Can We Talk?

The Sounds of 2012

Jesus, gym, turbo kick, yoga, crosssfit, rumba, coconut shampoo, soft canary, sunlight, green cut grass, smell of sunshine on the blades, cool crisp dew sitting under shade, music guitar harmonies arpeggiated notes in my journal watercolored daisies, hum of oscillating fan, feel of silk breeze, silken sand, chorus of children at the park, visiting pretend dad at the clark's. coffee beans, whipped cream, cinnamon dust. old time jazz bands after dusk. daydreams memories dance to wind chime chimes. thoughts of you holding me. a million times. waves off the ocean blue ribbons in the sky, mist and foam cascading down from high. bonfires smoky hair charred firewood. marshmallows dark chocolate squares. taste this good. salt from the water on my lips. champagne stars and red rose hips. folk acoustic bluegrass worship true. late afternoon silence. the world tinted blue.

Toy Clouds

Sometimes when I am on the brink of drowning and relinquishing control to the enervating forces which desire to toss me into the claws of the jagged rocks, I look up at the surface, as I am sure Peter must have done...and I wait. Because something inside of me tells me that "Who" will come. Something reminds me that he always does. It's never too late. Even if it was me who waded out past the stripped and splintered planks of my boat remains, into the mouth of a squall...he's been my hero, unconditionally. I'm never too far out for him to reach. No matter how loud the winds that scream at me, and how deafening the thunder claps, and how mute my ears become when the water pulls me under...I always hear his voice when he calls out my name. And suddenly, with this epiphany,  survival becomes clear to me. He is my oars, my sail, my anchor, my boat, my map, my shore. And if he is all of those things, then there is no way they can be destroyed by the dark ocean. My sails can't be ripped apart, my oars cannot be swallowed up,  and my boat can't sink. If he is my map, I cannot lose my way and I WILL make it to my destination. These dark clouds that have been looming past me, soaking up my tears and drowning me in them. The storm clouds I have felt were impossible to escape. They suddenly break apart at broken hinges and fall from the sky, plunging into the sea like toys dropped into a bathtub.

So, here I am. My head under water. The predators of the deep, pulling me down, telling me to give in to that which overpowers me. Here I am, away from my boat, lost at sea, man overboard...ready to drown and disappear forever...When I hear the most beautiful sound...the voice of many waters...calling my name. His voice is like a blanket of solace, mellifluous and commanding. And his hand, illuminated by light, pierces through the tumultuous waves and reaches for me..and all the predators flee...and the growling storm, foaming at the mouth, begins to calm. And the darkness recedes. Because he is like a roaring lion amongst mere dogs. His love is dripping light like liquid gold from the mercy seat, sweet and inviting as myrrh, powerful and affirming as the elements he created. His eyes are omniscient and when I gaze upon them, I forget the feeling, the very existence, of fear. He looks into my heart and I feel him standing in the emptiness it often becomes. His presence fills it up and it overflows. He pulls me out from under the crushing waves and gathers me up in his embrace. He carries me out and away from the darkness. I never want to be out of his arms again. I want to freeze in this moment for an eternity. In his arms, I remember who I really am and who I am to him. I want to tell him I'm sorry but suddenly realize that my guilt had sloughed off of me and fallen to the dark ocean floor when he grabbed my hand. I want to tell him I love him but the only word I have to describe the magnitude of what I feel is "Jesus." So I just say his name again and again. And every time I say his name, I increasingly forget the pain and distress of the night. He carries me away from it all. He carries me away from the messes I create. He carries me away from the world. And he will always carry me. He'll carry me through every storm laden journey. He'll carry me when I can't walk anymore. He'll carry me. Until the day he carries me home. And his arms will always be home. You can have your heaven, your diamond studded clouds, your nirvana, your fame and glory, you can have all riches and power. You can have all the things this earth has to offer. But give me Jesus. That's all I want.

Suddenly, I am back in my boat. And I realize that there is no way I am falling out again. And a smile plays at my lips. And I close my eyes and sigh.


