Mask Thoughts

You know when you're driving and everyone going slower than you is an idiot, while everyone going faster than you is a maniac? That's a little bit how it feels right now with this pandemic. Allow me to explain.

Everyone is doing this pandemic a little bit differently. Okay, sometimes a lot differently. The people who have slowed down and are wearing masks and social distancing are idiots while the people running ahead with life as though nothing has changed are maniacs.

Do I believe that? Not really. But the fact is that we are never going to be satisfied unless everyone is doing it exactly like we are. In other words, we want to control the world. Now more than ever. Because controlling other people's behaviors makes us feel a little bit more in control and thinking we know what's best for others at least makes us feel superior to everyone else.

I have heard lots of people talk about how the charitable thing is to wear a mask. You're wearing a mask because you love your neighbor and you want to protect them and care about them. And then you walk in your front door, take your mask off and proceed to yell at your neighbor in the privacy of your own home, or anonymously on facebook. Who knew that masks could breed so much hatred among neighbors? But the sad fact is, people are being pretty mean. Sure, be charitable and wear a mask for your neighbor, but don't badmouth and hate everyone who doesn't. That's not charity.

I have been thinking a lot about masks. Allow me to tell you my relationship with masks. For the first 4 months of quarantine I wasn't allowed to go to work, but I did some shopping for people. My OLD parents, and some other friends. I was a germaphobe. I would get to the parking lot, hand sanitize, put my mask on, re-sanitize my hands, get a clorox wipe, wipe down my cart handle and proceed to shop, being sure to maintain my distance and limit touching things I wasn't buying. When I got back to my car I would immediately hand sanitize again, load my groceries into my car, sanitize again, return cart, wiping it down for the next person, wait until I was all the way in my car before removing my mask, and then sometimes drive to a second or even third store to finish my shopping, repeating the process each time. Even if I visited 3 stores I would only have my mask on for a total of 45 minutes at a time (if the shopping took a long time).

When in the stores I saw all kinds of people wearing their masks wrong. Upside down, inside out, and more often than not, EMPLOYEES wearing their masks under their nose! I was pretty annoyed. Other customers are dumb and maybe don't know what to do, but you would expect the stores to talk to their employees and go over proper mask wearing!

I spent about 4 months being annoyed at these morons for wearing their masks wrong, but seldom changing my shopping places or doing anything about it. Just feeling annoyed.

Fast forward a few months. July! I was finally allowed to start going back to work. I was so ready. First day I sat at my computer for 3 hours trying to get everything sorted. Of course I wore a mask. But let me tell you something, my sympathy for grocery employees skyrocketed.

I discovered quickly that while wearing a mask to go grocery shopping, even wearing it continuously for a full hour didn't bother me much. Yeah, sometimes a little bit warm, or sweaty, or even itchy. It took some getting used to. But I could handle wearing it property for an hour. But once I had to be wearing it for hours at a time I desperately wished I could just wear it under my nose.

Day 1 of wearing a mask for only 3 hours and I felt a little bit light-headed and headachy. And now the days have gone on and each day I find myself needing a mask break at about an hour and a half in. I just want to rip the darn thing off my face and be done with it. But I don't. Cause rules are rules, and I'm a rule follower.

Luckily I work in a job where I can be like "Oh, man, I'm feeling faint!" and I can step outside for a few minutes to take my mask off away from others and breathe normally for a little bit. Side-note: I have never thought that breathing height of summer humid air felt so fresh and clear before!

Now imagine our grocery store workers who were thrown into having to wear masks all day, right from the start. And they can't just step away from their register once every 90 minutes to breathe normally. I don't know how often they get breaks. Cut them a little slack.

Do I think that this means it's okay to wear your mask below your nose? No. I'm just saying that I sympathize and feel much more compassion for them. If you're someone who has never worn a mask for more than an hour or so then maybe don't judge others so harshly. You don't know what it's like.

And I know I'll get some people jumping on me for things I've written here, so let me put a few more thoughts.

One: I know that nurses and doctors have it worse. I'm not gonna try and claim that my hardships of wearing a mask for 90 minutes is worse than doctors who wear them all day.

Two: Yes, I believe that masks should be worn properly. I'm not saying otherwise. I wear my mask when I'm in public and I wear it properly, covering my nose and chin.

Three: If you have kids going into school, or are someone about to go into work more or whatever, get used to wearing a mask. I thought I was prepared cause I had spent the first 4 months of quarantine wearing a mask once a week for less than an hour a day. HA!

Four: Get yourselves fun or pretty masks. I like wearing mine cause they're fun! I just want all the fun and pretty masks! I'm someone who wears mismatched socks on purpose so I can have two different pictures or patterns going on. So give me the fun and pretty masks! 

Five: This sucks. It all sucks, and when is life going to be normal again? No, I refuse to accept this as the new normal. One day we'll have sports and plays and groups of hundreds of people together again and it won't freak anyone out.

Six: Be charitable. Wear your darn mask, people!

Seven: Be charitable. That means be nice to your neighbor. Even if they're not wearing their darn mask.

New year, new/no motivation.

