"I'd like to stay eighteen forever," I thought as I lifted
through Seventeen magazine, then stared at the mirror
in horror,
realizing I was two years away from any sort of "teen"
status and beginning to count the wrinkles that say "young adult."
gah. Where did these lines come from?
The ones etching their fingers around the corners of my eyes
and the creases of my lips. The ones dipping into my forehead
and cresting my wrists.
Aren't I only sixteen?
Aren't I nineteen?
Twenty-one and I'm already sketched like a map?
I wore my sunscreen. I lathered the lotion. I drank the water.
Wrinkled at twenty-one and they're not age-lines
but story-lines, weaving their words in and out of my skin
like a needle through a fine piece of silk.
Sometimes it snags; sometimes it runs;
sometimes it pulls a threaded tear along behind it,
but still the needle slips its way across my face
and my friends can point and say, "Here. Here is where we laughed about the shoes
that were too small, or the wine in the hall."
And then others can squint and say, "Look, there.
Look where I brushed your arm and teased
your hair and we ran for miles but we were going no-where."
Still others will touch a line embedded
in prayers and whisper, "I knew you, when you broke
right there."
And the others will cry along with the lines
that drag away twinkles from world-weary eyes.
And the Listener waits to sketch new lines on my face.
"Okay," I say. "Paint away."
Jan 5, 2009
Dumb Sun melted the snow off the balcony Banister
Today, I am severely upset with J.K. Rowling.
She took a perfectly decent mythical beast--the basilisk--and stigmatized the creature so that I can't use him in any of my stories without thinking "Moaning Myrtle."
Ugh. Damn woman.
I forgot to eat lunch this afternoon and now I'm having dinner a half-hour late; however, I'm stoked because I've dropped the story that required the presence of said basilisk and have moved on to writing a random story (courtesy of Zak) that has to involve, among other things, a trip on a boat.
Which, I suppose, negates my original idea of a forest adventure. Another stipulation is a character that changes ... Maybe I'll turn a dog into a man.
I giggled to myself even if none of you think it's funny.
This sure beats writing Personal Statements.
She took a perfectly decent mythical beast--the basilisk--and stigmatized the creature so that I can't use him in any of my stories without thinking "Moaning Myrtle."
Ugh. Damn woman.
I forgot to eat lunch this afternoon and now I'm having dinner a half-hour late; however, I'm stoked because I've dropped the story that required the presence of said basilisk and have moved on to writing a random story (courtesy of Zak) that has to involve, among other things, a trip on a boat.
Which, I suppose, negates my original idea of a forest adventure. Another stipulation is a character that changes ... Maybe I'll turn a dog into a man.
I giggled to myself even if none of you think it's funny.
This sure beats writing Personal Statements.
Jan 4, 2009
Solitude?
I really would like to go upstairs and get one of my delicious, freshly baked muffins; however, all the lights are out and I'm afraid of being alone in the dark. :( Going hungry tonight!!
I do miss people and feel silly for missing them after so short a time. People just make my writing ... better. It's hard to write about people when there aren't any around.
"Unmarked grave"
slouched on the rock surface
of the basement floor since sunrise, attempting
to write my future by sifting
through: the past.
Ancient pages slip forth, words
release
into my haven, dragging their scars
anew--the trails wafting images of
yesterday,
of last Year.
Curled on the basement floor,
without the voice of my present,
without the ghost of a future.
Mourning:
alone, in the shadow
of a Prayer.
(c) Kellie Parkinson Jan 4, 2009.
I do miss people and feel silly for missing them after so short a time. People just make my writing ... better. It's hard to write about people when there aren't any around.
"Unmarked grave"
slouched on the rock surface
of the basement floor since sunrise, attempting
to write my future by sifting
through: the past.
Ancient pages slip forth, words
release
into my haven, dragging their scars
anew--the trails wafting images of
yesterday,
of last Year.
Curled on the basement floor,
without the voice of my present,
without the ghost of a future.