This song further explicates the nature of this post.

"Times"

I know I need You
I need to love You
I'd love to see You but it's been so long

I long to feel You
I feel this need for You
I need to hear You
Is that so wrong

Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh

Now You pull me near You
When we're close I fear You
Still I'm afraid to tell you all that I've done

Are You done forgiving
Or can You look past my pretending, Lord
I'm so tired of defending what I've become
What have I become

Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh

I hear You say
My love is over
It's underneath
It's inside
It's in between

The times that you doubt me
When you can't feel
The times that you question
Is this for real

The times you're broken
The times that you mend
The times you hate me
And the times that you bend

Well my love is over
It's underneath
It's inside
It's in between

The times that you're healing
And when your heart breaks
The times that you feel like you've fallen from grace

The times you're hurting
The times that you heal
The times you go hungry and are tempted to steal

In times of confusion
In chaos and pain
I'm there in your sorrow under the weight of your shame

I'm there through your heart-ache
I'm there in the storm
My love I will keep you by my power alone

I don't care where you've fallen or where you have been
I'll never forsake you
My love never ends
It never ends, mmmm

Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh
Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh

Blunt Rainbows

Ym tirips sllac tuo ot mih ni ym peels. Tub I evirped flesym, evrats flesym. S'ti a emahs. Eh yam ees eht nis, tub osla eht niap that del pu ot ti dna eh stnaw ot ekat erac fo taht, oot. I esolc ym seye and suddenly everything is clear. I make the room disappear. Let the people erase themselves from my life. If you close your eyes long enough, they will open theirs. But who trades their darkness with your own light? I close my eyes because the smirk on my face is backwards and he reads it and I don't watch anyone else to trace the transparent veil that becomes me. My own confessions are the threads that pull open the holes.

Man Overboard

The sails are all collapsing down as I'm sailing till dawn. And by the time the rescue comes, my body may be gone. Swept away by the ebb of the shore. How can I not lose my head or heart? He's been gone for so long. I keep telling myself he is almost home. But I have been repeating those words to myself for the past two years. And every time he is home, he has to leave again. I wonder if the military is aware of the effects that long term assignments have on the spouses. They are aware, but perhaps not receptive, not responsive.

Why does the epiphany, the paradigm shift, the cathartic breakthrough, the spiritual awakening, all come after the damage has reached the furthest peak and deepest pit? Perhaps, it is because our pride keeps us from calling out for help until we feel ourselves sinking under the murky, storm lashed, angry waters. We sink below and see the eyes of predators, glowing, reflecting against the dimming light we hold within. They wait beneath the surface. Stalking, prowling. We feel the cold slither of the shark fins whipping at our toes, our fingers. Rows of teeth painted with old blood. They're waiting for us to get lost in the darkness of the deep.  We swallow ocean in our attempt to finally call for help, and alas, taste the bitterness of what we have been wading in for so very long. The sea I've been sailing on, the sea that initially looked harmless and easy to overcome, even with myself as captain of my boat, now reveals it's overwhelming powers. The ocean's swarthy, wet hands, which easily encompass the mass of the moon, enter my throat, choking me inwardly. The beauty of the water has faked sustenance, but, now I know, is full of salt. The cold is, simultaneously, gripping and anesthetic. "Go ahead and fall asleep. Go ahead and let go," it whispers to me as it injects liquid lies; they flow through the veins quicker that way, infiltrating the chambers of the heart. The waves lash about violently and become like millstones attached to my extremities. I am man overboard. I knew my sails were failing and I sat at the edge until my boat tipped. I look ahead and I see the dawn approaching, I see a pin pink line of horizon at the nearing shore, but I am in the storm. I sat in the calm eye of apathy and now am caught in the chaotic wrath of impending aftermath. Who is stronger than this yoke, this sea? Who fills the holes that mar my boat and mends the tears that rip my sails? Who redirects the wind and warms the sharp breath of the night? To the sea, I am merely a speck; plankton prey; a descending specimen; a faint echo; a plummeting star who purposelessly shed its light in an unpopulated area of the sky; a raindrop tossed and dried up on the shore; a broken grain of sand. Who would notice or care if the crevice of a rock was instantaneously filled with dirt and shut up forever? To the sea, I am below the acknowledgment of nothingness. 