Reasons I don't write:
I don't want to.
I don't like to,
I'm not good at it.
I don't want to write bad things.
I don't want to use up good ideas.
There's nothing to write.
People don't want to read what I write.
I might offend someone.
There is literally nothing I can write without offending someone, somewhere.

I was recently watching a show, hesitant to say which, but maybe should so people can avoid spoilers. Anyhow, there's this idea that everything we do somehow negatively impacts people, right down to buying a tomato, because somewhere along the way buying that tomato supports something bad. So yeah, we could take that to mean that everything we do could potentially hurt someone or support something we don't like. But the show misses the point that if were were never allowed to do something that might potentially offend someone we would be unable to do anything. The show practically takes away free will, saying that no matter what we do we are hell-bound because everything we do is leading us closer to hell.

Here's the thing. We would be headed for hell without the Lord constantly pulling us back. The Lord does not work on a point system. He takes our actions and intentions into account.

You may have heard the phrase "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." The point of that is that intention alone won't do you a thing. "I was planning on-" is useless. Do the thing. If you buy a tomato because you want to feed your family, then the chain of consequences about how that tomato got to you is not what matters. It's the tomatoes future that matters. Not its past.

Yeah, okay, maybe you should be supporting local business and not some cooperate food supplier, but that's not what matters. The Lord doesn't change your passage to heaven based on where you bought your food.

One thing the show does get right is that your actions matter. No one is saved by baptism. How you live matters. I do love the show. You probably know the one I'm talking about. I hope I didn't spoil anything for you.

What does getting to heaven and this tv show have to do with writing?

Oh right, you can't be stuck, unable to write for fear of offending someone. I'm gonna offend someone. And that can be scary. I can think of things I want to write that might make people I love think less of me. And what people think of me matters. I can't be useful to people if I alienate people.

I hope that people know that when I write, I am doing my best to help, not hurt.

Nevertheless, writing is scary and you'll be lucky if you get another blog post out of me before July.

Lucky? Already I doubt that, because who even cares if I write or not? No, I'm not looking for validation. I just think that most of the time I am writing for me, and no one will really notice if they don't see a blog post from me until next year. Whatever. This post is long enough. I wrote something.

Under The Bridge Where I Used To Sit

Under the bridge where I used to sit,

It flowed so loudly, and now I hear its quietness.

I hear the same familiar sounds, but there are new ones too.

I hear the quiet whispers of gentler waters.

Was it always this quiet, but I just couldn't hear it?

I am listening now.



I took a few moments to try to write rhymes

But the words want to flow like the waters beside me.

There is structure in a creek, but sometimes it cuts a wider path,

Never minding if it’s doing things right.

I want to mind. I want to get things right.

But I also want to be the water that is so full it can’t be contained by a mere creek bed.



Under the bridge where I used to sit.

There is so much more for me than the mud under my feet.

The creek has more than the mud it glides over.

I am full of that life, but only if I choose it.

Instead I sit in my troubles, unable to hear.

I am listening now.



I am reminded of a song,

but the waters weren’t the ones who were troubled,

I was.

I was on the bridge looking down at calm waters.

But I could not hear them over the pounding of my heart.

Now I am still. I am closer.



Under the bridge where I used to sit

I hear the quietest sounds of the water as well as the loud.

Who knew a creek of barely a few feet could hold so much depth?

The water is truth, cutting its way, raging - now flowing gently.

I am listening now. I am listening.

Speak Lord.

My Life Is Based On A True Story

Well, that would be how things happened. I've been kinda keeping an eye on my blog and noticing that I'm nearing my 100th post. But of course, somehow I managed to un-publish one. I don't even know how one does that! So apparently I'm not very blog savvy.

I had great plans that my 100th blog post would be something clever and epic, but it wasn't. It wasn't at all. It might have been one of the most bland things I wrote!

This post however represents the start of my next 100 blog posts!

I started a blog in July. It's been somewhat steady. This year the posts have been slower in coming because I also started a daily hand written journal and so a lot of my stuff just gets written there and I don't come on my blog as often as I used to. Maybe I will write up some of my handwritten ramblings some day.

I recently was looking at some magnets with twippy sayings on them and one jumped out at me: "My life is based on a true story."

Well, as if that isn't the most obvious thing in the world! But then, think about it! Life is for real. And depending on how you wanna think about it, you are writing your own story. Or maybe you prefer to think that the Lord is writing your story. He is of course, but maybe it's kind of a choose your own adventure? We are in freedom to take any path He offers us, or to stray completely from any path at all. We can turn to page 34 or 426, depending on what we choose, or we can forge out own path, burn the book, write a different ending.

But I'm pretty sure that no matter what we choose the Lord foresaw it. So He is writing our story. Or at least righting it. No matter what we choose He will do His best to turn our choices toward use and Him.

Maybe I'm rambling. I know that I am, but I'm just too excited to slow down and organize my thoughts.

I started a blog in July. I've written over 100 posts and I am grateful for the encouragement and feedback that I have received. I really do hope that my blog is inspirational to others and is useful to someone other than me, but I also know that it is useful to me whether others get it or not.

I love to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I REALLY wish that I could find the story of Toodles and Cindle that I wrote when I was like 4 or something.

I have been writing.

