Where the wild things exist

a mother i don't know
told her daughter to save
room
in her world
for the
untamed
things

and

there is no
thing
as wild
and reckless
as love

(i don't think)

but some people
are
afraid

and weed them
out

i have

(i think)

is my heart
ALIVE
enough
to hold all the
tame, calm creatures
as well as
the wild that exists
in darker forests,
higher mountains,
eery oceans,
and vaster plains
than i'll
ever
know?

to love a wild thing
is a secret
inside

linking for the first time in a long time with emily and a whole wild community of imperfection

A Girl Named Fragile, A Parable

this is my first bit of fiction. i'm afraid to share it, yet knowing it is imperfect, i feel emily's is where it belongs for a spell.




once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.

When you say nothing at all-Repost

toes push, heels rock, we're swinging
and my legs are metronome to the
heartbeat of a quiet afternoon.
neither of us are talking,
just sitting:

push, rock

the clanking of chain against chain
and screw inside of wood
protesting against our weight,
and we're simply sitting
amid the bird-song and each other:

push, rock

and i think, "we're here on a swing
and there is space between us
and he's just two
and i wonder if he knows
how much i love him?"
so i reach over,
caress his fat-creased thighs
and i whisper,
i love you:

push, rock

we're just sitting
and neither of us is talking
and there's space between us
and still looking forward
he reaches over the space and touches my hand:

push, rock


reposting this for enily's imperfect prose

The richness of belonging

he scared my 3rd grade self, and he pointed right at me, black fingers waving me over. he said nothing, just started walking, and my heart began thumping out of my ears. i racked brain to see what i'd done; we were standing outside the cafeteria waiting on ms. heitz to take us back to our classroom. "what did i do?" i repeated several times on the verge of tears when i realized we were headed to The Principal's Office, his domain. he must have seen the near-panic in my eyes, and finally knelt down, "you didn't do anything. you were the quietest one in line, and i needed a helper i could trust."
i still don't remember what the task was, but can remember the fear of his huge authority calling me out of line like it was yesterday.

where does this kind of fear come from?

why am i still afraid?
of the police (ok, ok, my tags are expired)
of the cool moms on the playground with hair coiffed and sons in plaid

of God?

i received a summons 3 months ago for an appearance in court, a suit for a debt i knew nothing about.
i felt all the same fear standing so exposed beneath the judge's gaze. husband said i did well, but heart thudded all the same.

i always see myself as rule's exceptions: that God loves others but not me, my sins are the ones unpardonable, that i'm the one grace won't quite cover.

i pray one day i feel the weight of grace from the judge who loves, who has not only summoned, but redeemed. i pray i live today, not in fear, but in the richness of belonging.

Breaking

the sound of glass shattering has my boys' feet scrambling even as the tears and sorrys drip fast. this is because i'm afraid of the broken things. fragility has long been associated with value, and i've known breaking:
a pottery jar i saved money to buy. the emu egg she gave me. that sweet picture of him when we met.
these have all met a shattered fate, and i cried at each shard thrown away, rebelled against the permanence of broken.
those little eyes knew my displeasure, and i wonder if their hearts didn't break, too, just a bit. should they be careful in the house, our home filled with plenty of fragile things? my worldly self says, "of course!" but i wonder what He would think of that, He who is yet an untamed Lion, and this not the season for lying with lambs.
i've learned that His word says he does not willingly afflict his children and that his compassion is renewed every morning. i think this is precisely because he knows how hard the refining is; He who was broken and rejected breaks us so that He may spill forth.
oh, we are fragile and precious both, for are we not earthen vessels filled with treasure?

my sister is in a time of breaking, and i've prayed hard for her this week. some of what is at stake affects me, too, and i am a little afraid it's my "turn" to face this kind of refining. i know His hand is on both of us. i also know that unlike me with my little trinkets, when i break, he does not get angry and lash... he restores and heals the broken-hearted.


a perfect place to meet imperfect people all somewhere on the journey in being broken--linking with emily and others

432(1)

today is a day-
the last day-
i have four,
all stepped down
one from the other
by a single year.
this is the day so little
separates
them
but the year in which
they were loved alive.
shea is oldest, still 4
his daddy-broad shoulders
carrying the weight of the world
of little brothers
and wearing his mama-freckles
brightly asking of the world
all whys.
and
connor is middlest, still 3
with blonde ragamuffin
(i love that grace the best)
and eyes blue as a promise
that impish will and
push back against the grain
the strain of nots.
and avery is today's child, 2
finally out of ones,
and he is all brawn and laughs
and head full of cherub curls
intensity's child, he.
and lastbutnotleast owen is still just one
month (ok, and a half)
and he is quieting extension
of mama, still breast-close in all wonder.
thank you, Father,
for sons a heritage and ours a full house.

