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.

Don't look in the mirror.

I am struggling--have been struggling--don't expect to stop struggling any time soon.

I think the Christian way to say this is that "God is refining me". But I do not often think in the Christian way and all I feel is disgust and dread and a little bit of fatalism. I am learning about myself...the trap doors and movable walls and booby traps. Here we go. They were made for someone else; but, once made aware of such things inside of me and how they affect those around me, I begin to fall into one after the other in rapid succession. I am not allowed out. The hallways are long. There are stairs missing. I have already made mention of the moving walls and alluded to the sharp things that find you in the dark.

But worst of all is the feeling that I am responsible for this even though I have no immediate knowledge or secrets that could ever help me to safety. It is, after all, the inner workings of my emotions and intellect and that damned tongue that keep this fun house dangerous and make a haunt out of what should be a home.

I think the Christian solution is to pray more. But I rather feel like hermitting in the woods. Besides, I am certain that improvement will be slow, dangerous, and always a little too late to save those whom I would spare the razors and mazes if I could.

blindness

Tonight, I watched a movie called Volviendo and I listened to a woman share about her life before, during, and after being trafficked. She now works to help other survivors reclaim their humanity, their self-worth, and especially their health. I had this question burnt into me as I watched and listened: how do you stare into the darkness for so long and still see?

Me? I am torn. I do not want to look away and neglect the darkness. But I am small. If I stare at it too long, I am sure it will creep inside of me, take up residence, flood me, spill out, and not even notice me struggling to breathe. The darkness is...dark. And I? I do not possess any light of my own. Most days, I forget about the light I have been given and I trade it. I let go of the joy of the Lord for busyness. I let go of my self-dignity for productivity and survival and getting to wherever someone else told me I should be going.

I am fragile. And the world is heavy and sharp and full of broken things that want to make me like them. It is hard to even figure out where to stand much less how to stick both of my hands into those dark places and keep trying to pull them that would come out. The dark is full and everywhere and deep.

I know God is big. I know He uses small things, weak things. But I am certain that I will break if tried.

But I cannot look away. I want to some days. I want to move to suburbia and construct a beautiful life that is so safe and so far away from all of these things. I want to reduce injustice to stories and brokenness to the part just before the fairy tale gets good. But I cannot. I love true things, even when they are ugly. Ugly truth is still more trustworthy than the most beautiful of lies. And healing, healing makes the broken places worthwhile. I have never met someone who has been down that very, very long road who has been disappointed with the result.

But I am so unqualified to help the people around me to find healing. I have tried in good ways and bad. And both of failed much more often than they have succeeded to any degree. Of this I am certain, I am no good at healing. I am afraid that I am very bad at loving people, especially the closer they are to me. I have some very good intentions sometimes, but I am a clumsy healer in the least poetic sense. But this is not really about me. This is about that overwhelming darkness and how much respect I have for people who have the strength to stare into it without going blind.

I met a woman a few days ago. She asked for a cigarette and money to feed her children. My boyfriend gave her $5 and I asked her name. Charlotte. Whatever her life had brought her, it wasn't what she dreamed of when she was 6 years old. Whether she told us the truth or not is not really important. I see her and so many other people walking about under a weight that has left them feeling less than human. And I want to teach them their worth. I want to heal them. But I cannot. The darkness is there. And I do not yet know how to penetrate it. I can only peek into it for now and hope to learn something which may yet equip me to be one who stares into it making the most of every opportunity and never goes blind. I want to see what is there as it truly is, but I do not yet know how.

Almost.

I have files and files
and notebooks upon notebooks.
I also have scraps,
class notes
with less space in the margins
than in the paragraphs,
church bulletins,
and a host more of artistic shrapnel
from a mind that is ... dysfunctional.

However, my dysfunction is a special kind
because it looks so useful,
it looks like responsibility,
it looks like the right thing.
I hope I do not learn
to regret all the right things I do in my life
like I regret this.

When I have worn through my poetic dishonesty,
all of that 'shrapnel'
from all of my ideas and thoughts and wanderings
is not as much lately,
not as much as it used to be.
I guess that is success.
I think they call it focusing.
But I,

I feel like I am dying.

I did not think I heard voices
until they went silent
and there was only me
and my routine,
my checklist.

Today, all of my files,
each one of my folders,
and binders full of scraps
looks like a monument
to the ungrateful false god:
 'almost'.

It used to be
that when my imagination
had even the slightest drought,
I would throw up my hands,
throw in the towel
and wonder if I ever was an artist.
I am not so melodramatic now.

I have begun to define an artist,
myself and others,
by how they interact with the world,
how they see the walls and people around them.
Though, as of late
I have begun to wonder
if I have seen the world at all.
Or I am always just passing through?

I want to write something new
but I am old.
Old like the feeling that today
would be so much better
if I had never left my bed behind.
Old like the popping of joints
and the creaking of memories.
Old like the slowness
that makes the world wait for you

But not old enough for wisdom.
No, not old enough
for experience to mean something
more than weariness.
Not old enough yet for patience.

I would walk the world over
with worry
if it would make a difference.
But it does not
and so I do not,
most days anyway.

My almosts stay almost done,
and I begin to itch,
begin to burn
wondering if there will ever be more
or if this is it.
The loss of eyesight
at the end of a life
lived too fast.

7 of 10

I am trying to find my voice.
Have you seen it?
Can you tell me if I am doing this right?
Are these the words I am supposed to use
And the motions I am supposed to wear?

Maybe, I am going about this wrong.

Could it be that there is more to take off,

Armor to shed and anxiety to let go of,

And less to put on,

Bind up and show off?