When I was 12 I wrote some never-ending, excessively long story about some royal families and all the people falling in love. It was over 300 pages, typed, single-spaced. It was called "The Story" and it got too big to fit on one floppy disk so I had to split the file so that I could back it up. I have so many partial stories sitting in files on my computer waiting for something to happen.

Seriously the only story I ever finished (other than Toodles and Cindles when I was around 5) was a sorta Frog Prince parody called "The Invisible Prince".

I thought it was cute and okay but had some serious problems. This summer one of my friends read it aloud to me and another friend and that moment changed the way I view my writing. It was one of the scariest things to sit there, crimson-faced while my story was being read out loud! I still cringe a little thinking about it. But they were laughing and enjoying something I had written, and I had a little epiphany that maybe my writing was okay. Maybe people would actually enjoy reading stuff I write!

So, through these friends I developed the courage to at least start a blog. It took me a few more months to start sharing posts on facebook and actually letting people read it! But it has been a great outlet for me.

I love a lot of things, but I didn't realize that I could actually be good at any of them. Painting took me completely my surprise! I'm no da Vinci... yet. But I found that I could never become a good writer or a great painter without trying. Practice is necessary, frustrating, and fun.

I enjoy painting, even when the end result looks like a 2 year old painted it. I enjoy writing, even if I misuse "it's".

I enjoy it, so I do it, and I progress.

My life is based on a true story. It's the story that I make it to be. I get to choose my own adventure. And by golly, I'm gonna choose it!

Look Up!

The redness is back. It's dark this time. Not the bright throbbing glow that drew me last time. It's a deep beautiful red. Is it even the same?

The redness is back and it's pulling me again.

I flinch when I see it. It hurt so much last time. It hurt when I drew near and it hurt as I pulled away from it. Is it even the same red?

The fiery glow that pulled me in last time nearly hurt my eyes it was so vibrant with life. This redness is deep and soothing. I'm not sure if it should be described as vibrant or not. It's full. I must describe it as full.

I see it now. There is a golden glow beyond the red. Mingling in a flash of light.

There is a pain in my chest as I look at the redness. Is the pain a memory or a real feeling? It hurt so much last time! My throat begins to feel sore with the memory.

"Stop." I say to myself. I turn away from the red, but it is all around me. There is no turning from it. I look down and my feet are bathed in the darkness. I look up and rather than feeling trapped I feel close and safe as I see the wide expanse above me. Suddenly there is a dark, deep blue with a myriad of stars.

This tightness, and yet this broad expanse. I should feel nervous. I should feel scared, but the tightness in my chest begins to release. I am surrounded all around by a dark, warm red and above there is so much deepness and light.

Hands slightly open, I begin to turn slowly on the spot looking up at the stars. Is there a familiar constellation in the heavens or are these not my stars? There are so many more than on an average night that it is filling in the expanse. I cannot tell if I should know this place or not.

But I do. Something about it is familiar. No, not familiar. I've never seen this before, but I recognize it. There is something about this that feels safe. I am at home here. Overwhelmed, I fall back but instead of thudding to the ground I fall gradually. The transition from standing to lying is one I hardly noticed.

But suddenly I feel cold. The pain should come, should it not? It hurt so much last time. I was sure that I would shatter.

Instead of enjoying my surroundings I was suddenly shivering in fear. Fear of something that might not happen. Indeed, there was a pleasantness in my chest that seemed to be saying "Do not be afraid." But I was sure that the pain would return and I did not trust the feeling. I curled myself up, looking away from the stars. But folded up, with my face pressed into the ground the red still reached through my eyelids, insistent through my avoidance.

There was no pain, only fear. But the fear began to manifest as pain. My eyelids began to hurt. My stomach knotted with worry and my heart started beating too fast.

"Please stop!" I gasped, pushing on the pain in my chest.

"You are creating the pain." I don't know where the voice came from. I knew it was true, but I didn't know how to stop it. I tried to slow my heart beat just by thinking about it. But thinking about it scared me. I felt so cold and though I tried to stop myself from shivering I could feel my teeth chattering.

Slowly I again became aware of how warm and inviting my surroundings were. But I was still afraid.

"Look up." The voice said.

I was afraid. But how much had it hurt last time? Last time. Everything hurt more than words last time. But then there was peace. I knew that. I knew it then and I knew it now, but trust hurt before the initial plunge.

"Get it over with," I told myself. "You're hurting yourself now. You, and you alone are causing this torment. Look up."

"Look up," the voice that was mine repeated.

But as easy as it would have been to turn my head I couldn't. Resolutely I looked inward. Rolled as tightly as I could I was looking in at myself. Trying to protect my feelings. My heart, my lungs.

But I was causing the tightness. I was causing the pain.

"Look up."

In one violent wrench I tore myself out and looked upward. Light was streaming from the sky. The redness around me and the blue above were mingling together in strong waves. Water poured from my eyes as I beheld the striations of light and color. The beads of wet on my eyelashes added another dimension to the light and colors, refracted in my tears.

But I was safe. Again. Just as I had known I would be. I looked about at the mingling colors and down at the purple and white reflecting off my skin and I laughed.

It was relief. I was safe. I had always been safe. I had caused the feelings of fear and anxiety, but the safety had been around me perpetually. I was safe. I had always been safe.