happy birthday, beautiful avery!

linking for the first time in ages with emily and others

As you are going: Worship

i see songs of worship

in a mother's hands, unconsciously pressed on her purple-stretching skin, a responding call to the fluttering thumps below

in milk that leaks nourishing comfort

in the toddling steps of a wee one, shaky on legs but certain in love's fall-breaking

in the fart-jokes as oldest little one grows--there is a letting go, even this young--and the burst of " i do it" as 3 year old insists on independence

in the quotidian click of wedding bands as she hands him the plates for the table, the eyes catching with an old flicker

in hands that fold laundry and reach under tables during grace

in wearing wife role, which looks a lot like red toenails and the two curved bodies asleep before they intended to

~~~~~~~~~

i sing worship as i tend this home. sometimes i bake the bread, and sometimes i buy it straight on sale. i raise these three boys and grow another, and sometimes it means avery kisses my bottom because that's as high as he can reach, and sometimes it's the constant yelling to QUIET DOWN. i sweep floors and consider decorations, but we have written on our doorposts to Whom we belong and serve. i remember meg's words: just as you are going. one step at a time.


linking with emily and others for her imperfect prose

Oyster

"no white, please. i'm far too pale."

she unwraps cello jackets, revealing gems below: champagne, ivory, two-toned, pink.
i evn find a white one i love in a classic misty move. i rebel even against myself sometimes.
one last glance at the crammed rack, and i see a glimpse of an impossible color peeking out. "oh," i breathe. yes. oyster. this would suit you rather well, i think.

i bought my dress 7 months before he asked.
the answer was always yes.

i never considerd being a january bride--we all probably assumed i'd be a barefoot bohemian, and inside i definitely am.

he says i didn't even kiss him with you may now--lips barely brushed his, he insists. i wish i could smother him in a million kisses and start again tomorrow.
i'm terrified of dancing, but we danced anyway, and these hips have since swayed in endless labor and the rocking of babes to sleep. the dancing of a mother is just the fuller dance of newbride.
tears clouded vision with that first Mr&Mrs; now i wear Mrs unblushingly and well. it suits me, too.

my oyster gown hangs on his side of the closet. it's not even protected. i leave it as it is. that indescribable pearly color whispers to me when i hang up clothes, reminding the housewife of the bride she'll always be.

happy anniversary, beloved.

(this is a day early-we celebrate union tomorrow, but i'll be away from my computer for large parts these next few days, so linking with emily and others for imperfect prose)

Seeing

i had a professor in college chide me once, "misty, what are you waiting on? inspiration?" i was. a senior year english major taking 4 upper level lit/writing classes and a "directed inquiry" in the same field left me void of things to say. it was my job, but i constantly felt i had nothing.
sometimes blogging is the same way, which is why it's so important this time to stay true to myself and not set post requirements or feel always obligated to visit my favorite haunts (and i love visiting, it just eats time!). and yet, tonight i sat, wondering if i had anything to say. i mused that when things were so dark i often shared plenty, even if it was just a whispered "pray for me," and in just the looking, inspiration is everywhere.
it is the grace to be warm on this too-cold-for-texas night, the full belly and wonderingly normal blood-sugar readings. it is avery, all tucked in and quiet, and the tip-toes in to check on him before i go to sleep, or the breathing of shea or connor in my room when they finally succumb to their days' adventures turned into dreams. it is my beloved away for work, but the bond that stretches all that long way. the hollow in my bed, waiting for his return, the phone calls late into the night just to hear the other without kid-noises all around. it is last little one unknown yet Known fully, growing hair by hair, making presence known with secret kicks. grace is in the anticipation and hope for tomorrow, whether we have frozen waffles or the last of the Cheerios for breakfast.
there is tenderness in Creation, in the miracle of friend's 28-week delivery of twins, and the miracles being seen day in, night out for these two sweet girls. it is the announcement of a friend's engagement, and all the glowing love. it is the timing of a friend's phone call or the music that makes me close my eyes, the worship in car rides, and the breathy miracle of art. it is modern medicine and my long-waited for bravery to ask for help in tiny yellow pills, and the grace in four bodies holding me up all that time before, holding hands in thankfullness now.
to be uninspired is an extravagant snobbery, i think. there is today, and it is preciously full.


so i'm here, linking with emily, at first afraid i had nothing, and realizing i have everything.

Anything but thunder

i read this lovely post in a little bit of awe, i think.

how did i forget that he spoke to fishes? that he clothed lilies? that he knew every sparrow in the field?
when did i stop knowing?

i think there is a personal directive for all of us, much like elijah's: "what are you doing here?" and then, "go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the LORD, for the LORD is about to pass by: (1 kings 19: 11). we mutter our incoherent excuses, and He simply says go SEE.

