The day starts at an hour of my choosing, I like that.

Perched in my pink chair, I sip hot caramel colored decaf coffee from a mug that reads “life is good”, and I know it to be true. Oh how I truly know that fact, which in knowing, the sensible person I believe I am begs to question, how even knowing it abundantly am I unable to shake this gnawing gloom clinging to me, for months now? It stands as a threat to steal my joy if I so much as let my guard down even for a moment. It is bigger than a mind over matter thing, but I know my mind is where the battle wages.

Self-sabotage.

Somehow, with parents and children and grandchildren all well, and so much to celebrate here in the month of June, Dad’s 80^th birthday, a grandsons 5^th, another’s 1^st, the adoption of a granddaughter establishing her as a permanent addition to our family, dear, dear friends, the kind who send cards in the mail and phone texts just to say they’re glad we’re us, good health, a fine home and all that goes with it, somehow, with all that is good and right, sadness creeps like an oozing blackness.

Next month, a few short days from now, I will exit one decade and enter another. The new decade is a rude reminder that I am running out of time. That, compounded by the lack of resources needed to fulfill the wish list I’d like to upload into that limited time, is the culprit, the enemy of my content, the black ooze.

I look at my book of Psalms, a gift from a daughter-in-love, precious. Today I read “ You (God) care about the anguish of my soul”, that’s it really, a soul ache, “I am in distress, tears blur my eyes, my body and soul are withering away, my years are shortened by sadness, I am wasting away from within…as if I were a broken pot”. I can relate to that, all of it, the broken pot part even, much like the one I made in ceramics class designed to represent me, a “self-portrait” in clay, unfinished, because neither am I yet finished. That is a comfort, and empowering.

I look a little further down in the same Psalm and read “You lavish blessing…far from accusing tongues”. Even the forked tongue of a serpent? Even the tongue of the voices in my own head? Ann Voskamp eloquently writes “that serpent, the enemy of your soul, his name means ‘prosecutor’ and that is what he does…he tries to make your life a trial to get you to prosecute yourself…poisons endlessly with self-lies…distort your identity”. The fears creep black, fear “I’ve run out of time…missed the boat…was never good enough for the ‘real boat’…I’ll probably get kicked off this boat”.

I write, it is therapy. In the journaling section of my Psalm book I enter:

Sometimes a rescue is needed even when there is no outward evidence. One can be chased into hiding by an enemy invisible. What I hear myself say to my own ears can freeze me, dead and cold in my tracks unable to push through, ahead.

Lies.

Lies of my own worst enemy, me. I self-sabotage.

One word of encouragement so desperately needed, one expression of loving kindness, threatens the already bulging levy barely holding back the heaving deluge pushing behind it. I swallow hard, push the feelings down, keep them contained, hold back and hold on, ‘till the cavalry, Calvary, rescues, yet again.

I want to run away. I want to get in my car and drive until I meet the edge and have to turn back. The reality of that thought is, as it has always been, that I won’t get very far unless I rack up a credit card debt that will haunt me upon my return. It tempts even still. I succumb to sensibility and decide to instead go to the park just ten minutes up the road. Easily enough along the way my car points itself on a right turn into the fast food drive through. Crack. My son calls the food crack, an irresistible indulgence.

At the park I am greeted by a red bird, dining next to a blue bird, two doves, and a squirrel at the feeder. Coexisting amicably for their own well-being. Even those birds seem to be smarter than me. Isolation is unhealthy even if it is what I prefer. Along the edges of the park path yellow flowers grow in the grass, their faces bent in unison slightly west, looking full on to the warmth and light, their life source. Shouldn’t I be smart enough to do what these mindless flowers automatically and naturally do, bend toward my life source? That is why I am here. A bright green streaks across the trail, an iguana quick to dodge perceived danger and run for cover from it. Shouldn’t this be my reaction to danger?

And so it is.

I have run away, to the woods. Run from the danger of isolation and self-pity. Run to a place where I can meet God for a little us time, just Him and me. I have come where the trees and breeze twirl by the breath of their creator, where the sun and shadows flirt on the path beneath, where the orange butterflies tickle the fancy of purple flowers, and where a feather has gently fallen to the dirt floor.

Treasures for a treasure seeker.

It is a departure, a diversion from the “prosecutor”. It is not a once done cure-all but it is a soul soothe.

There is much yet to celebrate here in June, and into July and the whole second half of the year. Be brave writes Ann Voskamp, “be brave, your bravery strengthens a thousand battles you can’t see because your bravery strengthens a thousand others to win their battles too…there’s a cross you can take into your heart…that can cut the head off a lying snake”.

Sometimes it’s best not to wait for the cavalry and instead go straight to Calvary, where the work of Christ’s cross has already broken the stronghold of the lying snake.

                                               The Ball

Finally, the day had come.

The date was set, invitations extended, and finally, the moment arrived.

It was the most anticipated, most talked about social event of the season, a ball. Fancy clothes, pointed pinky finger hors d’oeuvres, punch to sip, and dancing.

