gathering dust

Sitting on my shelf is a new iPod touch, purchased for my trip. I haven't turned it on or set it up; it's still in the case. I got it a couple weeks before I was scheduled to leave and just a few days before Apple decided to close all their stores. I cannot return it...at least not right now. Maybe I don't want to return it. It sits gathering dust while I relegate it to that part of my mind that is half in denial the world is as it is and not as it should be.

It's a holding pattern. More than a week passed before I unpacked my bags because, after all, am I staying? Will I go again? What would staying even look like? No job is temporarily suspended, no jobs are really available in this climate. Of course, would I even want one if one turned up? Waiting.

Avoiding decisions like the space grey iPod. After all, most decisions are out of my hands. Even Costco doesn't want my temporary assistance. The few clamouring voices I can tackle may include what to eat and when to exercise and whether nine hours of sleep on a consistent basis is healthy but they seem hollow in light of the silent ones like what now, God?

Restlessness stirs some moments but most pulse with a hesitant expectancy. When the whole world lays aside individual freedom for a perhaps overrated virus something big must be coming. At the very least, life as I know it is over. Like Frodo we can never go home again. It's a brave new world.

Maranatha

scraps

one of my favourite art activities has been to create collages from old magazines, like the slightly blurry one above. i once wallpapered my door in snippets including words that spoke meaning to my heart. if the test of great art is the time one can gaze is wrap wonder then for me this is timeless. in each image i can drown, lost in a world of imagination and dreams. 

scrapspieces of a life
images
words
what does the collage of your life look like? does it radiate beauty and grace? is it full of unforgettable moments or ones you have forgotten? i have so many experiences that, like my hodgepodge creations don't fit into a seamless cohesive picture yet all together they make me uniquely me. from wrangling to roaming to writing.
these days of limbo 
we all get to pause.
selah
to take a brief look at the mosaic of memories and decide can tomorrow be different, better? no earthly eye knows all your clippings and some are better off in the recycling bin. when nothing is as it seems anything is possible. rearrange the scraps of yesterdays to paint a life that breathes hope. no matter what tomorrow brings it can be beautiful.

quarantine

it's not so bad day one i see
the sun is shining i can still
run and play i have a nice
house and food's ok so what
about day two the forecast is
solid rain i finished the puzzle
but i still can't complain i have
enough tp and a bottle of wine
maybe day three is starting fine
no it's raining again and the book
is done not the one i should write
the one i just read ok now the day
four is dawning and i have nowhere
to go yet i want to go somewhere
the itch is for real and i'm tired of
texting i would rather have a face
not onscreen to talk to and i wish
i had bought extra chocolate and
maybe some ice cream no i'm glad
i'm not there instead maybe another
workout is two a day ok pretty sure
sleeping nine hours because what
does the day hold i really should
do something but it's not so bad
wait how many days are left?

fear

Everyone consciously and unconsciously adopts life mottos as they age. Some idealistic, some practical, some attainable, some less so. A line from a favourite movie of mine, Strictly Ballroom, resonated with me immediately the first time I heard it: "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias".

Simply put in English: a life lived in fear is a life half-lived.

Daily life right now pulsates with fear. Turn on the tv. Chat with a friend. Greet a stranger (well, better not unless you yell from a great distance). Unprecedented times of uncertainty and what happens now is on every one's lips.

Example: the grocery store. Signs proclaiming the requisite 6 feet of distance (in aisles that are only 5 feet wide). The checkout line. I stand patiently at the sign but the lady ahead hesitates and does not move immediately to her spot. Instead she looks at me with something akin to loathing and says in a tight voice, "get back! that's not 6 feet away!" Mortified, amused, feeling like a slug she would like to salt, I respond, "I'm waiting at the sign." Fighting back tears--I dislike confrontation especially unnecessary--I gratefully engaged with the sympathetic cashier who recognised my innocence and we agreed that grace is the only answer.

Grace, love, trust. These things fight fear. I know how the Story ends, so I don't have to fear the bumps in my story. 

Perhaps you say I don't understand. I'm a traveller who loves a good adventure. Yet just as anyone else from the moment I wake up fears clamour for dominion. I am an unemployed, over-educated ageing single woman who has survived cancer and lost a parent. And those are only the external arenas that fear would like to rule. Much more significant are the thousand thoughts that analyse every outcome and every interaction.

I choose not to live in fear. I choose to believe that I may have planned a way, but He directs my steps.

I choose moreover to live in expectation and hope. He gives good gifts and I want to find them through trust and perseverance. So live a full life. Leave fear behind. Trust.

paper

As I sit to write my table is covered with paper. A notebook containing a more-or-less master list, scraps of lists of things not to forget, pads of paper that I collect with a compulsion. Packing has always been an excruciatingly cathartic time to purge yet paper has always been the most difficult thing to sort. A product of a generation caught between everything electronic and hard copies, I'm forever unsure if I should keep or destroy the silent trees' lesser products. I rely daily on the passwords stored in my apple id and keep a handy tb of electronic storage but to my heart no email can take the place of a handwritten letter lovingly sent. 

The very act of setting pen to paper anchors me in time in a way nothing else can. I write the lists and promptly forget to take them to the store but somehow it works. Somehow simply setting it down is a form of accomplishment that allows me to immediately procrastinate by blogging instead of checking off items. Yet beyond that just having paper ready to write, notepads with their clean, promising pages--I collect them as if by having them I captured the permanence and prosperity they exude. Perhaps growing up in a home where sticky notes were a luxury we could not indulge in and notepads were gifts not necessities has spawned my collection that even as I pare down another dragon skin's level I cannot bring myself to discard the last few pages of a heart-stamped notepad. 

So I will squirrel away the bicycle papers that were discarded by another with less emotional attachment to the echo of permanence and forest paths. I will write a letter or two, sharing my precious treasures with friends who may not understand but will hopefully welcome the nostalgic method of communication so lacking in the immediacy of a world in which I can travel so easily, bringing the gift of being present like the letters on the page.

the way home

everyone knows the way home
like an old familiar t-shirt you
slip into it unconsciously and
barely notice the halfway diner
the gnarly tree next to the street
one before your last turn left
or the shuttered duplex built
too many years ago and housing
too many renters who couldn't
be bothered to fix the doorframe
until one day the diner is now
a four-storey condo unit with
pricey cladding and a keypad
the duplex gets a facelift and
one side is a salon while the
gnarly tree burned down while
some say lightning others blame
neighbourhood kids high on
something but all you know
is you cannot find the way
home
suddenly it doesn't fit and
even when you arrive by
forcing yourself to think
of street names and perhaps
even using your phone the
place has changed so much
you don't even recognise it
the paint is new and the dog
as well but she's friendly so
you think maybe it's still the
right place with a new light
where you can still slip in
just like you always used to
yet you find yourself knocking
instead of just walking in like
you belong and the door opens
but it's a stranger's face that
stares curiously at you as you
stammer in confusion and he
asks you kindly if you are
lost

anniversary

whirling voices bodies shoving falling
i didn't think it would be this quiet
my own breathing sounds loud inside
sharp cracks fading cries confusion
i feel the smoke tug at my eyes
my cheeks are wet with anguish
rumbling hate silenced oppression
i can feel the world growing small
my hands reach for missing arms
loud denials missing memories
i taste the bitter pill of yesterday
my beloved's kiss is forgotten
anthems echo relentless freedom
i smell the sweat of people singing
the aroma of hope fills my nostrils
marching marching marching
i sense the end has not yet come
my story goes on beyond today