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. ¹² After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper (1 kings 19: 11-12)

i see myself everywhere--my interests, my needs, my wants, my way. i cry out, "where are you? WHO are you?" all the while i stopped seeking him in anything but thunder. i cry out for writing on walls and earth ripped wide, but he whispers loudest in silent tears and my own broken heart.

how do you remember the grace of invitation, the call to see him in the wind?

a grateful nod to amy for her gentle nudging, her beautiful words to hear the only voice that matters. i am learning to sift through the rubble to see his ways; now i must sift through my own heart to see him.

and i know that i see him now in my children's eyes: the colors of the ocean, a stone, the sky; i see him in my husband's pewter circle; i see him in the knitting of stitches and the breaking of bread. i see, Lord. help me Hear.

writing imperfectly, sharing grace with emily.

Jacob's limp

this space has been quieter than usual, even for me. i've never subscribed to so many posts per week or month; i've just tried to write for me, when i need or want it. writing here has felt a little vulnerable lately, and i think somewhere in the depression and fear, i simply froze. i've felt the effects, that desire to pull away from (not in just the virtual world, but the real one), withdraw, stop speaking. then, too, the struggle to maintain mama in a world of word-writing, and one feels frivolous on days of frozen pizzas, laundry piled high, and too many cartoons just to survive the day. how can i pit words of being broken in this broken place against the living broken in a broken place?
so these have been my struggles: the fear i said too much and the knowing i'm not speaking all that is in my heart.
and yet
through flood of tears, and simply-asked question to my earthly love last night, i think i've found my voice again. i asked, "is it possible to love myself?" he cried shining tears with me at the braveness in asking if it's okay and if so how, and he gently held and talked with a Voice bigger than his own, and i think the time stood still in prayer for us. big question, little self. and ruefully i admit i think it's time to see my counselor again.
i also stumbled upon my former pastor's blog (he's now a missionary to hungary), and this is his tagline: The wrestling angel gifted Jacob with a limp as a permanent reminder of his encounter with God. Jacob's life-long policy was to run. His final glory was that he learned to lean (Hebrews 11:21). A wound is a good thing if it is accepted as a stewardship from God, appropriated as a channel of God's strength and consecrated to God's purpose. Where dependence is the objective, weakness is the advantage.
i wrote of choosing life, and in so doing i think i need to make peace with this limp, this weakness in me--a reminder that i am His--His! that He has touched, seen, held, and loved me not despite, not through it all; He has loved me Everlasting.
so i am limping, and choosing to see the advantage: to give this back to Him, all my depression, fear, worry, self-hatred....i choose to lean.



linking this post up with emily at imperfect prose this week.

Reflection

sexual abuse is part of my story. and while it's something from my past, like a light illuminating from behind, shadows project, affecting some of my todays, some of my tomorrows. i have come a long way from the hurt and pain, and i'm joyful to be in the process of repairing some of the resulting broken relationships. i'm reposting this from my archives because it still hits home after certain discussions with my counselor. this poem, in fact, was a previous response to an exercise she had me do. thank you for grace in reading.



breasts, once touched til my heart
was RAW-
please stop-
flimsy layer of lace no shield,
now sway, stretched with
nurturing
those little red lips
those closed eyes
small hands clutched close
how can i hate these breasts, still?

stomach, once held sucked in a constant POPULARITY
contest
now squishes out, having won 3 times
-MAMA-
but i had no mama to help me push these
little ones out
where was she, then,
and now?

no was meaningless.
hands felt helpless
now cradle sweet, sweaty palms.
voice left powerless
now sings lullabyes
and kisses boo-boos away.

old body, ragged cavern of hate
(don't look, don't want, don't touch)
new body, birth-scarred victorious
nursing love and milk
wombing body and soul
turned inside OUT.

linking with emily and the other imperfect journey-friends on the way

The language of shadows

i tread dawn like that old great ship*, unable to sleep after he goes off to work, too early, not normal for us. i don't even know if i sighed him a kiss. it's still dark when i hear him close the gate just outside my bedroom window. he doesn't want to leave the front door unlocked while we sleep, only i'm just lying here and i feel like i should reach out, tell him, but i lie in the shadow morning, hear the purr of others off to work, see headlights outlining windows, briefly, before they round the drive. connor is in my bed, and i'm in his, and his shallow wheezy breath-snores fill space just like shea's quiet dream puffs, and i'm acutely aware of their breathing in these four walls. they dream, and i toss and turn, the dog's tail wagging against my leg every time i move. i wonder if she's just trying to acknowledge me and i find minor comfort in that thought. i pat her nose and she wiggles up tight and close. old habits force me to push her off. i wonder if this is the morning the heart fog will dissipate, if light will shine through more than just the slits in my blinds? shadows whisper in their own language as furniture outlines emerge, and i think i should pray but can't even get outside my own head. lying here, the ceiling seems low despite being vaulted. clouds turn from grey to pink, and the house isn't so still anymore. i finally eek a prayer, just help me get through today, and i'm up. dawn shakes out her last weary sigh, and she and i start together. just help us get through today.

