Turns out, this water isn’t black at all……….it’s only a shadow.
This blog is still a sapling,
yet my eyes are hungry for
strong leafy branches with
round, ripe fruit.
I’m being stalked by an old nemesis
….perfectionism biting at my ankles.
Rather than have my fledgling wings
go numb with paralysis,
I’m stretching them out….defiant.
I won’t get too thinky about this.
There is deep gentleness and patience needed
in order for living things to thrive.
And I want aliveness,
not a plastic performance.
And so I wait
for help to come,
for my weak and gimpy parts to grow
So what if I’m still lost in blogworld…
wandering around and enjoying the sights but all
out of sorts over gadgets and templates and such.
These are STILL gorgeous strawberry fields
and even sticky fingers and stains
don’t sour the berries.
It’s all sweet.
I can be ridiculously glad
even when my slip is showing.
When God answers those
…the ones my heart barely dares to
whisper in His ears,
the impact is wildly delicious.
I’m living through the most rambunctious Spring our gardening business has ever seen. Being the mom in a “mom and pop” type company, it’s been overwhelmingly busy for me. Stretched like Gumby, my mind feels crammed full and spilling over like an overstuffed laundry hamper. Seems like I need a profound upgrade in my ability to multi-task and manage and focus. I’ve struggled to make space enough to fit it all together in a nice, neat package. So far, that would be a no-go. An objective observer might be reminded of an “I Love Lucy” episode…. the candy-making assembly line shenanigans. The candy is coming too fast to wrap and I just can’t swallow anymore.
Home is not a quiet retreat from the storm; the haven-making falls to me. Life is bustling everywhere… kids (and employees) juggling college end-of-semester stress and final exams, dogs drinking too much pond water and suffering digestive woes, my own gardens not tending themselves. The daily challenges of working with my husband of 28 years are equally rewarding and crazy-making. My muscles ache… hands and heart get sore, too.
Noting my filth and fatigue after long hours building her new rock gardens this week, a customer remarked sweetly, “honey, I’ll just bet you spend your evenings in the hot tub with a glass of wine.” I smiled and nodded, too tired to form an honest response that wasn’t crispy around the edges.
I love our work and I understand seasons. Designing and building gardens still engages and tugs at my creativity. But I’m homesick for my pens and paints. I process and pray so much through my art and writing….I feel hamstrung when busyness and fatigue crowd them out. I miss the peaceful-rest-easy-ness that rolls over me when I hit a vein and the juice begins flowing….spreading over me like mist. And I miss producing something that doesn’t have to be watered and weeded and maintained. .
Longing for that fresh clean laundry-billowing-on-the-clothesline feeling, I’m stirred to look into the eyes of Love and believe one simple thing. Just this: God gets me. Cares. And loves me in all of my parts. I can trust Him. All of my air is because of this. As I drop my guard and lean into this idea, even if awkwardly, heaviness rolls off my shoulders and my mind untangles. Soaking it in, my thoughts are rearranged. Spaces open. Lighter and roomier (and smelling of Downy and sunshine), I head back into the wild that is my life right now. Seasons will change; I want to be here now.
Comfort zones have a shelf life; they get stale.
Familiarity can feel cozy….even when the well has gone dry.
When I go stiff to change,
saying “no” to that gentle nudge to yield and follow,
my safe place becomes a prison.
And I find myself defending my right to stay.
I’ve become attached
and am practiced at making nice with my chains.
It seems less traumatic than stepping again into the unknown.
Are much of our lives are lived in these shadowlands?
…huddled around the charred remains of a campfire-gone-cold… only lonesome gray ashes where light once bathed us in comfort and warmth?
I don’t want to live in shadowlands.
I want the real and raw and fully alive, even when I’m terrified.
So I’ll lean forward into the opening door……far, far from the ground,
choosing to trust huge outstretched arms I cannot see and the heart that whispers
“I’ve got you”.
Last week I heard Kim Hill croon these words:
“I sing because I’m happy
I sing because I’m free.
I know His eye is on the sparrow
and He does so much more than watch over me.”
Then, as soulful voices continued to sing this, her deep rich voice began weaving seamlessly with the chorus Tom Petty’s “I’m free…….free falling.”
The singing washed over my outstretched heart until it got inside me. It seems like all the atoms in my being have joined the song, loud and primal.
I’m there. And I’m okay with that.
