In between two rocks. One is jagged and pocked. Iridescent under the moon. The other is smooth and gray. Like a dark cloud, stretched and spun through a spindle. Pink seaweed wraps around its base like consoling arms. I'm stuck. Lodged between them when I fell overboard, almost 2 years ago. Each of my hands rest upon one rock. And my body is cold and frigid when the tide laps against me. Spray of salt lingers on my mouth and everything I taste is bitter. Ocean drops roll and dry. Like falling stars across my skin. They leave stains of sun baked salt like tiny silver flecks, down my arms, through my hair and near my eyes. All I see is bitter. I scintillate at sunset. Another sailer off in the distance mistakes me for a mermaid, peeking through the rocks. He thinks the pink seaweed twisting around my legs are fins. But I am nothing phantasmal. I call out but my song for help besets him. Thinking of me now as a siren, he quickly turns away from his curiosity and watches me with a leering gaze as my image shrinks in the increasing distance.
Maybe I have become a mermaid. Or a siren. Or both. I have lingered in this sea for so long now. And I have forgotten where I am going or where I have come from. Perhaps I've been here all along. If I am a mermaid, I can swim down, into the deep. And stay there, amidst the coral reefs and celestial creatures. Abandon boat. That boat that waits for me to return. Like a loyal companion. Rocking in the distance on the stream of liquid sunlight. I know I'll find my way again. Back to it. Back to our journey. But for now, my boat waits and rocks and sways. I wish I was in it now. Rock me to sleep like a child. Watch the birds fly overhead. Go wherever the wind blows us. Close my eyes and let the tangerine blanket of the sun lull me to sleep.
But I'm not in the boat. I am in the cold. I am in the sea. The only warm embrace is the sunlight streaming through tendrils of my wet hair. And even the sun is descending. Below the horizon. And the wind dances around me like a mischievous child and whispers,
"Wave goodbye.
Sing your siren song and hope that a sailor will find you
before the stars dot the sky."
I look back, behind me. At my dark past. The smooth gray rock, like a dark cloud, reminds me. And I want to rest my head on it for a little while. Will this salty sea turn my heart into a pillar of salt? Like Lot's wife? No. That is not me. I must be salt and light. I refuse to turn back. No turning back.
I know the force of the high tide will eventually release me from the grip of these binary rocks. I can't stay stuck forever. And I will swim back to the boat which is shrinking in the increasing distance.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Message in a Bottle
Sometimes I wonder. Wonder about my life. My choices. The things I've done to disappoint those who mean the most to me. Everyone has darkness in their past. Some walk in darkness for all their days and beyond. Others have darkness in their past, but eventually see dawn. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the darkness of my past. Maybe I am walking backwards. Always confronting my past instead of facing my future. The darkness is like a mist. A cloud. A high tide and I am the fixed shore. It's chasing me and I entertain it by running away. Am I a coward for not being still? Am I faithless for not trusting the Lord to protect me? Or change me? Or cover me in the warmth of day? All I know is, I have thoughts. Thoughts that make my mind go dark, until the darkness bleeds out around me and I am invisible. To everyone. And I'm no one. And I am convinced I can't be found. And I am still because searching for a way out would mean feeling my way out of the darkness.
Why do I feel like no one knows me? But my past knows me. It calls me. Calls me by a name that I refuse to respond to. Calls me by a name that Jesus said is no longer my name. But why do I turn? Why to my ears perk up when that name is called. It's not me. But if it's not me, then why do I see my past when I look into my reflection. I gaze into the face of the sea. Wondering if I should throw myself in. Dive down to the bottom. Cover myself with seaweed and rocks. Disappear forever beneath the foam. I gaze into the face of the sea and the only thing that stops me from diving in and ending it all is seeing my dark past staring back at me. I don't want to touch it. It is the only thing that stops me. That and her. She is the gold flecked in the sands that hold me still. And He. He is the wind that pushes the wave backwards when I reach out to it. To become the nothingness. Sometimes I wonder. About all the things I could have done differently. I wonder and as I wonder I try all the different paths in my mind and for a moment I am free, until I leave the reverie and refocus on reality and find that I am tangled. Tangled in the present. And my present, buried in the past. My legs are tangled and I can't get out. There is no way out.