(*please, please, know this literary reference?!)

linking up with emily and trying to shake my funk and sleepy eyes with imperfect prose.

Some hope, restored

i think a broken hallelujah is the only kind there is:
the one of splintered hearts
shy good-byes, and journeys
starting with a single step,
slouching towards bethlehem, as she says.
but it's true.
we can slouch. that's all,
and wait at broken earth, under cross's shadow

and

whisper, "today i am broken.
tomorrow, will you break me
again?"
lips dry and cracked under desert sun
throat or soul more parched than last

and

all that's left is a poet without words
a singer without melody
a craftsman without his tools
all, breaking hallelujah in bread
and wine
and self




i wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago, but after the hopelessness i felt yesterday, it felt very appropriate to link up to emily's imperfect prose. i'm imperfect indeed, but that's where His beauty fills and makes whole.

Hush

hush, baby, i want to take in all of you right now, want to memorize your impossible black eyelashes leaving shadows on your cheek, those stone-colored eyes i've never seen on another little boy, make constellations in your freckles that match mine just-so. hush, little one, everyone else is sleeping, but i'm not afraid of you waking them; i'm afraid we'll lose this moment of just us, the house all dark and still, and only us awake and sitting here. you grabbed my hand and i couldn't believe you would, that mama-love despite being busy-four, and so i rake your curls and shssssh you. hush, my love, for just a little while tonight.


linking with emily's imperfect prose

The silent thief

(to one of the victims of our silence, l.b.)

i'm not sure who
insisted silence was gold
but i'm pretty sure
he was wrong.
there's too much to
SAY
and stories to live
and so silence has
been a thief for
US
took those words
"i love you"
and contorted them
into fear
and nothing
and looked a lot
more black than sheen
but we are finding
-she and i-
that listening is
silver
and worth its weight
in gold

visit emily, my favorite thursday haunt, for her imperfect prose and join the rest of us as we write grace, imperfectly perfect.

A bowl and a harp

the smoke dances whisper white
curling and swaying like a belly dancer,
intimate and hovering.
the smell is heady and strong,
the heat rising in my throat
as incense burns ash-long.
the golden bowl collecting these prayers
gleams metallic-
a place to go, to whisper, to groan-
and a new song is sung
because He was worthy
and slain;
we become kings and priests
to serve our God
as he inhales the fragrant aroma of our prayers.
life exhales as worship:
glory to the Lamb!

a poetic paraphrase of revelation 5 for emily's imperfect prose

Memory

he'd say, "let's tickle the old ivories," and we'd sit, he and i, cramped on the creaky piano stool he built himself, hymnal splayed between. his finger pads would fly, crescendo up the scale, warm-up. p. 52 waits with shaped notes--diamond, heart, circle--old-time methods for old-time songs, and a rugged cross stands solo. i sing, feeble, sweet, unsure, but happy and believing.

there were other times i remember happiness- walking down to his shop, viennese cafe smoking pale white tendrils against winter smells of sawdust and vicious cold, my hand burning around the mug.

or, that summer: his beat-up blue ford, truckbed ready for haulin' and workin', us 3 girls squished inside the cab. we were at the paradoxical age of 12: still young enough to gobble greedily the mountain dews and m&ms and old enough to begin experimenting with eyeshadow and furtive glances to see if any of the workers noticed us.
summers and winters end, and the world is changed after.

Swimming

my body feels weightless-rare-i cut and glide effortlessly graceful, amazed at the buoyancy. i float, drifting, water reflects sky reflects dreams, and i swim to forget the land's many tasks.
i never even knew how to swim properly til age 24, and i asked her if she'd teach me before i had to go.
(i am running away.)
her skin is wrinkled in fine lines, but brown and sinewy strong; mine is freckled,pale, and curvy-soft. she's an excellent swimmer, powerful.
i can't imagine her running away from anything.

every day, i treasure our hour together; i wonder what fall will be like when i can't swim with her anymore, when i won't have to see him again. i wonder if the breathing above water will be any easier than the snorkeling choking breath below. arm sweeps a waving arc, legs flutter kick, and i'm not sure if swimming's any easier than running.

(a tale of heartbreak, of love lost to a boy and being afraid of losing his mother's love, which i have not. this is like the prequel to my love story to my beautiful rickey, but a definite glimpse into my heart's ways, namely how easy it is to be afraid or want to run.)
linking with emily today.