Dad

Old as I am and being brought to a place of understanding and forgiveness, I still long for a father sometimes.

For a sense of strength that is always on my side no matter what…without question and without feeling embarrassed about it.

For an emotional encourager, not necessarily by words said or the timing of them, or even by just being there….but by me knowing that he is.

To have a place to lay my head into…to be held by someone older, wiser who loves me.

What would that be like? To be held and not feel uncomfortable or a bad kind of vulnerable?

To be treasured as a daughter…proud that I am his.

To sit quietly with.

When I describe all of this…I know that God is the I AM. That He is everything I need Him to be at any given moment. That He is all of these things and I am want for nothing. And I am so deeply grateful…

But I also know…

that when I brought all of these feelings to Him in frustration that I wasn’t relying on Him soley in this way, His response quieted me perfectly.

He said…

“of course you feel that way…not having a dad, having one leave for any reason, being left feeling unwanted, unseen, unprotected, unloved….unknown…was never my plan or purpose or part of my divine design.”

So…I suppose it’s okay to miss something that is missing. To not forget even though I feel forgotten. To love and long for something I was created to have.

To wish…

I had an earthly Dad.

Making me that more deeply grateful…

for my heavenly One.

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Irony of invisibility

Sitting here contemplating the ridiculous irony in allowing myself to be distraught for feeling so invisible…and also, wishing I truly was at the same time.

Invisible.

What a relief that would be.

But if truly so…why does it hurt so badly when that seems to be?

Maybe it’s just in the being invisible …to the only ones I wish to be visible to.

Courageously Afraid

It’s such a strange thing. Wandering through the world opposite. Like I have my clothes on inside out. Close enough to be disguised as a normal…and yet…upon closer look, not so much. Not a feeling of going against the grain or against the common tide under submission to the pull of gravity…although, I am all for that, as well.

Just…an opposite.

To interact, even within my self, on a level that is not curiously deep…is draining to the point of nonredemption. To do things by halves, parts, or even done well but lacking presence…my whole presence, is..well…a waste of time. A waste of life. A waste of self and use of a Kingdom vessel.

How do I negotiate all of this in a day to day that I have carved that is flow friendly? How do I pay recompense to my own integrity in such a way? How do I make others understand that.. without it coming across as some selfish provocation?

Because I am no longer able.

To live in a life that is so unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar to a realness that is no longer content to be sidelined. That restlessness stamping out any accompanying fear that threatens my silence.

And I think it’s a marvelous adventure….to be courageously afraid.

Sometimes…

Sometimes…

I allow myself to go to such depths.

Deepness in feeling

not in despair

just in place and wholeness of a moment.

Depth of life.

I don’t at all mind…

The feeling of being so aware.

Just lonely in the aloneness of it.

Like an unseen hand covering my mouth.

I proceed throughout my day.

Knowing I may be the only one mindful of it.

Too inadequate to share

as I cannot hold my breath and linger deep

and find words at the same time.

Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe…

Sometimes.

All kinds of kinds…

I have always done what has been expected of me by others, based on standards set by society, family, religion or any of the several unnamed cultural laws that exist.

Always.

I would achieve a form of happiness, (unaware of how decietfully inauthentic that happiness was) by learning quickly what the criteria for performance was and playing that part. Well. I thought this was normal. I thought this was success. I thought this was achieving ‘life’ and worse…I thought I was actually living it.

The problem with all of that is…I am not those things. At least…not all of them collectively and in what order the people influencing my life at the time perceive it should be. And it took me a long time. Such a very long time.—to realize I don’t have to be.

And actually, not only was I not made to be…but by my striving to comply, I was robbing the world of something it needed very badly.

Me.

I know there are people disappointed, disillusioned, and have even felt completely let down. I was really good at being what every one else wanted….without taking stock that if I was not concerned about the existence of my heart, no one else would be, either.

I’m not bitter or hold anyone else accountable for that except for myself. The only way that anything has ever been permitted to make me feel less, not enough, or too much….

is because I have allowed it to be.

I have not set boundaries with others showing them what is ‘mine’ inside…and so, have made them thieves without them even having any knowledge that they were so.