And to me, my name is "Who?" I am listless, I am restless, I am breathless, I am faceless, I am weary, I am waning, I am waiting, I am wondering, I am concerned, I am cornered, I am careened, I am capricious, I am apathy, I am anger, I am acclimating, I am ambivalent, I am in need. Am I what the sea says I am?

Out from the thundering clouds, I hear a voice, like many waters, say, "There is another 'Who'".

"I don't understand," I say.

"Who looks at you and sees the presence of a soul. Who responds to this faint, transient echo as an incessant crying out. Who sees you dive off your own boat and still finds you worth the effort to comb out the sea until you are found. Who climbs down from his lofty place in the heavens and walks along streets paved with mire to find you where you are. Who is stronger than the yoke of this sea. Who fills the holes of your boat and mends your ripped sails. Who redirects the wind and warms the night. Who hears you in your distress. Who will save you," the voice responds.

"I know a man who walks on water and calms the seas..Who is he? Is he Who?" I ask.

"I Am."

But I have been pushing away the two persons who mean the most to me. Who, together, make up the equation of love in my heart. I have been so mad, so full of apathy that I have turned my heart and back on both. Like a rip tide toward the inlet, I have pushed against myself and withdrawn inwardly and away. That has only caused my distress to catch fever. Is this how the end of deployment is for everyone? I know there are the stages of deployment, so you'd think the predictability or inevitability of concluding struggle would prepare you or ease the impact. For me, it has not. Seems the struggle is more spiritual than emotional. My guard has been let down. I have been barraged and attacked relentlessly. And the only two, the only ONE who could save me from that, I have shrugged off. Conversation ceased. Love suspended like tears midfall. Man overboard.

When Apathy Rears Its Head

There comes a moment, much like the moment right before you blackout. That moment of fading, of white washed peripherals caving in. A moment when every microscopic speck of matter swells to an overwhelming degree and swallows you whole. It is the moment where you lose yourself. Where incessant selflessness begets a selfish wave of withdrawal. The moment when you stop fighting the rip current and just let it lash you where it will. It is the moment which follows the sudden realization of how long you have been angry or sad or abused. Because it has been so long. Apathy is rain, pouring down from dark clouds and sweeping through the gutters of the heart, collecting complicated emotions and their origins and making them seamless and powerless. Apathy is running away. Apathy is giving up and giving in. Apathy is closing your eyes on an open highway. It is depersonalization. Apathy is a sea siren, luring you in with its mesmerizing song before it pulls you under. Apathy is rushing water. It is standing beneath the descending currents of a waterfall. Filled with the sound of calm. White noise. No thoughts or past permitted to penetrate this thick veil of tranquility. Apathy is music. Submerging yourself in the sound of thoughts depressed, suppressed, regressed, regrets, remorse, released, refreshed...reset. The deepest pain and the greatest joy settled within the same lifeboat, the same single, lingering note. Like East and West intertwining fingers. Romanticizing the saddest experiences and most tragic flaws, making them alluring like fire on the horizon. But untouchable, like the face of the sun on the sea. Failure becomes fluidity, whisked away on a wet, slithering wave. Apathy is wet paint running down the pale flesh of a canvas. Art not ruined, just changing. A metamorphosis. Even the dullest pain scintillates with the shimmer of silver lining off looming clouds. Apathy is the snap after overuse. The crumble after misuse. Apathy excuses you from explaining or understanding or waiting or wanting. It just leaves you numb. Apathy captivates anger. And then releases it at an indefinite time. Apathy is the calm before a storm. The emerald overcast before a tornado. Apathy is the introverted. Apathy is the pushover. Apathy is the demoralized victim. Apathy is the invisible. Apathy is the mask. Apathy is inevitable.

