or later. "Would you feel safe if I were driving right now? Do you trust me?" I suddenly sensed that I was treading on land mines. I'd actually mulled over this one a lot in my head, but now that it came to words, I wanted to answer carefully.

"Well, when you get your license, I'll feel safe with you driving."

"Yeah, but right now, if I were driving, would you feel safe, like if Dad were driving?" He was very earnest about it. I kept my eyes straight ahead and twisted my hair. Gee, Connor, isn't that a lot to ask? You've only been in Drivers Ed for two months!

"Well, uh, Connor, you don't have a license...no I don't feel safe with that. The idea of riding with someone who's driving illegally would freak me out. I wouldn't be able to relax."

"But if I had my license right now, and I was driving, would you be able to relax?"

"Well, you don't have the experience Dad has, you know...but, I mean, I trust you. I think I could relax." By the grace of God, I would relax.

Connor is a great driver, from what I've seen of his driving under permit. He isn't scared like I was, and he's had lots of chances to get comfy with vehicles, driving around in our field. He went into driving lightyears ahead of me. The big question is really a test for me, not for him. Can I relinquish control?

Well, I overcame a lot of fears when I learned to drive. Maybe that's part of the reason I like it so much. Right now, when Connor and I are together in public, I am the driver. I am bold. (I like to imagine, anyway) It is I, alone, who can undertake the dangerous task of transporting our company safely to our destination through flood, flame, or dark of night. I'm an overcomer. And, hey, I can turn off the radio when I feel like it. But I think, if I could overcome a fear of driving with myself, I ought to be able to trust God to keep me from sqirming in the passenger seat when my big-little brother drives me around town. We'll see.

Delight in the Useless

Today I discovered all over again how much I love useless things. Useless, perfect little things. I spent a good while thinking up excuses for excusing my liking for little useless things. But, as I get older (not old, older) I can start to see why I did some of the weird stuff I did as a little kid (and, ok, a big kid.) It's a love of useless things, and it seems to be a godly trait ;)

So, Ethan and I zipped off to the Educational Supply at about 11:30 to pick up the pattern blocks Mom had ordered for him. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not Elsie Dinsmore. I didn't want to go. I wanted to be stuffy and bask in uninterrupted serenity at the dining room table (haha) drowning in the Everest-type mound of books, folders, and notebooks that's been accumulating on my dresser. But I went.

It's always kind of odd taking my little brother places in public, holding his hand and being all motherly, wondering if people think he's my kid. I can't resist, though, the warm, melty feeling I get when he voluntarily places his hand in mine as we cross the parking lot. At those times I figure, well, he is mine, right now. Who cares what they think!

Walking into the Ed. Supply, for me, is somewhat like what walking into Aeropostale is for other girls. An undercurrent of excitement ready to erupt into squeals of delight. I rarely buy anything, but I like to look. I like experiencing sensory overload, taking in the smell of hot glue and the warmth of the packed room splashed with the rainbow colors of posters and workbooks.

While I inquired after the pattern blocks, E found the magnets. I have a weakness for magnets. Every time I'm at the Ed. Supply I look at them, but of course, they're of no use to me. Especially those bright, plastic covered magnetic marbles-- but those are the coolest kind!

That's sort of thing I was always fascinated with as a little kid, but of course, you don't get those sort of things for birthdays or Christmas. You get toys. You get light-up PJ Sparkle dolls. You get doll houses and books and tea sets and pink synthetic nightgowns that make you cry. But nobody ever thinks to get you magnetic marbles, and you never ask, because, well, what would you do with the things?

No, really, I've had a great childhood, and for the record, I loved PJ Sparkles :) But I always felt weird for liking little useless things. In reality, I think every kid falls in love with tiny things. That's why some genius came up with Polly Pockets and Micro Machines. Before I got an efficient streak, was a fool for anything collectable. I had a rock for every day of the week (and holidays) which I displayed on a cord and wire around my neck everday when I was twelve. At the age of seven, My friend Chelsea and I played "Petshop" for hours with our impressive collections of miniscule plastic animals. We fought over them. We stole each other's Petshop. And we always argued over whose turn it was to get "Mom Cat," the petite, cream-colored cat with the gorgeous cerulean eyes. Why? She was tiny, beautiful, and perfect. And in case Mom is still looking for an explanation about why I kept a dead mole in my nightstand for three days when I was five...that rather stiff lump of shimmery, silky nut-brown fur...well. It's just a sudden hypothesis that in every kid, and every healthy adult, there's something that's fascinated by small and useless do-dads.