There’s a song “All kinds of kinds”….and it’s always been one of my favorites. It’s neither a lyrical masterpiece or wholly musically pleasing…but, I really like it… I am of a different kind. My goodness, aren’t we all?? Really? And….it really does take all kinds of kinds. To push me fully into a box, a mold or some other notion of conformity is the worst form of quiet violence to me…and to make me doubt or question the worth of that…is something I simply won’t allow anyone to do to me anymore.

And you know what?

Now…I’m happy.

Now…I’m living.

“All Kinds Of Kinds”

Ilsa was an acrobat who went and fell in love with that

Horatio the human cannonball.

A weddin’ ‘neath the big top tent with barkers clowns and elephants

Sideshow family oddities and all.

The dog-faced boy howled out with joy As the tattooed lady was crying.

Ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning

It takes all kinds of kinds.

Thomas was a congressman with closets full of skeletons

And dresses that he wore on Friday nights.

Phyllis was a pharmacist, a dab of that, a pinch of this

Concocted to suppress her appetite.

When the children were fiddlin’ she’d slip ’em some Ritalin

And wait for Thomasina to arrive.

Cause ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning

It takes all kinds of kinds. All kinds of kinds.

When I play this old guitar from children’s shows to smoky bars

I take a break and think about the past.

When I stood up in geometry and everybody stared at me

And I tossed my test into the trash.

I scratched off my number while hitching out under

That bush league population sign.

Ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning

It takes all kinds of kinds.

Now some point a finger and let ignorance linger

If they’d look in the mirror they’d find.

That ever since the beginning to keep the world spinning

It takes all kinds of kinds.

All kinds of kinds.

All kinds of kinds.

Writer(s): Don Henry, Phillip Coleman

Amtrack

Oftentimes…on my way to work, I have found myself trying to time my arrival to the railway crossing to coincide with the morning train. Like a subconscious race to waiting…and watching.

It’s the Amtrack. It doesn’t last but a moment…the lighted windows and the sheen of polished steel contrasting the usual drone of beat up railcars. Each window…the blur that it is…represents not only the life of its seatholder…but of each ripple effect caused by words, actions, and even the very breadth of space that would otherwise lie empty…or filled with another causing very different outcomes.

It’s the Amtrack. A reminder that we are all related, intertwined beyond our deniability of it. The strength…brute strength that is conjured with such mindless fragility is a contradiction of purest form….incasing in it, the most fierce of adventures… to those who choose to see, to watch, to know…and to allow themselves to be known.

It’s the Amtrack. A blur. The speed of it often not appreciated or recognized by its passengers… One who may be lying awake at night overwhelmed with worry and regret…one who may be celebrating a birthday, anniversary or a project near completion, one that may be unsure of their next step…of who they are…of who they want to be. All the while…the train moves…so fast. So fast.

It’s the Amtrack.

It doesn’t interest me

“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind its faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.” (A. Einstein)

It has been most difficult for me to articulate…the wholeness, magic and completeness of something that is as fluid as love is.
When permission is granted to be authentic within ourselves.
Intuition in relationship is not emotional hunch or crafted hope.
It is a knowing.
A knowing that is most difficult to explain even unto self.

And rational thinking can be a thief…
of a most dangerous kind.

I know it may seem almost like a rainbow…vivid when taking a first look, then dissipating when stared at or analyzed at any great length…
but this poem…
This poem, if seen with mystical eyes given to us…
dares ask the questions that matter…
if only we haven’t forgotten how to look,
want,
wish,
love,
see,
dream…
live.

(Poem by Oriah)

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The beauty of being inconsequential, birds, and things like that…

I love how the birds’ chatter completely changes when they have decided to pay me no mind…that if I’m still enough, quiet enough long enough…I become worthy of dismissing and privvy to their resumption of true conversation.

Very much like entering a small town beauty parlor on a busy Saturday morning as a visitor from out of town.
Upon entering, conversation shifts from intimate chatter without thought of consequence to surface conventional nice-ities and trivial congeniality.

Then…once the visitor is mentally dismissed or just plain forgotten about…the ‘regulars’ pick up again. Their tone and even influx of emotion animated in both the music of their conversation and the harmony of body language….

all complimenting the hum of what makes a place a place…and moments, moments.

The birds are like that.
Here, deep in the woods…
And I am in their place.

Accepted enough as being of little consequence.
What a marveous priviledge that can be…

to be granted the status of non-consequence.

And I wonder…how much would we see,
really see…
if we weren’t busy being…
so consequential.