Broken.

It has been an emotional couple of days. I wrote about the burden of joy a few days ago, and then continued on to have a lovely weekend full of friends and good food. Kempton for autumn weekends. Riding an old timey train with some excited and cute niecephews. Lots of fantastic times with friends and family.

Monday was rougher. I heard some hard news about a child I used to babysit. She is one of the cutest children and I spent most of Monday unable to keep myself from crying. My eyes sting today with the pain of yesterday's tears.

I'm supposed to be working on another article but I cannot focus. I love writing and I hate editing. I like the freedom of a blog post for writing about anything. No theme. No thesis, but bumbling thoughts with no plan. I never edit my blog posts, other than occasionally glancing over for typos.

I hate that life has to be hard. One thing going wrong makes me feel a fear in all areas of life. Everything is up in the air and trust goes out the window. I want to say that one bad thing doesn't makes me trust the Lord less, but the feeling on my heart 3 days ago was peace and confidence in Him, and I still trust Him, but I don't feel very peaceful about it. It's not begrudging confidence, it's just not peaceful and happy.

And it makes me fear every possible thing. So, that's not really trust, is it?

I guess I'm ashamed to say that one child being sick makes my trust in the Lord falter. That's not something I care to admit, even just to myself, so here I am, processing my feelings on my blog, and admitting them to you, and figuring this out for myself at the same time.

I don't even want to write it, but today, if I'm really examining the thoughts rattling around in my head, I don't trust the Lord today. I don't hear Him, and I don't think His plan is safe.

Oof! What a thing to admit! What a broken lack of confidence! But writing takes honesty. Examining and recognizing these thoughts is the only way to get back to Him.

And of course, I know that the bad things are NOT His plan, but today I am hating freedom. I am hating that spiritual freedom allows innocent people to be harmed.

And that is not trust. It is doubting His eternal plan. It is doubt. It is fear. It is frustration and pain.

In September I wrote about wishing to trade places with others or wishing I could take their pain away, even if it meant taking it on myself, and I feel the same today.

It's cliche, but all I can think is that it's not fair. It doesn't make sense, and I am done with hell attacking people I love. I want to protect, and I just can't. It's too much. There is no solution.

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.

Sharing is scary. I think it's the fear that someone will try to piece together who I am from the things I share.

"What's wrong with that?" you ask? Good question. Because I get to choose what I share, just as I get to choose what I share in a face to face conversation, just as I choose how to present myself with my clothing and hair and everything.

So what is the fear? There is always vulnerability in sharing anything with anyone, but that is the only way we are to be known. And we want to be known, don't we? Is it that we want to craft exactly how we share ourselves with others? So that we don't let some false notion of who we are creep in to the other person's understanding of us? Cause that's totally possible (insert sarcastic voice)!

Therefore writing should be a safer way of letting people in than a conversation. Because you have the ability to stop writing... and think for a moment about how you want to put out an idea from your mind. You can stop in conversations too, but when you write something to share you can stop for days and no one will ever know how long it was between this word.... and the next.

In writing you have the ability to really craft yourself and look at just how you want to present yourself and your ideas to others. So is it really fear than that I'm fighting? Or is it something else? Could it be shame?

Conversations should hold plenty of meaning, but the idea of an article is a well crafted and informed opinion. It's like in college when I would sit down to an exam and the teacher would have a list of essay questions to write down in one of those little blue books. You weren't expected to have your argument fully crafted and beautifully written. But if the teacher gave you the questions ahead of time, then if you didn't do well that was your own fault and you should have spent more time on the questions before the exam.

In college I never cared about my grades, but I did care that my teachers respected me and my work. I was lucky enough to go to a college where the teachers cared so much about their students. My favorite day was when I was walking through the hallways and my professor stopped me, ran back into his office and came back with my paper, flipped open to the last page and showed me that I had gotten an A!

I cared so little for the A, but it meant the world to me that he liked my work and not only that, but also that he was so excited to show me. He wanted to be there.

So why the shame or fear? I think it is the worry that nothing is perfect. I can have a conversation because that's still working through ideas. It's the point of conversing. But in an article I feel like I'm supposed to come to a conclusion. I am supposed to have accomplished something. And I only feel ready to share it if it is perfect.

This touches all areas of my life. For 2017, I created a resolution to learn ukulele.  And to record and share a song at least once a month. So far I've posted at least twice a month. In the summer I started a blog (Hello readers!). I believe that this is my 27th post. For September I decided to paint every day. And to share every day. I've never done oil painting before!

This creativity, I believe, is all in order to get over this ridiculous notion that everything I share ought to be perfect. I post ukulele songs where I make mistakes, or just aren't very polished. I share unfinished paintings and free flowing thought. I have this blog, but I have yet to share any posts with more than a few people because it feels like too big a window into mind.

But so often my writing is an exploration of my thoughts. It isn't usually explaining something to others, it's explaining something to myself. It's exploring a topic so that I can understand my own failings and do better. I just came across this quote and I really like it:

I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand. ― Cecil Day-Lewis

I think that's the crux of it. I have a hard time trying to write something in order to prove a point to someone or to enlighten my reader. I write to sharpen my own thoughts. Convincing others of something seldom works anyway. So I just like to share my ideas and I hope that others get something out of it too.