That's why Ethan went straight over there and started messing around with those marbles. When I saw him, and saw that the marbles were only 19 cents a piece, we promptly picked out six. And bought them. I was thinking, "That's just what I would have wanted!"

Reveling in the joy of little things, I took special notice of the tree outside the building on the way out. I'd seen it when we had come in, and its small, heart-shaped leaves had caught my attention. They reminded me of Aspens (my favorite tree ever since we went camping in Colorado five years ago). The leaves were smooth, and some of them were reddening and falling off. There were clusters of a roundish green fruit on the branches. So, be it lawful or not (is it ok to pick other people's plants?) I plucked a leafed, fruited branch end and took it home for further study. "It might come in handy in a story sometime," I thought.

As we drove home with our pattern blocks, magnet marbles, and mystery flora, I mulled over a happy sort of discovery. There's a reason I'm a packrat! There's a reason I love staring at small objects, handling them, piddling with them, and dooming them to a "collection" stuck in the closet somewhere! Maybe God made me to get fascinated by the details and store them up so that I could WRITE about them! Maybe it's so that I can enrich a mental world on paper enough to communicate ideas and evoke emotions in others! It's not that I'm skilled at this yet, but I guess I have a natural tendency to like the insignificant things that don't seem to matter to "real" life, and that can be developed into a skill for writing! Yay!

Besides making something "useful" out of useless things, trying to tell myself I'm not a mental case (I just like to write- is there a difference?) I think that God likes little things Himself. I'm not trying to spiritualize everything, only to give you a taste of the happiness that's in my heart today that God, who seems too large and busy to take notice of such "mitey" beings, cares about so much more than even our basic needs.

"Who [waters] a land where no man lives, a desert with no one in it, to satisfy a desolate wasteland and make it sprout with grass?" Job 37:26-27

Hmm. I wonder! :)

Andree Seu, an essay writer for World Magazine (I love her articles and sometimes find myself trying to write like her!) said, in her last World Article, "The Uselessness of Delight,"

"Delight is the most useless of things. It doesn't get the house clean or the bills paid. Useless-- like flowers. Like rainbows. Like Beethoven's 9th...it seeks a getaway vacation with the beloved when it's not convenient... What is less efficient than the story of mankind? If it were about efficiency, God would have wiped the plate clean and commenced with more promising subjects. The Bible in entirety is a love story, a tale of unquenchable delight- His for us, finally ours for Him."

An Announcement

Today is my Daddy's birthday (and I won't divulge his age) but I just wanted to announce publicly that I love him very, very much and I think he's the bravest Dad in the world...and full of honesty, reliability, and integrity. He serves anybody and everybody in whatever way he can. He is a faithful and honorable man and he's my #1 guy. Connor and Ethan can fuss, but they haven't been around that long, so.

Happy Birthday Day, Dad!

Ginger Carrots

Just a note about the ginger carrots I mentioned yesterday...

They're really simple, and to me they're the most painless way to eat cooked carrots. Last night I used frozen ones, but you can use baby carrots or sliced "normal carrots" too.

Place the sliced or miniature carrots in a pot and add:

Enough water to cover the bottom
a dash of salt
a plop or two of butter
a few hunks of brown sugar and
a sprinkling of ginger

Boil till tender (the sauce will thicken up somewhat.)

Forgive the nebulous aspects of the recipe, but there aren't really set measurements, you just have to figure out what tastes good. Being an analytical perfectionist sort of person, I usually don't cook in the dash-of-this-pinch-of-that sort of way, but it's kind of fun once in a while! It feels artistic, and I suppose cooking should be approached as an art rather than a science. Well, maybe that's not so in baking, though. I dunno. When I have the leisure and Freedom of Ingredients, I like to be a little daring.

Ginger carrots came about about after a rummage through the spice cabinet, trying to find Hong Kong in there. Hong Kong never really turned up, but I guess I might have snagged Asia at least!