Apathy feels like a refuge, but be forewarned. It makes everything numb. It turns out every light. It blocks every exit. It snuffs out the conscience. It is the ebb and flow of the mind. It barters temporary calm for stolen identity. As pretentious admiration mimics the feel of true love, apathy mimics resolve. Apathy is merely suppression. It is an extension of time. Because everything has consequence and everything must be addressed. Every pain must be felt before it can exit the body. Drop the stones you grip in your hand because apathy will bury you beneath a landslide of guilt before you can even put a chip in the face of the porcelain self you once idealized. Apathy is ambiguous and esoteric blog posts which lack the energy to be composed of anything coherent. Apathy is a cold, hard shell of a woman, unmoved and undefeated. But I don't believe for a second that there isn't a scared little girl trembling inside.

Stream of Consciousness

Not a poem, just a stream of consciousness under the guise of poetry.

Red, White and Blue

if it were as it should be, dreams wouldn’t float off, disappear into ether. unanchored balloons. leave me on my knees. unwind from my wrist. grab hold to undulating, crooning breeze. become blood drops between the razor grey clouds. i watch them fly away like the past. rising higher. a blazing fire. a RED STAINed star. too far gone to reach. And now they're gone. 

you are a cloud. scintillating glitter off what is left of the evening sun. glowing waters find your body when splintered dam comes undone. you. tangible and high. but when i reach to touch you my hand slips right through you. did you feel my grip on your cloak? i am a water that your body soaks. even when i close my eyes, you’re there. WHITE STAIN on my listless mind. but at times when i call, you are merely a glare, and you are impossible to find.

did you ever read the letters i sent to you? as they rose up to your throne. or did you leave my outstretched hand alone? i saw it sit for months on that hill. my letter to you, untouched...still. ink soaking, running in the rain. my muddled words are worthless in mud, the dirt BLUE STAIN. you never explained why. you just let me grip the grit as my memories fall through my fingers and die. i am a shell tossed to the shore, return to ocean, sink and stick to untouched floor.

The day he went back on that plane and headed back to Afghanistan, I just broke, I guess. 

Storytime with Jenna

This wasn't an ordinary day. This was a pretty awful day. If I had to rate this day based on those weird medical, pain scale illustrations you see in hospitals, it would be about an 8.5. My face pretty much looked like this the whole day:  >;0  . But I am going to tell you the story of my day in an absolutely hyperbolized way. (Catch the rhyme?)

So, I woke up on a lily pad this morning and decided to go to the Western castle of the sky. It's a beautiful fortress with colorful spiral staircases wrapping around each tower, that magically sits high in the sky, held up amidst the veil of clouds.While I was visiting, a tyrannical pterodactyl, who had recently set up nest near the south wing, came swooping down with its gaping beak and beat the clouds away with its pounding wings. It scowled at me as I dodged it's honed claws. I climbed down the spiral stairs and grabbed hold of one of the wine-colored windflowers that lace the edges of the castle and clouds together. It took a lot of tugging and pulling and dragging, but the windflower finally released and took me gracefully, but swiftly back down to my lily pad on the crystal river below.

However, as I got back to my lily pad, I found my kinsfolk battling with a small fly-dragon that had been pestering the River Bank. All the folk were afraid to step back on their lily pads, in fear that the fly-dragon may be hiding beneath it, ready to spew it's molopinine acid over their abodes; Fly-dragons are different from the average dragons because they are much smaller, about the size of a smethiyn (if you have ever seen one of those), and instead of spewing fire, it spews molopinine acid, which is a fear-inducing color duller (meaning that it temporarily changes vibrant colors to dull colors while causing people to be afraid). So, here I just wanted to have a rest on my lily pad after such a long, distressing day, but I was afraid to lie down because of a hidden fly-dragon. All the kinsfolk have crystal bubbles from the Land of Soap, except for me. So, they all put their crystal bubbles on top of their lily-pads as a shield, but my lily-pad is shieldless...After the kinsfolk did there best to call the beast out and then set up their lily shields, we all had a feast within the Yellow Chili Pepper fields. It was a nice interlude because it's rare that almost all the kinsfolk get together for a feast.

