A blog intensifying the flavor of life and toasting those who share in the feast, rather than settling for a dry, plain, melba toast existence.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

words for a new year

I could sit here all day, looking out this window at the lichen-covered branches casting shadows on the lawn. The glitter of frost colors the grass a lighter shade of green and adds texture to some of the brown leaves still clinging to the trees, while the rest are scattered on the ground.

It is safer for me to sit alone with my thoughts, warming my hands on a big mug of coffee, than to share them with others. It is, however, a risk I foolishly take.

Often I awake with a feeling of gratitude. I look to the sky for the pink and lavender hues before orange/yellow light bursts forth. Birds, at the ready, sing in another day.

Words then need to be found to guide my thinking, my prayers, my preparation to engage with the world. In the beginning was the Word. It has always been that way for me.

When I was young, sitting alone with my journal, looking for the words to interpret the world, I would dream of traveling to distant lands and writing about my adventures so that anyone interested could share in the excitement life had to offer me. I could help them in this way overcome their sadness and boredom as they would instead become my vicarious traveling companions.

I remember being asked where I would want to go and my answer always was: London, England and Paris, France. To me those two places sounded like the most amazing places on the face of the earth. Someone once told me that there were spiders the size of dinner plates in Hawaii so I never wanted to go there. Other island destinations would only threaten my fair-skinned existence since adequate sunscreen had yet to be invented. I needed to go to climates that could accommodate someone used to Michigan weather. It would not be until decades later that I would finally adjust to the constant perspiration of living in the South, making travel to warmer lands more possible.

What I always wanted more than anything was to become a writer. It is only now I am realizing that what I wanted even more was to be understood, and therein lies the rub. Words find their way to me so I can redirect them back out, but sometimes they return unrecognizable. My intended message gets caught up in thorny vines and only fragments of it make it back to tell the tale.

I get asked a lot if I am ok. When was I ever ok?! What does that even mean?!!

If I say yes, I am ok, does that assure someone I am not on the ledge ready to jump? Does ok mean I will suppress my emotions and pretend not to feel like I already do? Maybe ok means I will disguise my personality to mimic that of a cheerleader. Funny thing is, I already fill that role in many ways.

For the deeply hurting, I am a catalyst. I give others the permission to embrace their sorrow deeply, permission not always granted to me. For those who will never really heal, never really get over their losses, I walk quietly beside. I no longer see life as something to be achieved, as having any kind of definite, final outcome this side of heaven. I see it as it is, each day, filled with good intentions and flawed people who try and fail, over and over. This does not remove any power from the supernatural or miraculous. But it does leave room at the end of the day, if prayers lay like unopened envelopes containing our deepest needs spelled out with our recommendations to be taken into consideration. Even when that happens I can still sense Jesus walking with me, holding my hand, requiring me to say nothing because he already knows my heart.

I cry a lot. This does not mean I am not ok. In many ways, it means that I am. Jesus wept. I am in good company.

If there is one thing I know for sure, it is I am not the Author of these words that find their way to me; I am the translator.

My prayer is that I will be given words of hope, truth and love to translate for anyone who cares to travel with me through another year. Au revoir mes amis.





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