Ten Things About Today

1. I made ginger carrots for supper to go with Mom's penne.
2. Dad and Connor are somewhere in East Mountain looking at a new computer monitor. (Ours died and we're borrowing one at present from our dear next door cousins.)
3. I'm reading a kid's book on how to write poetry and actually being inspired to try my hand at some "disciplined" poetry, instead of the kind that falls out randomly, rhymed or unrhymed, and never metered.
4. Our neighbor of six years moved out today and brought us a festive looking pie plate as a dish. We are xenophobicly speculating about the new neighbor.
5. I got an extended time of coveted peace and quiet and alone-ish-ness today.
6. I wrote a much longer letter than I even meant to to a dear friend, but she likes letters, and I think she deserves it.
7. I wonder if I will ever outgrow the habit of twisting my hair when I'm thinking.
8. Nope, I don't think so.
9. This morning Ethan's Stone Soup was sitting on the counter (he concocted it last night of milk, water, salt, pepper, leaves, and carrots. I think there was some dog backwash in there too, since the cooking went on outside on the porch.) We've been reading the cheery kid's book Stone Soup.
10. Today I discovered that God did write poetry. Just go read Job.

Offering

One day, one drop
Falls at a time into the cup
Not one like the next
Bitter and sweet,
The perfect mix
He watches each drop fall
And the vessel, growing full.
He smiles, and stoops,
And picks it up
Accepting with joy
The care-full cup

(Nov. 2006)

I want fall to be here!

What I think I heard Him say...

Wash away
Wash away the stains
Of life today
Come home and shed the mask
Come put away
The trying-too-hard-and-then-failing
Be tired in My arms
Sweet loving sleep prevailing
Safe from harm
I love you.

(May o6)

Why I like poetry

It's possible that I'm going insane.

Maybe that's no new knews to anyone else. Maybe I'm the last one to figure it out. But it seems to be happening nonetheless. (or is that not all one word?)

Last night I read The Nonsense Rhymes of Edward Lear to Ethan, and, I readily confess, it was more for my sake than his. The pictures delighted me and the poetry was a mouthful of bliss. He tolerated it admirably. My favorite poem in the book so far is "The Pobble Who Has No Toes." So before bed I counted Ethan's toes to be sure they were all there (they were). But as I tried to settle into bed myself, I noticed this delightfully frolicksome phrase gambolling in my brain...

"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible cat with the crimson whiskers!"

Actually, it was minus the fishing part, because I couldn't remember the beginning of the line. So it was sort of just "da da-da da-da da his Aunt Jobiska's runcible cat with the crimson whiskers..." You know that annoying feeling of forgetting the other thing you were going to buy at the grocery store when you only had two things to remember? It felt like that.

So, I'm sure a brightly whiskered feline figured somewhere in my dreams, but I don't remember it. When I woke up, guess what I was thinking? "da da-da da-da da his Aunt Jobiska's..." and so on. All through breakfast, it danced and romped and made a fool of itself, and occasionally slipped right off my tongue in a rhythmic mutter. There may have even been some head-bobbing-from-side-to-side as I munched my peanut butter toast. When we reviewed our memory verses, Mr. Runcible & Crimson himself was there to fight it out with half of Romans 8. After breakfast, for the sake of my own mental health, I sought out the source of my madness and looked up the rest of the line, so that Aunt Jobiska's cat could be properly fished for. It was just too fun to say.

And don't think that I got all wrapped up in my cutsy little rhyme and the whole little world was sunshiny and the birds were singing rosily in their little nests-- agreeing. No,no. But- this only proves how catching good poetry really is- when I went outside in an inward thunderstorm to cry my eyes out, that impertinent cat flicked his tale around in my brain and, well, I had to smile, in spite of myself.

That's just one reason I like poetry, even if it makes one a little insane. Go on, say a few lines, if you dare :)

Drink

I want to be
A cup of cold water to my Jesus.
Oh, I want You to drink deep
And take Your fill.
Let it be pleasing in its sweetness,
Irresistible and held there by Your will.

(Fall 06)

Ideas, Toenails, Scones

It's the ten minutes till suppertime post...Mom's favorite (not)

I'm perched here at the computer twisting my hair tensely, uncertain about what to write. My head is stuffed to overflowing with English Teaching Sort of Ideas lately, and the blog is sort of an outlet...but I don't want anyone to gather that that is my whole life...or...umm...no, it's just a phase.

