Here we are again.

I have a lot on my mind right now. There are lots of pieces threatening to come together, to resolve. The suspense is killing me, but the next 2 years are going to determine so much of the course of my life. And there are lots of questions that refuse to be answered. Mostly, I want a lot of conflicting things that God has little interest in helping me sort out. Instead, I am processing things that I thought I had long since finished the grief process for. But it turns out that you can start the whole process over in a moment's notice...and that has been a hallmark of my life.

I get angry when I realize that I am back in this familiar place. I have a lot of bad poetry from the first few times. I am not here to contribute anymore of that tonight. Mostly, I am here to write until I understand myself.

See, I loved my growing up. My running through the woods of Montana under the watch of mountains and sky. My making candy in mom's kitchen. My long ago friends with our silly adventures. These are all precious pieces with specific pictures of people and places.

And yet there is this haunting feeling of loss. I don't know how to explain it except that in psychology it is often referred to as abstract loss. It is the loss where you know that things as they are do not quite qualify as normal, something is missing...even if you don't know quite what the name of that thing is. It is not that something physical was taken away or stolen. For me, it is that I grew up so fast. I went from 7 years old to 18 and from there to 30 years old. Or something like that. From child to adult and from adult to parent before I ever turned 10. More or less. It is not an exact science. I cannot say that I was paying much attention to the details of the experience when it was all happening.

And now I am trying to explain what it means to have lost so much of your childhood, to grow up so early. It is not as though I can try to be 8 years old again. The best I can do is be the age I am. I get flack for that sometimes, for really holding onto being just my age and no older. Our society is so good at praising those who mature quickly. I loved being 19. It was horrible year of life filled with abandonment, but it was the first year that I got to deal with my problems as a 19 year old, my actual age. And I will never be 19 again because I grew up. But there are ages that fell into the chasm of survival. I never was those and it wouldn't be healthy to try to reclaim them now, ten or more years later. How do I explain the loss I feel in knowing that? There is no good comparison because I do not know what I missed except by the quiet envy I experience from time to time.

Looking back, I think I made the best of a bad situation. I think I chose well. I think it was all that could be asked of me and I would give it all again. The anger and hurt rise though when some secret wind whispers, it didn't have to be that way. The game was set and the odds were stacked before I ever had a chance. It is then that I remember that I live in a world under a curse. Most days, I am fine and grown up and unaware of the damage done. But then something small happens and all of the walls of the rooms that I have built inside myself crumble under a torrent of emotion that I wish I could control. Then the feeling of loss overwhelms and I wonder if healing is possible, if it ever really stays. And I think it does. It is just slower than I am patient.

But then that whispering wind hands me more discontentment as it howls around the ruins inside me.

You may heal but you will never be restored.
You will always be just a little bit

broken.

 It helps when I remember that we all have lost something in this curse, that we are survivors of a heavenly war that we chose the wrong side in. It is best not to compare pain and loss. No one wins that way.

Mostly, tonight I hope that healing is still possible. That restoration is a bigger miracle than I can imagine. And that eternity can provide things that are impossible amongst the mortal, cursed, and dying.

And that all of this grieving really will be turned to a celebration that is not forced or false in anyway.

so many thoughts and no sifter large enough to fit them into

I want to hide myself in pictures, but only words come.

I want refuge in the expressed yet unexplained.

I want to lose myself to complexities of color and depth.

But everything has been laid bare:

too vulnerable,

too certain,

too easily ascertained;

but not the least bit understood.

So I am left saying what I try to mean

And not meaning very much.

If I could but bite and swallow and win and smile--

all at the same time,

in the space of half a breath.

...If I could just command obedience,

and cooperation from my insides

to my fingers...

then maybe you, they, I would see

what it is that I keep inside of me.

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Your body of suffering now brings pain where once I sought release. It is not supposed to be this way, I think. But here it is in my body condemned to death. And it is fitting, though unexpected. You are the only one I could accept this from. But that does not mean that I want to. Forgive me?

I want to be strong enough to give you my weakness. Perhaps, tomorrow. Or perhaps a miracle instead. If only I could be strong enough, but weakness is my marrow, my blood, my DNA, my name. No, not my name. It is in my weakness that I find those quiet moments.

In these moments I am finding out who I am. And who I am is Pain.

Your body, broken for me, has never meant so much... but it has never felt so far away. Our symbols break down and I feel the weight of the debris. Silly contradicting vanities open wide their questions and load them on my shoulders. Too strong, but not strong enough to be weak. Not weak enough to surrender them to you.

I do not think I am doing this right; but I am not yet ready to stop, only ready to be taught again.

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I can feel you leaving.

Bit by desperately-needing-to-be-untangled-bit.

I do not have the power to stop you--

Only this bit of broken will.

But you say nothing to draw attention,

(you had that a long time ago.)

You do nothing to be remembered,

(It doesn't matter. I have tallied the smallest details of expressions.)

You try your best to fade out.

(I am disappointed by your lack of originality.)

Friend, stay?

And that is all I have to offer.

But things are changing like a city in its last hour of day light.

Soon nothing will be the way it was.