April 22nd, 2021: The Journal Entry Series

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Worry. It has been one of my biggest enemies for as far back as I can remember. Since the time when I was a six year old latch-key kid coming in from school, and waiting for Mama to arrive from work. The window by the front door was where I used to post up, if even she were running a minute behind her usual time. The tears I cried were the fuel of my anxiety. I say, "God is working on me," in regards to why, some thirty-eight years later, I am still battling the same old spirit. It could easily be excused while still in childhood. No one expects you to know better. What about now though? Why has it not yet left me? Why do I continuously find myself holding close companionship with something that, if allowed its way, would kill me? 

 My imagination takes me away. I see freedom in the form of a beautiful butterfly. From the wide expanse of it's wings with their colorful skin crowned in captivating glory; no one would ever know that they came from a dark hollowed shell. Before their freedom, in fact, they were trapped, not just in the transformation shell, but inside a limited body, and under a different name. Yes, worry has entrapped me; prevented me from flying to my fullest potential. I can only wish to be inside the transformation shell now that I've not only entered adulthood, but have been a resident for many years. But worry has me stuck inside the limited caterpillar's body, and only able to crawl along at a snail's pace to freedom. 

 One day though, those wings that I hope for, will be more than just apart of a mental fantasy. They will be real; acquired, mine to keep. One day those wings will help me defeat this life-long enemy, and then I will truly be free.

A Simple Mundane Life

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Words on paper. Those are as solid as one can be.  A real reflection of what is in our hearts.  Things we trouble ourselves to talk about.  They are as committed to the author as one would be in marriage. These words come alive, and can surpass in breath even the writer who scripted them.

If blissful ignorance were a place, I would buy property there, and build a vacation home.  Because, while knowledge is indeed powerful, some of it can be the anchor which holds the learner under water, leaving them to drown in their sorrows.

The "information highway" reaches speeds past that of sound, past the light reflected off the sun and onto the objects which wait for its shine. Last week, last month, last year; this week, this month, this year. We move in a circle of stuff some of us did not ask to know.  Our muscles hurt.  There is simply too much to carry, and we have no more room to shift their weight.

I understand now why, as we age, we move more toward wanting a simple mundane life.  Its the great expectation of waking up every morning and knowing what is going to happen with no unwelcomed surprises. Life starts, and it seems we are so willing to explore all the possibilities it can bring.  The world is full with oyster pearls, and we believe we can gather more than our portion's share.  Then, the reality of being a "responsible adult" hits, and we begin the process of second guessing our choices, climb onto our circular-shaped stones, and begin our journey down hill.

Yes, it can very much look like a dark future to look forward to, but it doesn't have to be. There are resting places along the way.  We need those in order to regroup, and build strength in order jump back on our circular stones, and keep riding the never-ending hill of waves.

It is a challenge indeed, while riding those waves, to long for a resting place that seems all too far away. I find myself stealing away moments to rest, while at the same time making moves to emulate an undeterred champion. This works for those who are watching. It makes it look as though I am rooted in strength, not because it is what I am feeling, but for those who need to see that picture to prevent them from worrying, I am glad to paint it. Yet, I wonder, just how long this strong tower image will hold up? Because, I am certainly not a strong tower on the inside.  This is the place only visible in part by me, and in full view to the Creator.

The tower is crumbling, not because it only holds up under the right circumstances, like those of many others, but because the consistent pressure of the weight being stacked high upon its head, has been sitting there far too long. It is trying to do a new thing with old tools, drawing from old resources for a new reality, and wondering if the two will ever meet in perfect harmony. 

There is hope still.  One which never leaves, but resides well with me and those who refuse to allow living drive the life right out of us. We look to it in order to find peace enough to sleep at night. Solace is found within dreams and visions.  They craft a clear picture of God's voice, which in the noise of the business from the day, can go unheard. He leans in to the level of our understanding and assures us that our hope is not in vain.

Mundane, in the dictionary, is defined as both dull and lacking excitement, as well as being "of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one."  To me, it can be a place we run to when we grow old, or a place we run from while we are still young. Either way, we understand the meaning of its purpose most deeply during the quiet stillness of our journey. It is an oxymoron, in that it can be both good and bad; confined to the fear of it in our former years, and escaping in it while we wait for these temples made of dirt to pass away.