Ideas scramble and clatter all over my head like busy ants or, better yet, grimy green monsters on all fours, digging their claws into the clefts of my brain for a better grip. Naturally, this causes headaches. People tell me I think too much, but, if you grasp the picture above, you will realize that it's very difficult to just "not think." I don't want to stop anyway.

What I do want to do is stop thinking long enough to re-paint my toenails. Their Bahaman blue psychedelic-ness has been marred by weeks of wear, not to mention a brief stint in the kiddy pool. Despite the many fervent promises I used to utter silently to myself that I'd never wear nail polish to the tacky point, I've broken faith countless times in the past couple of years. There are always more important things to do, it seems.

Something special about today: Mom baked a batch of superbly delectable scones this afternoon, and served them to us warm and fluffy and globbed with raspberry jam. Outsides crusty, insides crumbling cozily into the jam...oh yes. Tangible love. I love you, too, Mom!

Well, I'm 7 minutes past the ten minute post, and speaking of love for my mother...I must sign off.

Psalm 139

You saw me and You loved me
Before my life began,
When my substance, still unmade
Lay liquid in Your hand.

You shaped and molded with warm fingers
My heart and fragile frame,
And in Your book my days ordained
Not one of them the same.

You woke me with a breath of love,
And my response, an infant's cry,
Is all I could utter in a world alone
Up to the silent sky.

Hide me in the shadow
Of the wing my soul remembers;
Deep in the marrow of my mortality
Are left these glowing embers.

My soul goes back behind the stars
To find that secret place
Where You knit the fibers of my being
And held me in a long embrace.

How precious are Your thoughts to me,
That You remember and love me still,
For what was, and is now hidden
And will one day be fulfilled.

(Aug. 2005)

In which I find...THE COOKIE

Today I vacuumed the inside of our van, which felt like quite an accomplishment. It certainly needed it, though I've seen worse. It's funny how people usually clean their houses on a regular somewhat 'often' basis, (some more often than others...) but yet the family vehicle, which endures considerable abuse in the form of muddy feet, melted candy, shredded paper, dust, and smears and spills of various kinds, tends to escape notice for sometimes and VERY LONG TIME in the cleaning department!



Highlights of today's cleaning included, number one, finding my long lost chapstick, which had mysteriously disappeared when I dumped my purse in the car one time. That stuff is valuable! Even if I do only get $1.19 sticks of carmex :)

Number two, I got a kick out of sucking up mosquitoes in the vacuum hose. (Yes, you may win the battle, but you never win the war. It never hurts to try, though.)

Number three, an archeological-type investigation of the back seat compartments revealed treasures of noteworthy scientific interest. Discovered: A half wrapped candy cane and entact Christmas cookie in a yellowed napkin. They're only from last Christmas. I promise. In fact, I recognized that cookie from somewhere. The scary part was that the napkin showed more signs of decay than the cookie. Even the candy cane bore the earmarks of ancientness and meltdown, but that cookie...that perfect little cookie looked uncannily fresh and ready to eat, tempting green sugar sprinkles and all. In fact, Ethan begged me to let him have it before I chunked it in the trash can. I feel like writing to the FDA.

Oh, and just for the sake of family honor, we have cleaned the van since Christmas...just certain compartments have suffered neglect :)

Practice

Well, well, well. I'm starting to want to really write on my blog again, instead of just sticking with the poems.

After the delightful teatime Mrs. Burklin provided for the two of us on Saturday, wherein we talked quite a lot about writing and, as usual, she shared a lot of wisdom with me, I have surmised that I need to practice writing. Practice, practice, practice. Yesterday, on the way home from church, I caught myself exorting Mattie to embrace correction of her piano mistakes so that she can learn more and hone her musical abilities. As soon as I said it I nearly choked, realizing that I'd just preached myself a sermon. It was kind of mortifying and funny at the same time.

So, I have my blog to practice on, and my usual journal, but I also have a new secret (or not so secret any more) weapon...a robust new five section notebook, with a nice, springish green sort of cover, that I'm hoping to fill up before Christmas. Of course, if I use my favorite pens (which bleed through) it will be only half the book that gets filled. But it will be a goal, and it will be practice.

