Friday, December 12, 2008

Yank. back. Those curtains.

I went outside to find you in the stars, but it was raining. The dense, black night swallows my dreams- and I am left feeling inadequate and dull. I know the fact that I don't feel alive doesn't mean a thing. I am, to the core, in all of the shadows and swept-up cavernous places, covered by Your love. Right now the wind through my curtains is cold, damp, and uncertain. I need something to grip, something to illuminate the truth and fill me with confidence in You. The truth is as follows: I am your creation, founded by You and grounded deep in Your love for me. I am royalty, Your child, held still in Your everlasting arms. I am favored, and Your purpose is established in my life. I am Your window. 

Sometimes the world is just an open plain, and I am a stupid stone buried in centuries of rock-hard mud. 
Sometimes a jagged crack in the pavement of a brand-new winding road to no where.
Sometimes a lifted layer of leaves in the vast canopy of a tangled wood, waiting on the air, still and lifeless.
Sometimes an empty silence- the questions on soundless faces.
Sometimes an ocean, while the mind is back and forth like a wave caught on the tide of pulsing throats and dripping, hanging daggers of ice on rooftops. 
Sometimes I am parting the hours with smooth, open-handed dancing. The moon as my partner, the open plain as my foothold.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


The difference is that I don't walk at night anymore just to listen. Now my walking is flavored with all sorts of riffraff and emotional upheaval. It isn't really my fault- After all, isn't it the distractor who commits the crime, not the distracted? Yes. I admit it to myself now. The grounded, dead-set in all of her ways, student with at least a smidgen of initiative...has grown distracted. When I walk at night now I feel distanced from my three stars and the dark clouds that billow around my moon's burning halo. It's a wonder I even notice the wind these days. In fact, and to my utter shame and dismay, I listen to the voices on the wind rather than the wind itself. I am missing pieces of myself. Pieces I believe I left with the words I inscribed on my closet walls at home on 8 Birchwood Drive. I am like our creek in the heat of August, dried up, it's course completely redirected, every crack laid bare and only growing deeper with every noonday sun. I am like the spiny silhouette of the tallest tree in our wood. The dead one, the oldest one with thick, aged branches. As the wind howls in my windows, I know those branches are falling, and I can sense the pain of that tearing, even in death. The sound that tree must make when it loses a limb, and the echo when it hits the weeds and lies still at once. I am at 3901 Granny White Pike, and I have that sound inside of me.