Deep Calls

Often -- too too often -- I am yipped and yapped at by should's and ought's. I am the problem...on some days my 'rose-colored' glasses are streaked with grime and smudged as I rub them with grimier fingers. Yesterday as I scanned the horizon of life -- not just my life, but life as far and wide as I could see -- I saw patterns of things that should not be the way they are, things that ought to have come through change to good and settled by now. It is weariness to me. I can quote the answers but they come out ~ on days like those ~ as trite, heartless syllogisms: true in point of fact, but without heart and devoid of life. I know the power that ought to course through the Body of Christ ~ the dynamic miracles, the cutting-edge creativity, the unshakable integrity...and I see my'self' and see that in these and in so soooooo many areas, I stand 'the chief of all sinners'. Yes, 4 fingers pointed back at me and 1 pointed out at situation after situation, e...

Shooting was very fun...and kind of scary. And loud. And I liked to shoot. And Erica hurt her hand. And the family that shoots together, keeps all their stuff. And BANG!

So I wrote the last one because I had an image...not a story. I was reading my 'dictionary.com' entry that morning. OBVIOUSLY the word of the day was cacophony . cacophony: 1. harsh discordance of sound; dissonance: a cacophony of hoots, cackles, and wails. 2. a discordant and meaningless mixture of sounds: the cacophony produced by city traffic at midday. 3. Music. frequent use of discords of a harshness and relationship difficult to understand. I instantly was struck with the juxtaposition of thought having cacophony too...but a cacophony silent to the world. My mind swirled with the idea/concept/questions ~ in my head, I 'hear' thoughts...when I can concentrate it is (usually) one voice. But though I hear it , it isn't made of sound....but if I 'hear' it -- and I do -- what is it? So I stopped on an image of those moments when thoughts bombard me from all directions at once: memories of conversations, sometimes mixed with things I wish I had said; questio...

She readjusted her glasses and intently set her eyes to the print infront of her. Words and words. By the bottom of the page, lines and lines of lines and lines...she gave up. Snapping the book shut and pushing it to the back of the desk, she spun in her chair to gaze out the window. Marion said her name 4 times before it registered ~ the silent cacophany of her thoughts blaring above any sound her ears tried to bring her. a beginning...of something

I re-read the last blog. I told my daughter it was a bit like fruitcake. That isn't exactly a perfect comparison, especially because I really don't like fruitcake at all. What I mean is it was chalked full of too much...too much-ness. The sentences were one simile and one metaphor and one comparison after another. (I bet, Garth, that you either laughed out loud, or didn't even bother finishing it.) I thought about it and wondered if it might have had something to do with the fact that I hadn't been able to write anything in like a week -- couldn't even really "think" writing. I wonder if the images stacked up by the door of my mind and all tumbled out together. Don't get me wrong...it was fun to write "Reflections". When I told my daughter that I needed suggestions cuz I had hit a DRY spot, she said I should think of a memory from when they were all little and write a story. I remembered a dress-up box that the kids had. They had spent hours ...

She stood, like a cameo surrounded by the perfect oval of her tall mirror, amid the scattered jumble of this and that dress tossed carelessly from the dress-up chest. The gown she had chosen was only barely still lavender and scarred by careless coffee drips and after date make-up smudges. She didn't see them. She didn't see the unmended rip at the hem where a misplaced high heel had severed material from seam. With an unconscious tug at the sleeve to pull it back up on her shoulder, she focused on the old lace table cloth and the clips barrettes she was using to secure it to her braids -- braids she had bobby-pinned to the top of her head in what looked to her to be a crown. She had chosen the mismatched jumble of barrettes with the practiced eye of a Milan couturier. Stepping back and turning slowly -- this way, then that -- she surveyed the effect as the light caught the facets in the 'diamonds' of the tiara that held her bridal veil in place. She smiled. And she saw...

I like the feel of a cold floor on bare feet on a brisk morning. Funny because I like a warm bed to tuck my feet into at night. I like the first whiff of fresh ground coffee beans. I like the color of the sky at twilight -- deepening aqua blue, especially when the trees are silhouetted against it. I like roses and I like violets. Violets are especially wonderful early in the morning when the dew is sprinkled on the green velvet leaves and the violets are deep and purple and full of perfume. I like the smell of homemade bread when it is baking in the oven. I like the first bite of homemade cookies. I like the magic you catch when your eyes lock with someone's and you know the same delightful thought dances in your mind and theirs. I like the wonder I feel as I gaze at art in a museum. I love standing there, caught in the amazement of beauty. I like strong Irish cheddar cheese, crisp crackers and Earl Grey Tea. I like a bit of butter, with salt and pepper on popcorn and a cup of good...