I write because…? I write because, in writing I am not alone.

Martyrs

To repent, does not mean to get back up again and walk along. It is a state of being, a perpetual cry of “Be it unto me according to thy world.” It is a submission that expects nothing, or rather, can bank on nothing, a submission that says “yes!” before I have heard the reply. The submission that is surprised when what comes from above is “I love you.”

Whether he slay me or preserve me, “Blessed be the NAME of the LORD.”

And this response, when heard completely, will not include a rising up and walking away. Instead, it elicits joy beyond measure, uncompromising loyalty, outpouring love, and a staying there at His feet.
“Broken and spilled out, just for love of you Jesus.
In sweet abandon let me be spilled out and used up for thee.”

Confidence? It has alluded me for years: All my life to one extent or another. And yet so many say they see it in me ever since I was young. I have been like jelly around the ones I most wanted as colleagues. And then I find out that I don’t have to keep proving myself. They actually enjoy, I am not a charity case. And while I have to accept that I will never be only a colleague, I am not just listened to because I can think a bit more then the average female and because I am not a complete fright.

MY EYES OR YOUR EYES?
I wish I could speak in another’s words. So much is said that I only miserably fail to express. The attempt at consolation: “for us it is only the trying the rest is not our business.” It is not enough. My “unpropitious” words still break down. So I write in quotes. I give you ideas that haunt me in quotes. I want to share it with you, leaving it intact the way that I found it. And maybe I will see that we share the same eyes. Maybe your soul will jump as mine did.

?NOT AN ARTIST?
I am not an artist, only an admirer. Why can’t I have my own passion? Why was I not given a calling, a thing that would order my practical existence. But I am a woman, seemingly destined to do what so many women have done before me. I will marry and live for the sake of others. I will take on another’s dream and pour myself out as an offering, because I love. And while a part of me recoils at the seemingly mundane and the ordinariness of it all, I am consoled with the thought that I just might complete, that I might find a 1+1 makes 1 instead of the ever common 1 +0 makes 1.


I don’t know what I want to do, but I do know that I won’t do it alone, nor will I suffer to be left behind.

The Hours
Flash backs of my childhood. The little boy is me, his quite concern, the sense of foreboding, the feeling of responsibility, I have to make it better, I have to take care of mommy. “I love you mommy.” The quite cry that maybe with these words things will be made all better.

"Was there a missing component in all human beings? The rural masses seeking the metropolis; the urban young fleeing to the woods. Women pretending to be men; men becoming more like women; everyone aping divinity in his desperation to escape creature hood? Western youths seeking the Orient; Orientals seeking capitalism? Monks abandoning their monasteries; married men pining for solitude. Liberals seeking to demythologize the Scriptures in an attempt to flee the exigencies of biblical faith; fundamentalists seeking to fill the empty places in their religion by a return to the Old Testament, fleeing the tasks of the baptized intellect. Was the promise always to be found elsewhere, always just beyond the next horizon? Why this persistent need for signs, wonders, new pillars of fire, arks of covenant, tablets of stone- anything other than the demands of raw, laborious, darkest faith."
Father Elijah, by Michael O'Brian

How can a look hurt so much? He slashes at my gut, every moment... deeper. I try to look away but I am riveted by the pain, by the hope, by the reality of it all, and the gaze just hurts more!



(No wonder the Greeks placed the center of their existence within the gut, right at the center, from there proceeds the thought, the joy, the strength, the pain.)

So I am wondering where all my thoughts have gone...


My file directory seems destitute when compared with the revolutions of being which have molded me over the last four years. I feel separated yet haunted by the person I used to be and I wonder if time will take her further away from me or remind me of her.

Out of Africa/Frida
Strong women, women who face the pain and choose life. One does not shrink from loneliness. The other matures in and through the physical pain. How can I claim that I want what I have been so sheltered from? But I do not want life without these depths and heights. To live fully is better then living perpetually “well.” I will not be beautified apart from this struggle.
“I hope that when I leave it will be happy and that I will never return.”
                                                All of them emerge as butterflies.

So... I got inspired and I couldn't help myself.