What the blazes?

... right in the middle of a sentence.

I think I like to fight the cliche of beginning a story with "Once upon a time". So I don't know how else to start one except for abruptly.


Wind and sun. Dry heat. I wandered across the bright meadows. It was lovely and unencumbered. Some kind of white flowers dotted the golden field, but my eyes hardly took it in. I followed on toward the redness blazing ahead of me.

It was growing. Or was it shrinking? Frightened, following my impulse, I started running toward it. It wasn't growing. I was just getting closer to it. It was shrinking, but the rate at which I approached it meant that the size didn't change. It gave the illusion that I was running on a treadmill. It seemed too much like I wasn't moving and all of the sudden I became dizzy and had to drop to the ground, breathing heavily. I looked up at the brightness and could now see that it was shrinking away. In a panic I began running again. I couldn't lose it. I had to make it there in time, even though I didn't know what I was running for. I sprinted, gasping for breath as it pulled away from me. I felt the glow of the redness on my skin. I looked down and instead of seeing the expected red, the light reflected as blue on my skin. It was surreal, but I couldn't register the meaning. I had to reach it before it was completely gone.

I reached out my hand. It was just--

"Stop. Don't do it."

I withdrew my hand guiltily. Who had said that? I looked around. About fifteen yards away there was a man. I didn't know his face, but I trusted him. I trusted him, but I still wanted to know why I shouldn't reach for the redness.

"Why not?" I asked.

At this point the redness was not changing in size, but growing in intensity. It made me long to reach for it, but I refrained, waiting for an answer.

"Because you're not supposed to." He wasn't yelling, but it was like his voice was fighting against a strong wind. "Don't reach for it," he warned again.

"But..." I began. Torn between trust and longing. "But... but I want to!" And the intensity of the redness was creating a storm. I felt pulled toward it and at the same time pushed away. It was as if the unknown man and I were pushing toward a wall of wind and shouting to each other to be heard, and yet we weren't shouting and his voice sounded close, and safe, and I believed him.

"Trust me," he said. And he reached his hand toward me. And I felt intense fear and loneliness. I turned toward the red glow. I could feel the warmth. I took a step.

"Please!" he said, and his hand was a gift in the brightness.

"I can't." I apologized. And I took another step toward the glow. And I began to cry.

Maybe he was right. I stopped. I looked at the hand. The kindness he was offering. The love. I thought I should try. One step toward him. And there was gut wrenching pain and I was crippled. I fell to the ground.

It was a sign. I knew that I should have kept toward the glow. My face turned back toward it. The pain receded a little. I crawled a little bit toward the intensifying red.

"Trust me," the man said again. My eyes were burning with tears. I could feel the drips falling whichever way they chose. One hitting the corner of my mouth, one rolling toward my ear, leaving salty trails on my skin. I didn't even want to turn toward the man. It hurt too much.

"I'm going to crawl into the light," I said. Mostly to myself. I didn't care if he heard.

"Trust me," he said a third time. I chanced a look. Such warmth, but my head split.

"Okay," I whispered. And it tore my throat to say it. I reached out my hand and as I did I could feel the ripping in my chest and I wanted to withdraw, but as soon as my hand touched his it was firmly in his grasp and he pulled me away from the glow. I was being pulled toward safety and to him.

Past joys and future battles

Why can't things go back to the way they were? I think I say this often, and so do others. But the truth is that life will never be the same as it was.

It reminds me of a line from one of my favorite movies:

"Try as we might, happy as we were, we can't go back." Margaret Hale (North and South)

I probably think about this too much. We're not supposed to live in the past, and that's a good thing. We're supposed to keep moving forward.

We're not supposed to live in the past, but we're not supposed to live in the future either. And it should be easier to take one day at a time so why must I invest so much in trying to fight all the battles at once?

I think it's because I want to make my life easier. So I try to do things now that will limit the hurt and fear in the future... by taking it on now... but I will always have a future that I want to make brighter so if I am always trying to make the future better my life will always be too busy to enjoy. I think we all know this and it's an oft repeated idea, and yet I know that I constantly need the reminder that there's plenty to worry about now without borrowing from the future. A friend recently shared this with me, and I laughed and then cried.

I really just have one battle but it affects all of my life. And, for better or for worse, I refuse to put it back.

You are worth more than many sparrows.

Frustrations abound. For no reason. One little thing sets off another and suddenly a little confusion in today's plans throws the whole future into disarray.

I am worrying about next week and the week after and all the things I have to get done before Christmas. Yes, Christmas. I have had Christmas on my mind all summer. Mostly the Christmas Pageant/Tableaux and all the things I have to do before December even begins. Costumes, casting, and building an entirely new platform/stage.

So, that should not be stressing me out on a random Monday in August but it is. Because I don't know the future and suddenly everything is piling on and I'll never be able to get this stage built before December. Cause once the school year starts everything is moving so fast and everyone's schedules are so busy and then all of the sudden it's December and nothing is ready.

