1. "Between the click of the light and the start of the dream..." I'm in an Arcade Fire mood tonight. I suppose this means I will need to abandon my hopes and fears to some strange jumping dance in the middle of the kitchen and I'll avoid the creaky parts of the floor, which I've memorized like an invisible dance chart. It will be late, and I'll have my headphones on, and Nora will be sleeping, so to the outside observer, I will simply look like a woman at midnight jumping around in silence on flaming tacks. But sometimes this is what it takes, and I live on a farm in the middle of nowhere, so whatever. And the women will mourn and the women will dance.
2. I was suddenly (the lightening of epiphany) aware that the story God is telling through me is one of the best I've ever read. I have been taken down, built up, removed, replaced, shattered and mended, loved and treated cruelly. This is such a simple statement, but I'll make it. I love what God made me (to) love: this daughter, this music, these students, the paints, the words, the plants, the breeze that blows the hair on the back of my neck. This is REALLY some story. It feels good to be in love with my life, even the sad parts. And I'm asking Him: What is it you're building in this heart? Can I see it? Can I feel it? Will you really make it mine? Because I think I kind of like it, if it's something you could love.
3. I trust a classroom that cries.
4. I trust a daughter who spins.
5. I trust a song that has electric guitar turned up to the breaking point.
6. I trust this story.
7. I trust [ ].
8. I trust you, whatever you are going through, whatever you need to do. I know you're doing the best you can, which is always exactly what you can do. And the best you can is good enough.
And this is why I wrote this:
ReplyDeleteShe is a poem.
In the flesh. In every breath
Parting from soft lips
Enamoring a hushed room.
In the words she spills
Elegance and enticement are laced.
In the flow of air about her
Electricity, excitement and elevation linger.
She is a poem.
In the flesh: living, breathing, speaking.
Her audience is but the world
Gone cold, deaf, and poetless.
Who will sing of her—
The woman that she is?
Let one voice raise:
In the flesh,
She is a poem.
Don't let anyone tell you differently.