Living Ashes

Sometimes we can get caught off guard by how unbearingly unbearable this life thing can really be. I was amazed at how quickly I spiraled in what is to me, one of the most cleansing sanctuaries I hold very dear.

Despite the fact that I may have undiagnosed OCD, because my obsession with cleanliness is bordering on unhealthy, I feel my shower to be the place where I can completely unwind, and clean not only my exterior, but experience the deep inward flow of cleansing from the inside, through song, prayer & meditation. 

 My family and I just came off of an exhilarating high. I say that because this weekend was our first time going our separate ways, and enjoying the individuality of who we are as single units (who are still very much apart of a bonded whole). My mother-in-law and I are unlike most I know, in the fact that we do actually get along. Not only do we get along, but in the twenty-two years I have been married to her son, she and I have developed such a closeness to where she is one of my best friends. We spent the whole weekend shopping, eating, sipping wine (well me, not she), and watching movies to fall asleep to. These are a few of our favorite things.

My plan had been to get away and make up for the times we had not been able to go out and do those things when she last came to visit. It was a welcomed escape, because it meant I would spend less time worrying about my youngest son who was driving out of town with his new girlfriend for the first time, my oldest, who was playing in a football league amidst the pandemic (and still refuses to take the vaccine), and my husband who drove out of town using my car (my other baby), with a heavy foot and eagerness to speed (help me Jesus). It worked. My plan that is. 

Singing in the shower ,to one of Kirk Franklin's up-beat contemporary gospel songs, and in the midst of "Smile"-ing right along with the words coming out of the speaker from my iPhone; I was hit with the dreaded feeling of helplessness, which comes along with sorrow, and swings hands as they take a slow "romantic" stroll across your heart. 

 April 2nd was the day, two years ago, my Daddy left this world and moved to the next. Normally, I would post a tribute to him, on my social media accounts, to honor his memory, but this year, I just couldn't do it. One of the hardest things in the world is bearing the weight of one's grief. It gets so heavy, at times I have set it down, turn away and not look at it, yet knowing it is still there. 

I still have Daddy's ashes with me. Although, in the Catholic faith, everyone who professes to be apart of this church must be buried. But my father was not Catholic (nor am I). He made that very clear. Yes, he believed in God, just not the strict traditions practiced by that particular faith. The priest presiding over his funeral told me that I must promise to bury him in order for him to perform the service. There was a desperateness in my answer. I knew there would be no one else I could find to perform Daddy's funeral just before it was set to start, first because I had no clue of who to reach out to in the sticks of Crowley, Louisiana, and second, because my family had put an astronomical amount of pressure on me to see to it he was buried in the catholic way. My answer was yes. I have to admit though, I broke the promise, & lied to the priest. 

The truth is, at that time, I didn't know what I'd do with Daddy's ashes. One thought was to bury him in Ft. Worth, because it was a place he held dear to his heart. Yet, it has been two years, and he's still here with me. To be honest, the longer I keep him, the more difficult it becomes to let him go. There is a sense of comfort in knowing my Daddy is close by. I pass his ashes daily on my way out the door. A part of me is in that box with him. Just like a part of him walks with me out the door. 

Sometimes, in passing, I accidentally bump the cabinet where he resides, and the door hiding his ashes pops open. These are when the dread of his absence is reborn. I can't explain the sudden shift, but when it happens, when the door is open even just a crack, the rush of grief I battle to keep at bay takes over. It is a puncturing wound filled with salt. I am weakened then, and racing out of my own head to find some sort of strength. I wonder now, if that door had been cracked open while I was still in the shower? 

In grief, we somehow manage to be among the living, while at the same time floating above ourselves as if to escape life itself. You hear the goings on around you, but only as if from a great distance away. You know the world still turns, even as you feel cemented in one place. 

Time does not heal the wounds. It only makes their weight lighter to bear, like a scab over a knife cut. Even when the wound fully heals, the scar left behind reminds you that your hurt is still there. Daddy's ashes are a comfort, and they are my scars. It may hurt to remember, but I never want to forget.