Lights (Hong Kong)

Ten thousand lights
Hanging in the trees
And spinning in the window

A thousand towers in the dark
With thousands of lights apiece
Yellow lights on dark waters

Jesus' light on dark hearts
Come cleansing Light
And break the darkness

(July 2005)

I wrote this on a the bus the night our team arrived in Hong Kong on a missions trip.

Reunion

I'm searching for You, God
Show me how to pray
I hate these clumsy, constant words
That have worn my love away.

I'm afraid to look into Your face,
So bound by motion and by fear-
Too crazed with doing
To think, to rest, to even hear.

Bring me back to simple love
I long for this one thing:
To know again the gentle whispers
Of my Lover and my King.

(May 2005)

Watching Rain

Jesus, watch and smile
As I press my nose against the glass
Watching rain come down at last...
Run in muddy streams against the grass
The leaves are drooping
Under the weight of summer rain
I'm Happy-hearted to be here,
Feeling the pounding power of thunder
Close, then distant, then close again.

Watch me
Fog up the window
With my breath
So glad to be here
In Your smile.

(May 2005)

I guess I'll posting them 'til I get a better idea.

A Hmm about Poetry

Options for poem-posting are getting somewhat thin. I've already posted all the ones I readily (or fairly readily) share. Now it's harder; I have to make these decisions.

Do I take a break from posting poems until the weather gets crispier and I can justify posting something like "A Lament for Lost Leaves"? Do I dig out some old stuff to share? Do I make up my mind to share the I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-share-that pieces? Do I heave a deep sigh, dig out a journal, and go about revising the unfinshed scraps of little poem embryos that haven't yet seen the light of day? Ug.

Something in me wants to complete those raw thoughts, but that something feels haggled and crushed by various other commitments. And deep down, I'm just scared of revision, worried about changing things, and horrified at the thought losing the glimpse of beauty and meaning captured in the original phrase. That's why I'm so afraid to edit poems...the meaning feels so fragile that I'm afraid it will die in my hands while I'm handling it.

Butterflies
Spider's webs
Lace
Moonlight
Fragrance

These things are what I view poetry as, and it's always been beyond me how anyone can just decide to sit down and write a poem with specific rhyme, meter, and meaning all at the same time. It reminds me of making pie crust...the more you handle it, the tougher the substance gets, the more it loses taste. In order to create a light, tasty crust, you have to get it right the first time, quickly, with the least possible handling. Hmm. Perhaps this shouldn't be the case with writing. Maybe it's a matter of talent I don't have, or maybe I need to practice poetry writing skills. I know there is a lot of laziness and fear going on here. I want to write poems that are both delicate and powerful, combining beauty with truth. The only beauty I know has been created by God, and the only power in me is the power of the risen Christ. The questions are:

Do I truly believe in Him, and
How does that become poetry?

Mom Opinions, Please!

I love rain. I love seeing it from the window, all grayish green against the woods and puddling up in the driveway. It means that I don't have to go out for a walk, but I might anyway, just for the fun of it.

No lotion in my hair today. I woke up early, full of thoughts about English Class. Well, I call it English Class. What I mean is "Helping Mattie and Catherine and Jane with writing." It will be as classy as possible. Most likely, I'll be learning more than they will :)

This morning I was wondering how to encourage kids to journal. I love to journal, and when I do it, I do it honestly, privately, and sometimes very intensely. This hasn't always been the case, of course. When I embarked on my journaling journey, I was somewhere between 9 and 11, and I wrote meager, boring beyond belief entries like

"I ate peanut butter toast for breakfast. I finished my chores before Connor did and I am very happy about it. I hope I can get a cat soon. I don't know what else to say. Bye."

What's more, being the faithful journaler that I was (I think I was made to do it three times a week for school) I wrote basically the same thing in every entry. The days were monotonous drippings in my journal, about as obnoxious as a drippy faucet. But somewhere along the way, the drips became a sporadic trickle. I began to write general statements about my feelings.

"I feel really lonely today. I don't know why. I took a walk in the woods. Wish I could write a story."