It would be unlike any other before, and would set the precedent for every other after.

A vision of loveliness, she chose a white dress with a black-dotted organza overlay. It was softly gathered at the waistline, belted by a thin black ribbon and embellished with a single red rose. The ensemble was polished off with black patent shoes, and on her slender wrist, his gift, a red carnation compassed about with white baby’s breath. Her sandy-blond hair was shiny and smooth, falling lightly on her shoulders.

Yes, she was nothing short of an angelic vision of loveliness.

She’d seen him in his gray suit, with the stiff-collared shirt, and tie, but only on the most special of occasions. He looked every bit her handsome gentleman caller, on this, their very own most special occasion.

She felt like Cinderella.

He intended to set the bar high enough that any potential prince charming from that point forward, would be measured in her mind by his high bar standard. Any potential prince charming would forever be forced to rival him. He was making it clear it would be no easy task to bump him out of his position as her top guy, exponentially narrowing the field.

There was no danger of the magic of their special evening wearing off, not by midnight, not ever. She’d be snuggled into her bed long before, even while long past the normal bedtime for her five year old self.

 Though she’d fall asleep quickly enough after such an enchanting event, she would still be dancing with daddy in her dreams. A little spin, a little dip, a little hand holding at their first daddy-daughter dance.

Magic really does happen, just ask her.

And daddy, don’t you ever stop believing you are a magic-maker.

Don’t ever give in to the idea that you might just like to “sit this one out”, because you know, the eyes she has for only you right now, will be inclined to ponder new possibilities.

And daddy, be very careful,

because one day, sooner than you ever imagined,

she will give her dance card to another.

P.J.

The view was hampered by a minor yet persistently nagging annoyance. I could get the gist of it alright, so that the beauty was not lost, it’s just that there always seemed to be that fuzzy dark blotch, moving along with my every attempt to reposition for a view unobstructed. Even with all my effort the blotch remained. If the blotch had a tongue it would be sticking out at me wagging na-na-na-na-naaa-na.

As far back as I can remember there has been that blotch, moving, morphing, distorting, a distraction and at times even a hindrance. There have been days, weeks and even months of an almost entirely blurred vision so that all I could make out was a minuscule pinpoint of clarity through a thick fog. Nothing had ever been more difficult than to try to keep focus on that one minute invitation to press forward toward light, toward hope. Was it merely a tease? A lure to keep me moving until I came to stand on the red X where a secret hatch-door would open for the abyss to swallow me whole?

No, it never was. The blotch remained but so did the hope. Most of the time the blotch was just there, in the way, like being a short person behind a tall person only a few rows from the stage zigging to counter their zag. Or like what a TV program does to obscure the identity of an interviewee desiring anonymity, you know, the collection of bouncing pixelated squares in place of a face. 

Frankly the blotch often even went unnoticed, so accustomed was I to it, having learned to pay it no attention at all. With fortitude and resolve I determined not to let its power over me wreck my hope. I wrestled it, restrained it, straight jacket, double pad-locked iron chains, thrown overboard wearing concrete shoes, squelched it. 

There on the bottom though, with time, every time, salt eroded iron chains and disintegrated fabric. Sand beds abraised once snug-fitting concrete shoes and the blotch was freed to slither out, resurfacing large and ominous, I its magnet. 

The reunion could be one of subtlety like the slow yellowing of a picture. It could come on with a hard fast clank to my steeled resolve until my own hands raised to cover my wearied eyes, in attempt to block the despairing view.

The thing is not the blotch, that it is there, or even if it really exists at all. The thing is how much if any of me I allow it to command. I choose where to focus, on the nasty blotch that would steal my joy, peace and happiness, or on the portion of the view that is blotch-free. Even if there is only a pinpoint of clarity, if only a clear view the size of a peephole, look there. See the hope. With my eye tight to the peephole the blotch disappears. Stay close like that with my focus on the peephole view, recognizing that everything within my sight-lines, regardless of where I focus, is there for me to process into living. It can’t in and of itself control me, and I don’t need to try to control it, any of it really. The blotch simply is, and powerless over all hope. I empower it, or not. 

I can, again, render it harmless.

Dark secrets churn below the surface
boiling up behind the invisible lid
to a cauldron of noxious deceit stew
Nostrils scald at its putrid stench
Ingestion bleeds, rots gut, decays soul,
While dining alone.
Seasoned liar!
Salt would disinfect,
light would absolve the death,
If desired
P.J.

Bathing with a dinosaur

Praying for a daughter

In the middle of a Thursday afternoon

Since the cloudy morning

Beckoned hot sweaty yard work

Necessitating evening’s bath too soon

Well, anytime in my book

Is a good time for a bath

But never mind the bath at this odd hour

There’s a foreign object

On the edge of my tub

A pink bodied blue-eyed dinosaur!

He’s there as evidence

That just last night

He kept a bathing tiny person company

So thoughts of gratitude

For the tiny little dude

Who left the dinosaur there to bathe with me!