Mourning:
alone, in the shadow
of a Prayer.
(c) Kellie Parkinson Jan 4, 2009.
Flailing.
I am having ... trouble ... writing ... anything.
I have to start my "Statement of Purpose" for three graduate schools who all want to know, "Why study here?" "What is your 'intellectual autobiography'?" "Describe your development as a writer?" and I only have--blank screens and empty pages and a vague humming in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like the ticking of a clock. But the clock is on steroids and the deadlines are in cohorts with Time and they're both working against--me.
Against me.
God. Give me something significant to say. Please.
I am missing people. People. and conversation.
I have to start my "Statement of Purpose" for three graduate schools who all want to know, "Why study here?" "What is your 'intellectual autobiography'?" "Describe your development as a writer?" and I only have--blank screens and empty pages and a vague humming in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like the ticking of a clock. But the clock is on steroids and the deadlines are in cohorts with Time and they're both working against--me.
Against me.
God. Give me something significant to say. Please.
I am missing people. People. and conversation.
Think slower; breathe Deeper; speak only in a Whisper
This morning I woke to a blanket of snow, cold toes, and a mysterious scuffling outside my sliding glass door. After making the leap from my bed to the couch, where my robe was surreptitiously slung, I wrapped myself in the chilled warmth, stuck the frozen feet-digits into furry slippers, and sludged myself toward the window. A deep breath and two stuttering starts later, I flung open the curtain to reveal--a squirrel on the porch, tapping himself against the window and trying to get at something lodged in the screen-door-track.
I didn't know what to do so I froze, watching the squirrel dig his way at the metal. Within a few moments, he must have realized I was watching for he snapped his beady little black eyes up at me, blinked through the glinting glass, and went streaking across the snow and into a neighboring tree.
Now, two hours of meditation, prayer, and reading of Thomas Merton later, I'd nearly forgotten about the encounter; however, as I sat down to write this morning's post, a sharp, angry trilling from the tree outside sent me racing to the window: the squirrel has managed to dislodge a bird from one of the overhanging branches. Twittering angrily, the bird swoops around the giggling squirrel, who seems quite content to sit upon the disputed branch, batting an occasional lazy arm at the fluttering feathered creature.
I don't have a creative transition at the moment, so I dive right in:
This morning, Merton said "There is not a flower that opens, not a seed that falls into the ground and not an ear of wheat that nods on the end of its stalk in the wind that does not preach and proclaim the greatness and mercy of God to the whole world."
Just previous to this, he had been addressing a common cry of the people of the world: "If a merciful God exists, why are there so many wars? Why such suffering and pain and sorrow if the God who created us all is the source of ultimate Compassion and Mercy?"
"On the contrary," Merton says, and I can only imagine a calm smile that does not reach his eyes, for in his eyes rests the wise sorrow that comes only from empathy--only in asking these same questions can he have ever even begun to touch on an answer. "On the contrary: consider how in spite of centuries of sin and greed and lust and cruelty and hatred and avarice and oppression and injustice, spawned and bred by the free wills of men, the human race can still recover, each time, and can still produce men and women who overcome evil with good, hatred with love, greed with charity, lust and cruelty with sanctity. How could all this be possible without the merciful love of God, pouring out his grace upon us?"
I'd like to say my greatest spiritual struggle was long ago, and my 'own mental Pompeii' (image courtesy of Merton) lies buried beneath years of distance. In reality, I am still within that struggle; however, I've come leaps and bounds from where I was even a year ago. This time last year, Merton's argument never would have sufficed: I was convinced that the creation of humanity evidenced a bored Creator, who decided to draw up a people destined to fail--by His own malicious dictation--and forever required to praise and glorify that same Creator in order to not perish eternally. Therefore, Merton's explanation would have inspired in me a sarcastic, angry response about how God allowed "sin and greed and lust and cruelty and hatred and avarice and oppression and injustice" so that we would eternally need him.