Eventually, the time came when I didn't just want to record everyday events, because new emotions were popping up all over the place. I couldn't explain them to anyone, but I NEEDED to write them down. I wanted to try, but I was mortally afraid of someone reading my journal, so I didn't. Also, I thought my mom had forbidden me to write secret things in my journal. I don't know if she had or not, actually, and she can't really remember. At some point, the pent up emotions got vented in my journal anyway. When I realized that no one ever came near my journals and my secrets were safe, I really started pouring out my heart. Before this revelation, I wrote in a fake, attempt-at-sophistication kind of voice. It wasn't me, it was a fictional person I was trying to be, trying to write about real feelings under cover. I was ashamed to admit that I was human, wished I were beautiful, was suddenly feeling kind of melty about boys, and was apparently morphing into some kind of totally awkward freak.

Steady streams spilled out. It took me a few years to actually quit disguising myself in my journal, even when I was pretty sure no one else was going to read it! But I wrote and wrote, and now I go to my haven frequently to gush.

Nowadays pretty much anything that goes down on paper comes out of my mouth to Mom one way or another, for the sake of our relationship, my sanity, and an innate need for confession and advice. She knows every major issue of my journals, past and present. Journal regurgitation didn't come about till I was at least 15, though, and it was a process. Poor Mom.

Anyway...this is my experience, and after talking with Mom about it, I believe it was a good thing. When I encourage kids to journal, I want to tell them to have a place where they can write privately and safely so that they can learn to write (and speak) honestly about what's going on inside them. If they are always in fear of what others (even Mom and Dad) will think, they might never write clearly. I also want to encourage them to share their struggles and secrets with their parents, no matter how hard it is, because we NEED our parents' help. I just don't think it should be forced. I know from experience that God can put on all the pressure necessary to bring out the secrets, whether we kids want to share or not :)

I don't know...I'm just putting my thoughts out there. If any moms are reading this, could you tell me what you think? Obviously I've never been on the Mom side, so I don't know how it feels to give your kids that freedom or if it's even a big deal to you. Maybe some people never even think of it. Please let me know your opinions!

Rain Prayer

Alone
Lying on my bed
In the young night
In lamplight
I hear the rain
Falling on the other side
Of the window
The close up dripping,
The thumping and thrumming,
The tiptoeing, pattering noise
And the little mouse sounds
The calm, rhythmic rhyming of the rain
Coming to water old earth.

And here, alone, I pray
That you'll set my spirit free
I hear the rain around me
Come and rain on me.

(Nov. 2004)

The New Doo

You can tell you're either

a) too lost in thought, or
b) in too big of a hurry

when you smear lotion in your hair instead of mousse when you get out of the shower in the morning. That's exactly what I did just a bit ago. Well, who knows, lotion might work better :) Smells exciting.

Blue

His paper is besmeared with blue paint.
It's water, he says, with sweetgum balls in it.
Globs and globs of blue,
Blue as the blobs
Beneath his long, long lashes.
Such intense concentration
On the crinkly wrinkly paper
Sodden with three-year-old genius.

(April 2006)

This is Ethan, painting :)

List (a Monday Sort of Poem)

This morning I woke up bound
By three hundred things to do,
And in my head the sound
Of a freight train roaring through.

So many plans for life today,
Everything I'd hate to miss
But somehow something's missing
In my two-toned brand of bliss.

I got up this morning
Hitting the ground on the run
Afraid of Someone pursuing
Out of the rising sun.

Funny how I couldn't see Him,
Yet I'm sure He does exist
And somehow I get the feeling
That He's too big for my list.

(June 2005)

Time to get some breakfast...it's really not that sort of Monday, but anyway...

Him

Jesus, Jesus
Sweet Unleaving Everstaying Warming Presence
I'm a candle kindled by continual closeness
With a bright bright Flame.

When I ran and hid I found You
Waiting for the one who
Told herself she was rejected.

She lied to herself but You said never mind
And told her to look upwards
There were stars
There were green butterflies
On bare trees in springtime
There was a pond rippling in the dark.

Jesus, Jesus,
Precious Holding Unrelenting Unchanging Unangered Gentle Person
Always Holding and Unsaying all those things that ever hurt me
That no one ever said
Constant Quiet Reverberating Presence
Enwrapping, Staying me
Setting me On Fire
Jesus, I love You.

(April 2006)

This one goes with yesterday's.