I'm going to try and write.
For the sake of my heart. and head. and soul. and fingers.
For the sake of my internal dialogue and those who hear it outloud.
For heaven's sake, I am going to try and write. Bear with me.
I don't know why I packed the Mexican lace. Or the metal unicorn.
Somewhere along I-40 headed towards Nashville, I screamed at God. I didn't just whine. Or pout. Or mope. I yelled. And hit the wheel. Most likely, I sped. It's ok... Madeleine was sleeping, (I think).
Somewhere along 81-N, I felt hope.
Not so surprising, I've discovered my flesh is just as strong and must be slayed. It must be wrapped in twine and strapped down on an altar, and I am begging the Lord will make it quick and effective. Or send a ram.
I'll take a ram.
I feel like Elijah, and I know ravens are coming. In this attic apartment, creekside, treeside, hushside. Ravens will perch at my windows, and I'll swing these doors wide open to welcome what each day will bring.
Be it fire or rain. Sunshine or that familiar, long-suffering-building pain.
Chocolate mints in bowls and Anthropologie owl candles make it feel a bit like the home i think I used to know, but haven't yet created. How is that possible?
How is it possible to know something so well before it's even known?
I keep thinking...
when really, i'm just asking...
how do i do this?
how do i adventure and put down roots?
how do i plan when my own plans are faulty?
how does a complementarian girl function as a healthy single mom?
if God has good for me, why does He demand so much pain? is it so I will take whatever He gives me? does it lower my bar for what is "good"? is my flesh so entitled that i forget He has already done the most good he ever has to do for me?
He already redeemed my soul. Why am I so discontent?
Isn't he compassionate? Gracious? Slow to anger? Abounding in love?
Is He those things for me? Or through me? Or both?
I don't know why I packed the Mexican lace. I know it's in a drawer. Next to the drawer filled with dress-up clothes.
The water rushes downstream, spring time breaking at its edges, slowing making its way up the bank. Thaw is proving that all was not dead. Passion of earth bursts, breaks, woos, and violently draws life out of ice and cold roots.
Toward the grass. Toward the porch. Hopefully, towards my cynical, wondering, a bit iced-over heart.