I, later, heard talk around the bank that the fly-dragon is gone, but well, I'm still a bit on edge and hesitant. My prince called from his royal journey and told me not to be afraid because we, kinsfolk of the River Bank, have a King that doubles as the greatest warrior and even triples as a Father to us all and so He will be my crystal bubble that shields me. I realize that my prince is absolutely correct; even though he is the one of the best fly-dragon slayer and tyrannical pterodactyl tamer in the realm, yet wasn't here on a day when slaying and taming was needed, the King is even better. Guess I kind of forgot about that in all the stress of the day. So, ya, my day has been a pain. But I am thankful that I escaped the tyrannical pterodactyl, have a King Dad who protects me and I have a prince who will be returning from his royal journey soon.

Psalm 18:2- "The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold." P.S.The next day one of the kinsfolk, with the help of the King, discovered the fly-dragon hiding beneath on of the lily pads and slew him! Hooray!

Gliding like a Swan

Wow, so it has been two weeks since my last post. I suppose that is to be expected, considering the hustle and bustle (I actually hate that phrase) of the Christmas season. I know I said I wasn't really feeling the joy of it all but my family really redeemed it for me. We got a real Christmas tree, which we usually don't do, considering how sad it is to dump the poor thing on the curb after the New Year. :( ... Call me a tree hugger but it is really depressing driving through residential areas after Christmas. All the defeated little trees lining the sidewalks, the impending fate of a smelly landfill destination looming about their little branches... It reminds me of Charlotte's Web. Kind of sad. But anyway...so we got a Christmas tree and I spent the whole time with mine and Eddie's families. And Eddie sent me some gorgeous flowers on Christmas Eve.

So it turned out nicely. But next Christmas will definitely be so much better. :) Anyway, before Christmas, I came down with the stomach flu which was another reason I didn't write a post. But I'll make this post short, because today is yet another busy day. I am sending Eddie a care package today but I need to get a few more things. Like Tapatio sauce...I don't know why he loves that stuff so much. And it seems like everywhere I go, they are out of stock. Eddie says it's because Tapatio is in demand...right. Haha. Also, tonight is my elementary school reunion! I am really excited to see my old classmates and the people that they have grown into. It's been 12 years since I've seen most of them, so this will be neat. My kindergarten teacher is coming, too! I only wish I could bring Eddie, but I think we are planning another reunion later in the year for those who can't make it, so I'll just bring him then.

Last night I went to bed at 5am and then Eddie woke me up at 9am. So, if this post is really poorly written, please know it is because I am really tired. Haha. But it was awesome because we got to talk for 2 hours. Speaking of Charlotte's Web (earlier), Eddie has a book that includes 3 of E.B. White's best books: Charlotte's Web, The Trumpet of the Swan and Stuart Little. White was my favorite author as a child so I think I am going to reread them. For the nostalgia effect. The Trumpet of the Swan was my favorite so I will save that for last. :) I think I relate somehow to Louis, the Swan. His voice was in music and writing while he tried to make his way through the wild. Haha....anyway.

"Here I glide, swanlike, while earth is bathed in wonder and beauty. Now slowly, the igth of day comes into our sky. A mist hangs low over the pond. The mist rises slowly, like steam from a kettle, while I glide, swanlike, while eggs hatch, while young swans come into existence. I glide and glide. The light stregthens. The air becomes warmer. Gradually, the mist disappears. I glide, I glide, swanlike. Birds sing their early song. Frogs that have croaked in the night stop croaking and are silent. Still I glide, ceaselessly, like a swan."  -The Trumpet of the Swan, E.B. White