Two things, please.
- Apparently the auto-posts I set up were user-error flawed.
- You’ve got some catching up to do.
3. just… damn it.
Two things, please.
3. just… damn it.
THAT’S THAT, OCTOBER 1, 2012
Just one day of slight ups and some surprisingly big downs. An attempt to turn things around in a way that would normally bring me down… hasn’t. I’m not as bothered by it as I have been in the past. In fact, my amusement is sickly amusing. Does that mean I am becoming heart-stronger or strongly heading back down the WTH aisle at the IDGAF store?
In spite of all that, I was ok today. Until I found out something that set me back a bit, or a whole lot, to be honest. I convinced myself that I would be ok coming home from Ireland. I didn’t realize how much stock I had put into one, single, solitary, all-focused, not entirely rational, and now non-existent path. Feeling quite foolish, disappointed, and totally without a direction to cast my hopes.
Sometimes GOD quietly closes a door for you. Sometimes HE slams it shut on the foot you’ve stubbornly been using to keep it propped open. I got slammed; a little harder and a little harder to take than my usual god-smack. Of course, I’d been pushing to keep it open. I can only shake my head and glance back over my shoulder. I should have realized it was too difficult an undertaking to be worthwhile.
I’d like to be able to blame the pain on someone else, but no one let me down. I let myself down in a zig-zag, running-after pattern I’ve followed before. You know when you know better and you just can’t stop yourself from bee-lining, full-stinger ready, just can’t avoid buzzing and trying and buzzing and trying and buzzing and trying, only to fail and fail and fail?
It seems now, that the truth blares out. I never had a chance, but still I believed. Stubbornness moves against us more than for us.
Trying to divest myself of the very emotional investment I have made, chasing rainbows toward an always fictitious pot of gold. I would have done better counting shiny penny moments and tracking mini-triumphs.
It’s a painful blessing to bear: the resounding slam indicates without doubt – my plans were not GOD’s plan. When that happens, there’s nothing left to do, but thank GOD that your toes won’t be jammed up against that door anymore, pick up your heart, and limp off in a new direction. That’s that.
It’s hard not to be bitter when something is taken away from you.
It’s even harder not to be bitter when someone is taken away from you.
Even though you know things were going to get worse; even when you know that all there was to look forward to was suffering. It doesn’t help at all when the truth is they’re in a better place. The reality does nothing but make me wonder if I would have been strong enough to carry on for however long the carrying on might have taken, and why I wasn’t given the chance to find out.
I’m so wrapped up it in; cocooned in the sacred wool of a spiritual blanket keeping my soul sufficiently warm, and mercilessly rashing my skin. It’s impossible to divide the blessing from the curse.
It’s hard not to be bitter when the most common roll of life’s dice is seven, and I keep coming up on the less common low end. The biblical significance of seven (in creation, in time, in color, in sound, in seas, in wonders; completeness) isn’t lost on me, but brings no comfort, either.
On the surface it seems like everyone is rolling lucky, though odds are it isn’t true. It’s best to pray through the distortion, and answer questions of true meaning. Would I want to be anyone else? The answer is more than just a reasonable “No, of course not.” Because “No,” in this case, really means to some extent I am satisfied. I’m self-accepting of permanent quirks, still annoyed with bad habits. I can’t do everything I want to do, but I can do some things and still somewhat responsibly make ends meet.
I still need to worry about the future, not obsessively, but practically, with GOD given logic, and an un-jaundiced eye to the world. The sevens are out there. I believe, so I keep looking.
SOME DAYS, APRIL 24, 2014
some days will always be harder than others.
because they are made of memories,
– marking the time –
between now and then, and heaven.
SORT, SEPTEMBER 29, 2015
It is that time of year again. My favorite time of year bursting with colors, and my worst time of year bursting with tears.
I was told the hurt never goes away, it just changes. Some years it seems it has; others it seems it hasn’t.
This is one of the hasn’t. Last year I barely had time to think about anything else but condo purchase. This year, I’ve got the time.
I used to write about it a lot more, intent on gathering thoughts and feelings and memories; sorting.
I’ve never been much good at sort. I’ve always argued that Mc should be filed after Mb and before Md – if such name roots actually existed. They don’t warrant their own alphabetical sub category or file tab. Should the Mac’s be filed with the Mc’s? If not, accurate spelling will be imperative when trying to figure out which drawer to pull.
Then there’s the fabric stash. Grouped mostly by solid color, unless there’s a pattern; American Flag fabric would sit nicely between red and blue – if red and blue were adjacent on the color wheel. They are not. This is my confusion. Would Poinsettia fabric be best placed under mostly red, mostly green, assorted floral or catalogued as just Christmas?
Sort ranks up there on the difficulty chart with where to start.
I’ve started this before, and I’ve done ok. Tidbits here and there; succinct vignettes.
Written, shared, abandoned or saved. It’s going to take some cull.
I’ve been at this 8 years now. Haven’t missed a Tuesday, yet.
Background matters, but this isn’t biography.
I was born somewhere, some date, schooled, worked, and have been writing since 1973: poetry first, some stories, blogging 2007. It’s key, relevant, but not now.
Now, I’ve got to start somewhere, so it might as well be here:
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