Love Affair

It’s Saturday night and I’m just sitting here watching movie trailers. So, the usual. I managed to work in two burritos today, several handfuls of chocolate chips and then a drink with chia seeds to balance out the other things.

I also took this super romantic walk by myself. Well, the dog was kind of with me on the walk. He mostly ran ahead of me and went to the bathroom on stuff. Looking back on that, it’s actually kind of incredible how many times he urinated.

The sky was outrageously complex and emotional. The trees, too, and the yellowed grass edging all of those muddy green fields. Obviously I live in the country. Even living in the country I couldn’t help but resent the signs of life invading all of that beautiful, wild, winter nature. I have this favorite tree, which is crowded by power lines, a mail box, the road, some tacky little spray painted No Trespassing sign. 

When I walk that direction on the road, I look forward to seeing it likes it’s some attractive man I always run into at the grocery store. No, I’m more forward with this tree: I circle it and take photos of it with my cell phone, slowly looking for some angle that captures as much of it’s glory as possible without some ugly man-made object messing things up…

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Detours

I feel a bit sad and overwhelmed today.

Looking for the healthiest actions to take, I thought I could start with that confession and and then maybe some other things that should be said.

I was in a car accident Wednesday morning, on my way to Stanwood to meet with one of my pastors. We were going to talk about my current spiritual crisis and I 

was going to ask for his advice about various other pieces of dissonance within and around me.
But then I crashed. Specifically, while heading south, trying to avoid something going on in the northbound lane, I got my wheel hooked on the side of the road and this got my car swinging wildly out of my control, which sent me flying at a spin into that northbound lane full of cars.

Picturing this now to describe it gives me this achy tightness in my chest…

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Can I Get Back to You?

If you’ve known me for more than a few years, you may have noticed (you imaginary readers, you) that I didn’t write anything on my daughter’s birth/deathday this year.

Here’s what I was doing instead of writing: hanging out with friends, going to church.

For several months now, I have been in this angry-at-religion mode. Not angry at my Christian friends, not angry with God, but angry at all of the trappings, all of the methods and all the ways people use to talk about those methods. It had become reactionary to the extreme. If I thought through the things that set me off, I could identify that they were either really not a big deal, or I could see how I disagreed with them (also not such a big deal). In some cases, identifying something that set me off would cause me to realize I actually agree with that thing. Nevertheless, I was struggling furiously with all of it…

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It’s Not A Thing

Have you ever noticed babies when they’re first learning to talk? They don’t have real words, but they begin to mimic the sounds adults make… also, they usually do this mimicking while an adult is talking. When the adult stops talking, the child stops, too. They haven’t quite understood that talking is about exchanging something, they seem to think it’s just another human thing to make noise with your mouth, and they remember they want to try this only when others are moving their mouths.

This, then, is how my writing mind is currently behaving. When I’m reading a real book, or listening to an audiobook, there are half phrases and shadowy stories chattering away, mindlessly behind the real words that someone else has written. It’s more of a feeling than of real words- like those babbling babies, who also are not saying real things, but copy-emoting.

When I’m not reading/listening to the writing of others, my brain is like those gloriously desiccated waste lands in a Cormac McCarthy novel. Not only are they void of story, the landscape remains chalked in featureless dust.

And writing about how I’m not writing is as much as I can manage.

Also, I really love the word desiccated. Ubiquitous, superfluous, redacted, entropic.

My English Composition professor said that writer’s block is not a thing: you just have to lower your standards. So I guess I’ll have to get low.

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Pretty Good Year

It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting in my cluttered living room while rain lashes the bushes outside against the glossy, wet windows. Fireplace aglow, presents in a glittery heap, a half knitted sock (that I’ve been working on for a few years, which loses its needles every time I put it away), the book I just finished lies exhaling next to me on the couch.

I’ve started so many posts in the last few months, some of them getting no farther than an intriguing title. There’s plenty to say (always), but how much of it needs to be said here? As 2015 comes to a close, it feels right to make some account for myself, so here is a list of the main events:

January: came to Lynden to work with Rise Campaign.
This was the best start to a new year, though I didn’t know it at the time. Staying connected to YWAM in this low-pressure way, working with kind and passionate people who champion me despite my sometimes excessive lack of productivity… this is the reason I’ve been able to leave survival mode and start tackling the world again…

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