Then my thoughts turn to prayers

And my prayers turn to pleas

For daughter who is taking a test

Lord grant her recall

Clarity and confidence

Please Lord help her do her best

While the dinosaur stares

Past the silly grin he wears

As I in my tub offer prayers

I am grateful for this

Thursday afternoon in June

And my simple list of bath-time cares

P.J.

Dare I even pen the words

To describe my thoughts

Of more questions than answers

Overshadowed with doubts?

Tainted by disappointment

Surely facts are veiled

Not seeing the whole picture

Some elements withheld

I can’t help but troubled be,

Working hard for good,

When again, my best effort

Doesn’t gain the end it should

I pray may it be so

But again He answers, no

Another rejection saps my will

To give it one more go

I really want to give up

Move on, get it over with

When emotions and feelings

Prod me to just quit

But like the devil’s on my left

An angel’s on my right

Prompting me to see it through

And not give up this fight

Though I almost now expect

I’ll have to settle for plan B

I still wish, I still pray,

God’s will be done in me

I’m wearied of the struggle

While this life unravels plans

Left here with a tangled thread nest

Filling up my hands

I want to change my world, I do!

So positive I’ll be

While I keep on trusting

For reward eventually

P.J.

Harsh the long run when short run’s

rows are tough to hoe

but reapers gone before attest

to struggles of the sow

with burdens real I can’t but feel

it’s not as it should be

time to break out, as walls inside

fast close in on me

head past where the green grass grows

on any by-way east

drive ‘till I run out of road

destination: beach

to stretch out on a couch of sand

for sun to warm me through

then dip and sway in salty waters

as they wash and soothe

yes, anytime I find I need

a check-up from the neck up

beach therapy proves to be

quite often just enough

P.J.

Walking along, it became increasingly evident that darkness crept nearer, just ahead, to the sides, and even behind. It was enveloping, like a northern winters night to be braced against. As light further faded, dark’s sounds were haunting. A shiver reminded that chill comes when light goes. The sky hid its stars behind a canopy of pitch clouds. 
What was most startling though was not so much the penetrating darkness, as the power of this one small flame to dissipate it. The dark’s vastness far greater than the small flame, yet the light radiating from the small flame source wholly negated the dark. 
Fascinating!

Luckily for me I have never had any desire to go to the moon. Add to that, rowboat across the Atlantic Ocean, climb Mount Everest, and track Tibetan tigers. I don’t want to be president or an algebra professor. What I do want seems much less lofty and yet almost equally unachievable, which really has me stumped. Why won’t things just work out as I wish? Are mine just pipe-dreams? 

Definition of pipe-dream: a hope, a wish, or dream, that is impossible to achieve, or not practical. 

Hmmm, I know these that I have are not impossible. For me to get to the moon, that is pretty impossible, but my wishes absolutely are not! So, are they not practical? In some ways, not, I am alone in the journey, the dream that would take me miles and miles from here without so much as a dog for a companion. And what about expenses, and my old car. It’s enough to be alone but alone and left stranded by an old car I cannot repair myself, in the middle of nowhere, well, that is intimidating. Then there are my responsibilities and the people who count on me, my sweet grand-kids. I would miss this critical time with them, time that never offers a hold. I stop me for their sake. 

It is July. Already June has passed and the rest of summer nips at the heels of autumn. If not now the opportunity will again be gone. That thought makes me sad. Too many thoughts lately have made me sad. Here in the midst of so many wonderful positives, how dare I feel sadness? 

I am in an ever so much better position in life than many many others, in countless ways, yet discouragement over what I can’t, didn’t or won’t, weight heavy on me. Doubt whether I really do have any skills or talents, and frustration over why after all these years of practice they have not yet earned me a position to meet reasonable minimums. These negatives are common to man. I do not describe anything that every single person has not themselves questioned or wrestled with. 

Thoughts such as these can be a marvelous catalyst to positive change. To work through steps needed to reach goals. Dream big but in small enough bites as to not be overwhelmed and frozen, unable to figure out where to start and see progress. Procrastination stagnation sees nothing at all happen except the passing of time. 

What I have told myself, what I continue to tell myself, what others have told me and what others continue to tell me, shapes me. I am either motivated forward toward my best, inspired to work it out, or leaned on hard pressed in this place, making it scarier and unnecessarily difficult to do anything but remain, stay put. Shrivel up and die really. That hardly seems acceptable!

I think the struggle never ends. One replaces another, some never resolve, simply fizzle. Some sprout, bud and bloom in glorious satisfying accomplishment. 

I wonder if my sprout has shriveled on the vine. I hope it is just in a dormant season in wait for that infusion that will burst it into full life.

 to end a lighter note:

Call the “wha-mbulance” for the whiners!

and on a positive note:

We need to be both comforted and comfortable being dwarfed by God, who is immeasurably greater than us. Like going to the beach or mountains where we are dwarfed, and refreshed. (Jackie Kendall)