I’ve been sore from dancing with my fears; it’s spine-wrenching and all too familiar. Invited by Love Himself to leave the shallows and wade out deeper onto the dance floor, giving Him the lead, I dream of grooving to His rhythms instead.
My heart longs to follow but my feet feel heavy….stuck.
The willowy sweetness of Grace invites me, “may I have this dance?” I drag my chains behind me, the “shoulds” that jerk and jostle while claiming to keep me safe. The only “yes” I can manage, it’s enough. I’m swept into a bohemian rhapsody…into newborn motion colliding awkwardly with old patterns and mindsets.
Here in the swirling waters of these fresh steps forward, His breath pours over me like a loofah….peeling off painful pressure until fear shakes loose and slips off. Old stale beliefs can no longer stick and slide away. I lean into Love that is unwilling to leave me a stranded wallflower. The carbonation in my soul, shaken by my violent dance with fear, is released as He quiets down the waters of my mind.
Enabling me to let go, I’m coming into the wildness inside of me. The dance is exhilarating, but without the agitation and struggle and striving I’ve always known. Instead, there is rich, buttery peace.
I dreamed of this as a little girl….of becoming a graceful dancer in the knowing arms of a strong partner I can trust with my very life. Instead of demanding a performance, He pulls me to His heart as He sings over me “hold me closer, tiny dancer.” Pressing in closer, I hold on for dear life. I was born for this.
Sometimes I’m a liar. I passed another one on the road this morning and laughed out loud at the resemblance. A flattened raccoon was rolled out on the pavement, thin as a flapjack…all but his dear little tail sticking up proudly like a flag still waving. I murmured, “yeah, me too, Sparky….I’m fine, too.”
I like to fancy myself an authentic woman with her cards on the table. Sometimes I am. But my imagination has always been a rich, fertile hiding place. I can pull out my paints and splash the walls of my countenance with illusions of “together” or “virtuous” or “sweet” when I’m really wrangling for some control. Sometimes I smile and nod politely while I’m busy evaluating and sorting out my next move. Or worse, the other person’s. And can I ever hock up a hairball of judgment when I’m feeling really insecure.
Somehow, seeing this undone critter with his tail held high reminds me of those ugly parts of myself…and that when I run away into my own devices, I unwittingly take cover from showers of mercy pouring down on fields of grace….the thriving fields. These are the green pastures and still waters of vulnerable honesty where my true heart can find safety and rest. I have an open invitation from the shepherd of my soul to take shelter here….and to become my true self, as well. When I pass on it, yielding instead to the fear that drives me to grab for some illusion of control, I end up looking a lot like this plucky road-kill. I’d really like to quit my fear….and the posing that seems to ride shotgun alongside it.
Jackson Browne painted these skittery places in my heart when he wrote, “Caught between the longing for love and the struggle for the legal tender…..say a prayer for the pretender.” I want to be soft and curious in all of my parts….to live out in wide open spaces where the genuinely free survive and even thrive. No more suspicion; just wonder. Saying another prayer for the pretender in me.
I’ve been playing with interesting thoughts, like homemade playdough, but my writing has gone gimpy with pollen. It’s hard to breathe yellow air. For the past two weeks I’ve been inhaling mouthfuls of fuzzy air so thick with reproductive power it’s dozy-making. And I’m getting terrible mileage, as if my air filter needs changing. Tonight I’m listening to welcome rain splashing the earth clean again. The oxygen will be friendlier tomorrow. Hope floats on yellow puddles.
I met the morning early today, blue darkness brighted by a huge moon pouring through the budding trees. A burst of sound splashed across my senses like strong coffee. Opening wide, I stood underneath the music rolling down from every branch and twig…a waterfall of birdsong. I was humbled and stilled by the birds and their unmistakable ability to enjoy themselves out loud. Their trills and warbles filled the back yard like an aviary…pure, raw joy painting the dawn with their hopeful voices.
Their lives aren’t easy; they suffer pain and loss. Yet none seem grown hard with disappointment….or old and silent with bitterness. I heard no worry or need to control in these voices…just contented connectedness and appreciation. Their spontaneous song ebbed and rose again and again as if directed by an unseen conductor…someone they trusted.
My heart is still swollen with their musical peace and tender to the coming day. It’s going to be okay. Really. Again, I know this deeply and step into the future unafraid.