a p r i l 28
My mouth lays mute due to my marinating mind. I make myself a muggy glass of Yellow Pau d’Arco tea with a dollop of Tupelo honey. I flip through my journal as my lavender and basil plant begin to soak in the morning’s maturation, and translate the past month’s journal entries to the digital screen.
They illustrate the transition and unsteadiness that has taken grasp. Transition through a new job title, though a promotion, has been stretching me in aspects of time and mental capacity. Unsteadiness through members of my family being scattered across the states, and the fear of loss of connection that rises within me. With Ricky’s family, we’ve been trying to alternate months to see his mother, who recently fell ill at the start of this year, and visit to support his father—who is now her primary caretaker.
I know that I’m not alone. Every soul is facing some degree of adversary at this point, at every point. But I like to admit mine after I’ve pulled the gold from the circumstance, once the tough feelings are eased by a calmer current standing. Writing the heaviness off my chest fills me with a certain type of discomfort—staring filled pages, full of words depicting the frustration and turbulence that has carried into my home, my heart.
But I’m learning that it’s necessary.
This endeavor allows a written timeline of growth; for miracles are only miracles when the outcome is contrasted with what was once current. I’m finding that there’s a special vulnerability that’s held in the broken sentences, the words that don’t link up quite right. So below holds my current standing through the month’s journal entries: raw, brittle, honest.
• • •
a p r i l 14
I picked up an old book today,
and saw pen scratches in the margins.
I recognized them;
that sloppy script was mine.
They were poems penned by the book’s inspiration.
Upon reading the interjections,
I became jealous.
I was so reckless with my writing,
writing for an audience of one—
and recently I’ve encountered some turbulence,
causing an emptied-ink pen.
Write with vulnerability,
whispers the husband with the pure-gold heart,
what if I can’t,
I say softly with tear stained cheeks.
• • •
a p r i l 22
across the incandescent sky,
the boreal chickadee bird dips and ascends,
a fluttering pattern with acute acceleration.
a heartbroken husband,
speaks softly to his wife;
combing her hair behind her ear,
gently kissing the top of her head,
as the natural light shines,
warming her skin.
The mother who can see but not speak,
feel but not move;
how her son sings for her—
strumming until blisters burst.
And her sister,
places purple pansies in eyeshot,
and plants a shephard’s hook outside the window—
dangling a glass cylinder;
it’s filled with seeds for the round-bellied robins,
the yellow-breasted chat,
and the cuckoo with it’s black-bill.
And though her head lays heavy,
I hope her heart is heaping full—
for beauty is unfolding everywhere,
even when things feel broken.
• • •
a p r i l 27
I’m not too sure of what I’m afraid of—
letting ink flow through flooding frustration.
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words won’t come.
Maybe, I’m afraid that the words will come but that they won’t hold weight.
Maybe, I’m afraid that the weighty words will come,
but that they become a burden rather than an encourager.