And December isn't close enough to stress about so of course I figured I would start stressing about the rest of my life. And suddenly I'm in tears because I have chosen to look into the future and take all the stress and carry it now.

But tears feel like a betrayal. When I cry because things aren't going according to my plans I'm betraying the Master Planner by saying that His plans aren't working for me. I don't trust Him. I want it my way. So tears feel like a slap in the face to my Creator and His providence.

And this leads back to my earlier posts about expressing feelings and validation.

Is it a slap in God's face to cry? Of course not! So that's not really a valid feeling, and yet I feel it. It's that vicious cycle of knowing that the Lord does want me to cry and cast my burden on Him, but feeling like it's an act of selfish denial of His power. And so I want to be strong, and it feels like strength to stifle the tears and soldier on. But I know, rationally I know, that that is weakness not strength. I must cast my burden on Him and He will sustain me.

Matthew 6
26 Look intently at the birds of the sky; for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
27 And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his stature?
28 And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they labor not, neither do they spin;
29 but I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.
30 And if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
31 Be not therefore anxious, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, With what shall we be arrayed?
32 For all these things do the nations seek; for your Heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His justice, and all these things shall be added to you.
34 Therefore do not be anxious for tomorrow; for tomorrow shall be anxious for the things of itself. Sufficient for the day is the evil of it.

Crying: Is it secret? Is it safe?

Ah ha! Writing the crap was useful. I just want to write all the things. I want to work on my stalled out story, I want to write more blog posts and feel all the feels.

I don't know what I want to write about, but it's through writing that I get inspired to write. I just start rambling about life and sometimes it continues to ramble and sometimes it becomes something.

I am a super supressor. Of tears, of emotions. And I want to let them out. I want to cry for nearly no reason right now. I cried twice in the last two days which is a lot for me, and I want to cry more. It's like writing. Writing inspires more writing, crying inspires more crying.

Does the writing have to mean anything for it to be worth it? Does the crying have to mean anything to be worth it? I want to cry because my shoulder hurts. Not badly. Not the kind of pain that really induces aching tears, but it hurts a fraction and that should be enough to let me cry. Haha.

I've always wondered why crying is so hard for me. As a child I cried a lot. My Daddy let me cry. I never felt suppressed in my childhood. I cried a lot. I think because a) I was an emotional child and the feelings were real and valid and b) I was a manipulative child (like all children?) and used tears to get my way. Thinking back on it, I can't ever remember fake crying (but that certainly doesn't mean I didn't do it) but I think I most often used real sad feelings to get my way.

So, I wasn't stunted as a child. 

Or was I?

I think one of the things that prevents me from crying most often is worrying about what other people will think of me. I don't want people to pity me and I don't want people to worry about me or maybe even care about me. That's strong, but I really don't like manipulating people with my emotions. I want people to care about me because I've logically convinced them that I'm worth caring about. I am always worried that people will agree to things that they don't actually want to.

Setting aside tears, when I ask someone for something or if they want to do something, I am of course afraid of rejection. It's human to fear rejection. But I'm also really afraid that they will say "yes" to something that they wish they could say no to. I live in fear of people agreeing to things they don't want.

So back to tears, I am afraid of other people reacting to my tears. Here I sit, across from another human. If I were to start crying while writing I assume that he would notice, probably even stop what he was doing and ask if I was okay. I don't want him to stop his work to deal with me. But I'd probably feel worse if I sat here crying and he didn't react at all. And so my only option is to sit here, suppressing the tears that want to squish out of my eyes. I can feel them. I don't have any idea what they're doing there or what they mean. My little Inside Out people in my brain didn't tell me why anything should be sad right now. I don't feel sad. I don't feel neglected or anything. I just really like crying. But I also hate it.

And while it might seem ridiculous to hold back the silly unlabeled tears, I honestly FEEL like I will FEEL better if I just hold them in and don't let them disrupt other peoples' lives. And yet, I bet a lot of people would actually feel like their day held more meaning if they comforted a friend.

If I trade places with my friend how would I feel? Would I feel happy to give up on this journal entry to help a friend? Of course I would! So why can't I treat myself the same way?

Do I feel the same way about other emotions? If I were writing something else and started laughing, would I feel disruptive? Would I feel bad? No, I think that it is much easier to ignore a slight laugh than the silent trickling tears. A friend might ask what is funny, but they certainly wouldn't be remiss if they didn't ask. If I couldn't stop laughing then sure, some conversation might ensue. But it is definitely a different type of thing. Partly because I wouldn't mind getting someone out of their mood to laugh with me or to enjoy something fun or funny that I could share.

But I have been in the opposite place of being with friends, laughing and having a good time and then having someone show up in tears and killing the mood. Did I want to comfort this crying man? Not particularly, I did feel jarred into a completely different mood. Was it wrong of him to kill the atmosphere that we had created with laughter and fun? Is it wrong of me to think that perhaps he could have chosen a different way to enter? I know that if I were coming to a party and felt like crying I wouldn't have showed up, or I would have come, pulled aside a friend and asked for some support.

And of course I have been in situations with friends where through conversation or whatever they begin to cry and that doesn't make me feel uncomfortable. I just want to hug them and love them and care for them and I don't feel like I am being manipulated or any such nonsense. 