Naivety, ignorance, stupidity, selfishness, pride, anger, fear. They brought me here. They were my comrades. I defected. Again and again. "Who's side are you on?" They ask me. And I cower beneath their words and wish I never made this journey with them. I'll never be on your side, I think. I want off this ship. But they tell me I will never get off this ship. They are cold comrades. They do not hold me. They do not speak to me. They do not love me. They do not value me. But what is the difference. Someday I will have to be still and let the past run over me like a waterfall. Rush over me and mute my pleading voice with its screaming accusations. And everyone will know. Everyone will see what I have done. Everyone will know what has been done to me. Who will be my advocate? Who will plead my case? I always believed You would be there. I still do. But this room that I sit in is cold. And your warm arms are wrapped around everyone but me. I am cold and still. And your gentle songs are blowing through the boughs of the trees but you won't sing to me. I want to cry because of what we once had and because I'm not sure if you'll come back to me. I've lost it all. And you let them take it from me. I've lost my identity. The wind stole it from me with a swift and forceful blow and took it far away. Shattered it, like a broken seashell against the jagged pier. And I want to feel warmth and joy and love. But I am shattered. And every time you pour into me, the warmth and joy and love spill out of my cracks and deficits.
Maybe it's just one of those days. Those days where you lie in the chilled, wet leaves and stare at the sky. Wish you were a bird, a feather, a butterfly. So that you can escape this wayward, toxic, downright scary and confusing world. I just want to change my past. Let the clouds become white liquid paint and wash over every mess I've made on this dank canvas. But I am inside a cell called "impossible". My shoulders are sagged like weeping willow. Strained and pain. This burden is not easy and this yoke is not light, Lord. I found a world of music and writing. It is a world of streaming colors and light. I found a world inside my mind. It is here that I find freedom. It is here that I get off the ship and escape captivity. Until You come and free me for real. Please come. I'll never forget the sight of that deflated balloon on the hill. Will I find a deflated bottle at the bottom of the hill?
Why do I feel like no one knows me? But my past knows me. It calls me. Calls me by a name that I refuse to respond to. Calls me by a name that Jesus said is no longer my name. But why do I turn? Why to my ears perk up when that name is called. It's not me. But if it's not me, then why do I see my past when I look into my reflection. I gaze into the face of the sea. Wondering if I should throw myself in. Dive down to the bottom. Cover myself with seaweed and rocks. Disappear forever beneath the foam. I gaze into the face of the sea and the only thing that stops me from diving in and ending it all is seeing my dark past staring back at me. I don't want to touch it. It is the only thing that stops me. That and her. She is the gold flecked in the sands that hold me still. And He. He is the wind that pushes the wave backwards when I reach out to it. To become the nothingness. Sometimes I wonder. About all the things I could have done differently. I wonder and as I wonder I try all the different paths in my mind and for a moment I am free, until I leave the reverie and refocus on reality and find that I am tangled. Tangled in the present. And my present, buried in the past. My legs are tangled and I can't get out. There is no way out.
Naivety, ignorance, stupidity, selfishness, pride, anger, fear. They brought me here. They were my comrades. I defected. Again and again. "Who's side are you on?" They ask me. And I cower beneath their words and wish I never made this journey with them. I'll never be on your side, I think. I want off this ship. But they tell me I will never get off this ship. They are cold comrades. They do not hold me. They do not speak to me. They do not love me. They do not value me. But what is the difference. Someday I will have to be still and let the past run over me like a waterfall. Rush over me and mute my pleading voice with its screaming accusations. And everyone will know. Everyone will see what I have done. Everyone will know what has been done to me. Who will be my advocate? Who will plead my case? I always believed You would be there. I still do. But this room that I sit in is cold. And your warm arms are wrapped around everyone but me. I am cold and still. And your gentle songs are blowing through the boughs of the trees but you won't sing to me. I want to cry because of what we once had and because I'm not sure if you'll come back to me. I've lost it all. And you let them take it from me. I've lost my identity. The wind stole it from me with a swift and forceful blow and took it far away. Shattered it, like a broken seashell against the jagged pier. And I want to feel warmth and joy and love. But I am shattered. And every time you pour into me, the warmth and joy and love spill out of my cracks and deficits.