Which is true. But for different reasons than my last year's mindset would have asserted. Allow me to digress for a moment ... I promise its relevant ...
Innate to the desires of every human being is the drive for independence, the seeking of freedom, the craved absolution of all bonds so that we may flit about in liberty. The desire is the core of humanity's existence--it is my belief that, though Christ's death on the cross is certainly a great sacrifice, the Creator's most significant sacrifice came at the beginning of our existence: He denied His right to manipulation, to dictation, to Order and gave us that Freedom we crave. We have Free Will to choose as we will [ which, of course, led to the required sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, due to our inability to choose paths that won't lead to personal destruction and eternal condemnation! ]
The only way we can completely embrace that Freedom is through the Surrender of that Will: Christ demonstrated this very thing in the Garden, the night before His crucifixion. "But not my will," he says. But not My Will.
The point is: war and pain evidence God's grace as powerfully as the face of the flower; as bold as the compassion of the saint. War and pain may be the direct result of our Free Will; but, God's grace enters, regardless, and grants us the embrace of a stranger, the smile of a child, the repentance of the sinner.
"... there is no positive power in sin, only negation, only annihilation: and perhaps that is why it is so destructing, it is a nothingness, and where it is, there is nothing left--a blank, a moral vacuum" (Merton Seven Storey Mountain).
Lord, make me not a "moral vacuum" but a conduit of grace. Occupy me. Only through emptying mySelf, through pouring all of Me out can I be completely filled-to-the-brim:
with You.
I didn't know what to do so I froze, watching the squirrel dig his way at the metal. Within a few moments, he must have realized I was watching for he snapped his beady little black eyes up at me, blinked through the glinting glass, and went streaking across the snow and into a neighboring tree.
Now, two hours of meditation, prayer, and reading of Thomas Merton later, I'd nearly forgotten about the encounter; however, as I sat down to write this morning's post, a sharp, angry trilling from the tree outside sent me racing to the window: the squirrel has managed to dislodge a bird from one of the overhanging branches. Twittering angrily, the bird swoops around the giggling squirrel, who seems quite content to sit upon the disputed branch, batting an occasional lazy arm at the fluttering feathered creature.
I don't have a creative transition at the moment, so I dive right in:
This morning, Merton said "There is not a flower that opens, not a seed that falls into the ground and not an ear of wheat that nods on the end of its stalk in the wind that does not preach and proclaim the greatness and mercy of God to the whole world."
Just previous to this, he had been addressing a common cry of the people of the world: "If a merciful God exists, why are there so many wars? Why such suffering and pain and sorrow if the God who created us all is the source of ultimate Compassion and Mercy?"
"On the contrary," Merton says, and I can only imagine a calm smile that does not reach his eyes, for in his eyes rests the wise sorrow that comes only from empathy--only in asking these same questions can he have ever even begun to touch on an answer. "On the contrary: consider how in spite of centuries of sin and greed and lust and cruelty and hatred and avarice and oppression and injustice, spawned and bred by the free wills of men, the human race can still recover, each time, and can still produce men and women who overcome evil with good, hatred with love, greed with charity, lust and cruelty with sanctity. How could all this be possible without the merciful love of God, pouring out his grace upon us?"
I'd like to say my greatest spiritual struggle was long ago, and my 'own mental Pompeii' (image courtesy of Merton) lies buried beneath years of distance. In reality, I am still within that struggle; however, I've come leaps and bounds from where I was even a year ago. This time last year, Merton's argument never would have sufficed: I was convinced that the creation of humanity evidenced a bored Creator, who decided to draw up a people destined to fail--by His own malicious dictation--and forever required to praise and glorify that same Creator in order to not perish eternally. Therefore, Merton's explanation would have inspired in me a sarcastic, angry response about how God allowed "sin and greed and lust and cruelty and hatred and avarice and oppression and injustice" so that we would eternally need him.
Which is true. But for different reasons than my last year's mindset would have asserted. Allow me to digress for a moment ... I promise its relevant ...