I don't have the answers. I just know that I am afraid. Far too often I am afraid. Are my feelings valid? Does valid have anything to do with it? Ah yes, I will write another post on whether or not feelings are valid and what I think about that! But for now, I will end this somewhat sad entry and maybe go work on my story.

Crazy is a good place to be

More crap. I have been holding off writing because I want to write at the shore, because it's beautiful and inspiring. But I have to write, even when it's not inspiring and I am not inspired. Inspiration will only come if I start writing. So even if I'm just writing the crap, I must write.

I'm packing. I'm SO excited for the shore. It's going to be so much fun! All the fun people and dishes and bacon and coffee!

I always pack too much stuff, but oh well.

Plans are crumbling around my ears! I want things to stay sane. I'm going crazy, but it's okay. Crazy is a good place to be sometimes. I just have too many expectations for how things could/should go and when they don't I can get stressed out and angry or sad.

Expectations for the day, when I'm going where, what other people are doing, but I can't control things and that's a good thing.

Then there's beyond my current day and week, and thinking about all my life and the future and not knowing how things will look in a few weeks, in a few months, in a few years. Not knowing who I will still be really good friends with and who will drift in and out of my life.

I hate not knowing things. And I hate not having control. But it's useful and necessary. Knowing the future would suck more than not knowing it. Being in control of my life would be so much worse than not being in control. It's supposed to work this way, and it scares me.

Self expression and fear

Turns out that I'm afraid of everything.

Music choices, clothing choices, hair choices, makeup choices, food choices, movie choices, writing choices, ALL choices. Why must I be so afraid of having an opinion?

But it's not even having an opinion that scares me. I used to have all the opinions in college. I would engage in Facebook debates. I would engage in discussions and arguments with people in college. I still like to toss opinions into a mix, usually they're detached opinions though.

The other day someone pointed out to me that though I have some strong opinions I don't hold on to them with my feelings. We were having a discussion about what is and is not working for us with the church as an organization. I have plenty of opinions, but I just sorta pull the pin, chuck a small grenade and don't have emotion attached to it. This is just my description of what this person was trying to express about what I had to offer. She was complimenting me, and I appreciated it.

But thinking on it now, I think that it's a defense mechanism. I have opinions, but if they're detached from my feelings then I don't have to care about if people reject or accept them. I just let them be. This can be a useful thing, but I think for me it is a wall I put up to protect myself from hurt.

I fear judgment. I guess? Is that it?

I have long been afraid of sharing a playlist. Why? I'm worried that people will not like the music I picked? Or worried that they will judge me by my musical tastes? I have mostly gotten over this fear.

For the most part I don't care if people like my clothes or not. I also got over this one a long time ago. I am fairly used to not caring what people think of my attire. Skirts are not always appreciated. I no longer care. That isn't to say that I'm not touched when people compliment me. I do appreciate that. And I'm hurt if people are unkind too. But the assumed negative judgments are gone. I don't know why I have these assumed negative judgments in the first place.

Why is there so much fear?!?

I am reflecting on a private journal entry I wrote in November 2014. Here are a few excerpts:

"You are being selfish." 

"You're taking the truth and twisting it till it becomes falsity." 

These are words that were spoken to me today. I think it may be the best relationship advice anyone has ever given to me.

And another:

I told a friend that I always want to hear someone elses opinion first, and he called me selfish. Because I'm forcing the other person to be vulnerable first. It IS selfish, and this is where the falsity comes in too. All falsities are linked to some truth, and what I'm doing is taking a truth (that manipulation is bad) and twisting it as an excuse to not really let my emotions engage. I can talk up a huge strom about things I care about, but showing that I care? That's vulnerable and scary, and it is NOT maniuplation. THAT is the falstity!

I can't actually tell at this moment if this makes sense out of context. But it's making sense to me so I'm leaving it in. The point is that I am afraid. And my fear is making me selfish. Am afraid of being vulnerable so I let someone else be vulnerable (even on a minuscule level) and then I shut them down.

An easy, and entirely stupid example is anytime we go to choose a movie. Do I have an opinion? Almost for sure, but I don't often share it because I'd rather get my second choice than deprive someone of their first. Does that make sense? See, it makes sense to me, and it seems noble. And that's where hell comes in. Swooping in, using a true idea and twisting it into something false.

This is why it's stupid, because I let the hells disturb even the simplest of tasks. Choosing a movie should not be a battle between heaven and hell. Or should it? Is everything? No, see, this is the thing: it's taking a small idea and blowing it out of proportion. But sometimes we must magnify the issue in order to see it for what it is. In this instance I can laugh and realize that declaring a decided movie preference is not going to make or break any friendships. And if it were to... those wouldn't be friendships worth keeping if a simple movie choice could bring it down.

See? See how insane my mind is? It's even terrifying letting anyone into this little piece of it. Because it seems so insane when I write an entire journal entry about it. Fear is crushing! So so crushing. So I hide away in a ridiculous little hole and let hell make me feel smaller and smaller until I am nothing. And in being so crushed I become paralyzed by fear and I have to remember to let the Lord flow through me. It is not I who need be afraid. Be still my soul, the Lord is on my side. It is hell that need fear the wrath that I am unleashing. Fear no more! I shall conquer!

