i just had a moment of terror when i saw this blank page. it was staring at me, all empty and waiting. all bare and needy. i had a moment of 'what will i fill it with?' of 'what do i even have to say?' a daunting moment. a turn and run away moment. a 'close it down and avoid it' moment. and it left me wondering, what has happened? this used to be the place that i ran to. this blank page gave me hope and calm and freedom. this blank page helped me frame my days, and make sense of my weeks. i came here to process and reflect and find myself- my voice- those parts that could feel so buried in my life. it was here that i ran to be still. to stop and wait and listen. so where am i going now? am i just running? is it the constancy of these bumpy african roads in my bumpy african life? where am i in this great spinning world?
i have visions sometimes of atlanta. of my house, our home. of sitting in the late afternoon, while the kids watched noggin' or played trucks, and being on the porch writing with a glass of wine and pandora playing and the giant trees of my back yard shading me. it feels so far off and so welcoming. it feels so safe and real.
i don't think it's just the wine and the water oaks and pandora- although those things are nice. i think it was me. it was where i was and where i was going and it was me slowing it down and making a plan, a routine, a way to be still. to be quiet and purposefully still. even with three little kids- even while homeschooling a child with special needs- even while working part-time- and having a husband who worked more than full-time and not having any house help (but several large working machines that did help) i found that place of stillness. i carved it out. i quieted my self and i stopped and i listened to my life, and i showed up here and i wrote it. i invited myself into a process of growth. i gave myself the space i needed to breathe. and in that place- i found peace and warmth and room and expansion.
i need to come home to this. because stillness begets stillness and growth begets growth and reflection, reflection.
these days i'm fine and more than fine- i'm happy- which is great. but i'm also spinney and busy -in a treading water sort of way. like i'm all tired out but not getting anywhere. like i'm continually amazed and confused that another week has come and gone and am left wondering where it has actually gone- or how it's been different.
yet here it is. a new year. another year. not just a new day or week or month, but year. 2014.
maybe it can be for me a year of returning. going back. remembering. a year of carving out the time and place to be regularly available to myself- to quiet the waters, let the red dust settle, to stop and look and hear what is happening beneath the happenings- because i think i've forgotten and i don't want to anymore. i want to return to a place of fullness- with out fear of the empty page or space- where i can be with nothing needed- with no urgency- and wait for what comes. where i can look back on the day and remember those minutes in the car with jude talking about free will and choice in life- and how hard that can be. where i can savor and see the opportunity in zoe being home with me this week because her school aide isn't back from vacation. where i can stop and relish bryn saying "mommy look in my eyes" while i sing to him at bedtime. where i can hold the moments of lying on our bed sandwiched between mike and rose at the end of a long day, listening to her stories about school. where i can be blown away by the goodness of God in the light as the day starts, in the first star before even the darkness comes, and in the sound of dry leaves falling hard on our tin roof.
may it can be a year of returning.
i have visions sometimes of atlanta. of my house, our home. of sitting in the late afternoon, while the kids watched noggin' or played trucks, and being on the porch writing with a glass of wine and pandora playing and the giant trees of my back yard shading me. it feels so far off and so welcoming. it feels so safe and real.
i don't think it's just the wine and the water oaks and pandora- although those things are nice. i think it was me. it was where i was and where i was going and it was me slowing it down and making a plan, a routine, a way to be still. to be quiet and purposefully still. even with three little kids- even while homeschooling a child with special needs- even while working part-time- and having a husband who worked more than full-time and not having any house help (but several large working machines that did help) i found that place of stillness. i carved it out. i quieted my self and i stopped and i listened to my life, and i showed up here and i wrote it. i invited myself into a process of growth. i gave myself the space i needed to breathe. and in that place- i found peace and warmth and room and expansion.
i need to come home to this. because stillness begets stillness and growth begets growth and reflection, reflection.
these days i'm fine and more than fine- i'm happy- which is great. but i'm also spinney and busy -in a treading water sort of way. like i'm all tired out but not getting anywhere. like i'm continually amazed and confused that another week has come and gone and am left wondering where it has actually gone- or how it's been different.
yet here it is. a new year. another year. not just a new day or week or month, but year. 2014.
maybe it can be for me a year of returning. going back. remembering. a year of carving out the time and place to be regularly available to myself- to quiet the waters, let the red dust settle, to stop and look and hear what is happening beneath the happenings- because i think i've forgotten and i don't want to anymore. i want to return to a place of fullness- with out fear of the empty page or space- where i can be with nothing needed- with no urgency- and wait for what comes. where i can look back on the day and remember those minutes in the car with jude talking about free will and choice in life- and how hard that can be. where i can savor and see the opportunity in zoe being home with me this week because her school aide isn't back from vacation. where i can stop and relish bryn saying "mommy look in my eyes" while i sing to him at bedtime. where i can hold the moments of lying on our bed sandwiched between mike and rose at the end of a long day, listening to her stories about school. where i can be blown away by the goodness of God in the light as the day starts, in the first star before even the darkness comes, and in the sound of dry leaves falling hard on our tin roof.
may it can be a year of returning.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.