Innate to the desires of every human being is the drive for independence, the seeking of freedom, the craved absolution of all bonds so that we may flit about in liberty. The desire is the core of humanity's existence--it is my belief that, though Christ's death on the cross is certainly a great sacrifice, the Creator's most significant sacrifice came at the beginning of our existence: He denied His right to manipulation, to dictation, to Order and gave us that Freedom we crave. We have Free Will to choose as we will [ which, of course, led to the required sacrifice of Christ on the Cross, due to our inability to choose paths that won't lead to personal destruction and eternal condemnation! ]
The only way we can completely embrace that Freedom is through the Surrender of that Will: Christ demonstrated this very thing in the Garden, the night before His crucifixion. "But not my will," he says. But not My Will.
The point is: war and pain evidence God's grace as powerfully as the face of the flower; as bold as the compassion of the saint. War and pain may be the direct result of our Free Will; but, God's grace enters, regardless, and grants us the embrace of a stranger, the smile of a child, the repentance of the sinner.
"... there is no positive power in sin, only negation, only annihilation: and perhaps that is why it is so destructing, it is a nothingness, and where it is, there is nothing left--a blank, a moral vacuum" (Merton Seven Storey Mountain).
Lord, make me not a "moral vacuum" but a conduit of grace. Occupy me. Only through emptying mySelf, through pouring all of Me out can I be completely filled-to-the-brim:
with You.
Jan 3, 2009
Prismatic
Imagine the horror I faced when I stared at my blank journal-screen and found I had: nothing to say. Half-a-day's silence produces a mind, not full of words, but--white noise.
Of course, I would have keeled-over half dead, had I not realized that the silence of the mind entitled me to the first line: "Imagine the horror" dot, dot, dot. I should have left it as is and let you all worry around your rooms, wondering what possible horror I could be referencing. Perhaps--the bear's unwelcome invasion of my kitchen as I pull the pizza from the oven. In my ignorance, I had maybe left the door open to waft out the smells from the gas oven--I am always worried of asphyxiation by carbon monoxide. Awakened by the strange aroma, the bear lifts himself from hibernation, shakes off his cave of snow, and comes lopping into my kitchen, wondering if I might share with him the treat I've just pulled from the stove.
No, I tell him, I am very sorry Sir. I have a very limited supply of food and, should I share but a little, my stores might run out before my family comes to liberate me from my asylum of snow.
The bear nods heavily--one of those big, heavy nods like the ones you give children when they're telling a very very important story about how their teacher made them sit in the corner today for eating glue.
...
Hm.
For the confused portion of my Reader: I was able to consume my pizza sans-Bear-interruption.
Of course, I would have keeled-over half dead, had I not realized that the silence of the mind entitled me to the first line: "Imagine the horror" dot, dot, dot. I should have left it as is and let you all worry around your rooms, wondering what possible horror I could be referencing. Perhaps--the bear's unwelcome invasion of my kitchen as I pull the pizza from the oven. In my ignorance, I had maybe left the door open to waft out the smells from the gas oven--I am always worried of asphyxiation by carbon monoxide. Awakened by the strange aroma, the bear lifts himself from hibernation, shakes off his cave of snow, and comes lopping into my kitchen, wondering if I might share with him the treat I've just pulled from the stove.
No, I tell him, I am very sorry Sir. I have a very limited supply of food and, should I share but a little, my stores might run out before my family comes to liberate me from my asylum of snow.
The bear nods heavily--one of those big, heavy nods like the ones you give children when they're telling a very very important story about how their teacher made them sit in the corner today for eating glue.
...
Hm.
For the confused portion of my Reader: I was able to consume my pizza sans-Bear-interruption.
Jan 1, 2009
A little exhale ...
"Peace is Joy at rest. Joy is Peace on its feet."
--Anne Lamott, quoting her pastor in Salon.
--Anne Lamott, quoting her pastor in Salon.
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