One step at a time. Wonderful friends are encouraging me. I created a blog. These posts are public! That's one step. Sharing this post to Facebook? Alerting all the people to it? That is a step I shall one day be able to make, but for now, writing this at all is a step. One step at a time.

To quote a lyric from my dear friend's song:

One drop at a time with patience, trust, and hope
Let the water of life build my strength again

Working on it. One step at a time. Why is it so hard to trust the Lord's own words?

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." Matthew 5:16

Fearful Frettings

I must do all the things. I went shopping and played ukulele with my nieces. But now I just want to play ukulele and accomplish nothing else.

But I must clean and I must do laundry and I must pack for camp. And I must eat all the veggies so they don't go bad while I'm away.

Sunblock. Sunglasses. Things I will forget.

I have never been so inspired about writing before. I love to write. I wrote stories when I was a child. I wonder if I can find the first story I wrote. About Toodles and baby Cindle. I don't know if it really was the first story I ever wrote, but it's the first I remember. I was too young to write so I dictated it to my mother, and I added drawings. I can still picture them now. I wonder if my parents kept it. I should seek it out. I remember it being an excellent story.

I also co-authored a poem with my sister when we were young. About little Rosie Duchess. I wonder where that went. At one point I had it memorized. Maybe I could piece it back together?

It was a dark and stormy night in the middle of July
When little Rosie Duchess began to cry.
She was crying 'bout her brother who had just been born.
Another little Duchess, made her quite forlorn.

She put on a pink dress, and pink sandals too.
She was dressed all in pink, but she felt rather blue.

And I can't remember anymore. I wonder if I ever typed it up, or if it's still in a box of papers from my childhood.

I also wrote a few poems on my own. I remember tucking the sheets in their red folder under my mattress so that no one would find them. I imagine they're gone too. I never liked sharing my stories or poems with others. I have always been afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of what's in my mind? What others will think of it? I don't like opening myself up to criticism. So rather than sharing and getting feedback good and bad, I held it all in my entire life.

It's like a story I once watched unfold. My nephew would be out with his mother, and the cashier would offer him a balloon. He was a polite little boy, and he would decline with tact, even for one so young. I asked him if he didn't like balloons, and he said that he liked them, but he didn't want them to float away. So even with my assurances that I could get it safely to the car and safely to the house afterwards, he didn't want it. He was too afraid of losing it.

I think this applies to so much of my life. I'm too afraid of what I will lose that sometimes it's not even worth trying. People are afraid of each other. It hurts to open up to another human. So the risk of losing a friendship or relationship holds us back from even beginning. Or with my writing, the fear of criticism and rejection stifles me, and while nothing stops me from writing, it has stopped me from sharing.

I have been afraid for too long. This year I made it my New Years resolution to share music at least once month. I think I have succeeded in sharing at least twice a month. And this summer I have been sharing my writing with others too. It's still scary. But it's getting easier. Because people are kind.

Tabula Rasa

Crazier you say?

Somehow words must write themselves. Fall effortlessly from my pen. My brain is working so fast I have no time for good handwriting. Spelling errors abound. Legibility isn’t a factor. Just random words scrawled out on the back of a strange story.

But not strange enough. I can’t let loose. The words must fit together like puzzle pieces. I crave order. Everything in its place. Words have order but I crave the madness!

Nonsense words? Ideas that don’t make sense? Maybe everything is just beginning to feel too logical. I can’t write crazy because I’m too crazy inside. Nothing strikes me as crazy anymore.

Branches sprouting from someone’s mouth as they attempt to speak?

Commonplace!

Climbing solid lightning?

Nothing weird about that!

Hearing colors. Seeing sounds. None of this is crazy. The words continue to make sense. The words themselves create order from the mess inside.

That is why I write. I crave order. I long to let go. To give someone wings. To make them fall. But it’s not about control. It’s about letting go and getting lost in the magic of storytelling. Letting the characters take their own path and the story emerges before you.




Nothing is too crazy for sense.

Writing by hand unleashes a different part of my brain. I crave order so I like the cleanness of typing. I like autocorrect.

But a blank screen is numbing. I want to look elsewhere, calling it inspiration when really it’s just distraction.

But a blank sheet of paper is full of life. Full of possibilities. Full of potential. I see words waiting to take shape. And it has an impermanence. It doesn’t have to be perfect because it can toss the paper into the recycling bin. Or not.

Sorry little paper, full of life. Full of hope! I did not mean to disparage you. Maybe I won’t toss you.

Yesterday I typed up handwritten notes. They were someone else’s notes, but I enjoyed it. Normally I don’t write by hand because it feels slow or like a waste of time. Really it’s just laziness. Not wanting to do the same work twice when I could have just written this on the computer to begin with.

Or could I?

That’s the thing. When I begin some randomly, rambly post on my computer I throw it away. I think that it’s not worthwhile. Not saying anything, so what’s the point?

It doesn’t matter whether it’s crap or not. Write the crap! So that it doesn’t infest my stories. I delete the crap before I’ve even started writing because it feels dumb. But it’s crazy useful.

So here I sit, writing by hand. Writing crap. Huzzah!