Maybe it's just one of those days. Those days where you lie in the chilled, wet leaves and stare at the sky. Wish you were a bird, a feather, a butterfly. So that you can escape this wayward, toxic, downright scary and confusing world. I just want to change my past. Let the clouds become white liquid paint and wash over every mess I've made on this dank canvas. But I am inside a cell called "impossible". My shoulders are sagged like weeping willow. Strained and pain. This burden is not easy and this yoke is not light, Lord. I found a world of music and writing. It is a world of streaming colors and light. I found a world inside my mind. It is here that I find freedom. It is here that I get off the ship and escape captivity. Until You come and free me for real. Please come. I'll never forget the sight of that deflated balloon on the hill. Will I find a deflated bottle at the bottom of the hill?
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Pink Hydrangea
The sleepy town that sits beside that river. Hushed and lulled by summer breeze. Warm and mist. Glistens on the faces of youthful blooms. Who wait patiently. To be plucked by a frivolous boy. And gently placed behind the ear of a longing, sad girl.
The freckles on his hand are copper under sunbeams. And she covers her coy smile. A pink hydrangea behind her ear, wet with staining words.
"Don't leave me. Don't go into the river."
Bold and dripping from the veiny petals, and onto where her skin is warm from her beating heart. But she is blinded by the light in his eyes. Milk and pearls and fire. And deafened by her racing thoughts. Whirlwind and she is spinning in circles. Like the cinnamon curls in her hair that he can't seem to untangle his fingers from. She'll never quite untangle him from her.
She's never felt so much before. But she'll feel numb from the cold when the river drifts her over to the estuary. Where she is no longer seen. She is no longer significant. But rather ordinary. Unseen in such vastness. She'll feel numb. And no one will read her words by the light of the moon. Not even him.
There is a river that runs along the center of my heart. With every breath, the wind blows, and a current carries my thoughts downstream. They pool at the river bank. Pile and cake to the sides with mud. I have no choice but to face it. There is you. Your face shimmering and emerging from the sludge. Eyes closed because you are no longer a reality. Your hand spreads like a star over aging black leaves. And a pink hydrangea flickers like a mirage between your fingers. But I took another way. Followed a separate current. We never would've worked anyway, I think, as another current comes and carries you under and away. Further down the stream until you resurface again another day. But your hand, spread like a star, has left an imprint in the bank next to where I stand. And I cry because I wonder which channel really called to me. The wind only blows one way now. And I can't turn back. Only go further into the path I've already taken. The river crowns me with foam and tumultuous sounds. And dumps me into the estuary, where I spread like a star in the moonlit ocean. And I hope to someday be found. And I hope that someday you'll read my words by the lights of the moon. Message spilled out of a bottle. And I hope that someday you'll find me.
...We've gotten so used to being happiest in our dreams. But like a mime, I'm stuck inside the nonexistent...
The freckles on his hand are copper under sunbeams. And she covers her coy smile. A pink hydrangea behind her ear, wet with staining words.
"Don't leave me. Don't go into the river."
Bold and dripping from the veiny petals, and onto where her skin is warm from her beating heart. But she is blinded by the light in his eyes. Milk and pearls and fire. And deafened by her racing thoughts. Whirlwind and she is spinning in circles. Like the cinnamon curls in her hair that he can't seem to untangle his fingers from. She'll never quite untangle him from her.
She's never felt so much before. But she'll feel numb from the cold when the river drifts her over to the estuary. Where she is no longer seen. She is no longer significant. But rather ordinary. Unseen in such vastness. She'll feel numb. And no one will read her words by the light of the moon. Not even him.
There is a river that runs along the center of my heart. With every breath, the wind blows, and a current carries my thoughts downstream. They pool at the river bank. Pile and cake to the sides with mud. I have no choice but to face it. There is you. Your face shimmering and emerging from the sludge. Eyes closed because you are no longer a reality. Your hand spreads like a star over aging black leaves. And a pink hydrangea flickers like a mirage between your fingers. But I took another way. Followed a separate current. We never would've worked anyway, I think, as another current comes and carries you under and away. Further down the stream until you resurface again another day. But your hand, spread like a star, has left an imprint in the bank next to where I stand. And I cry because I wonder which channel really called to me. The wind only blows one way now. And I can't turn back. Only go further into the path I've already taken. The river crowns me with foam and tumultuous sounds. And dumps me into the estuary, where I spread like a star in the moonlit ocean. And I hope to someday be found. And I hope that someday you'll read my words by the lights of the moon. Message spilled out of a bottle. And I hope that someday you'll find me.
...We've gotten so used to being happiest in our dreams. But like a mime, I'm stuck inside the nonexistent...
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