Trying to Help

I’m watching him drown but he won’t grab the rope.

He might want to escape, but he has no ways to cope.

So he slips and he trips

He crawls but he falls

He loses his grip

And he pulls down the walls

As he sinks even further, in darkness he hides

From me, from himself, from the goodness inside

“They’d be better off without me” he lies

To himself, to that voice that keeps holding him down,

As he wishes for ways to hide underground.

So he slips and he trips

He crawls but he falls

He loses his grip

And he puts up more walls

To hide from mistakes: Maybe one, maybe two

Enough to condemn if you think that it’s true

That terrible doubting, there’s nothing to do

So why keep on trying? Why wonder? Why wait?

If that’s all there is, why leave it to fate?

So he slips and he trips

He crawls but he falls

As he loses his grip

I look down from the walls

I know that I can’t lift him out of that place

But I wish he could just feel the sun on his face

Feel the warmth, feel the hope, feel some sort of relief

‘cause I know that it’s not half as bad as he thinks

But he leans on the ground and he sinks and he sinks

Then I’m watching him drown but he won’t grab the rope

He might want to escape, but he’s losing his hope. . .

Stop and Savor the Ice Cream.

Writing, for me, is like eating ice cream.  I always want more of both. 

But writing a well-written story, poem or blog post is like eating ice cream. 

Hard to dish out. 

(Oh man, I gotta get past these grandpa puns...)

That first break through with the spoon and soon your mouth easily envelops the icy, refreshing change of pace. Your mouth, cooled by the sudden change of texture and temperature, quickly absorbs the heat and breaks down any and all resistant molecules into a creamy delicious goodness. That's when the flavor sets in. Your taste buds and brain become equally enthralled by aromas reminiscent of lazy summer afternoons, celebratory ice cream parlor visits, and licking and lapping up dripping cones from corner convenience stores. The dispersing of cream over all surfaces of your mouth only brings more crave-satisfying enjoyment, and as the last of the vanishing goodness slips over your tongue and down your throat, the coolness and your desire for more lingers. 

It's after that first bite- when you're sure you want more- that ice cream and writing are wonderful. You've found what you wanted, and it's perfectly expressed. Not a worry in the world about counting pages or calories. Each bite just HAS to be this good and you can't remember why it's been so long since you sat down to enjoy this moment! 

And it has to be THIS moment too, because ideas sitting in a bowl quickly become a soupy confusing mess. Longing to be so eloquently expressed and enjoyed, but doomed to be washed away down the sink with all the other remnants of once-delicious ideas. 

Truly great expressions and ideas, captured or conjured, seem so easily escapable that they might disappear without warning. Some days they can be so fleeting that, without stopping to record their goodness, they are lost faster that the ice cream under a heat lamp. 

If you are lucky enough to have the pen and paper or keyboard available when the time comes, you can stop and savor the moment, relishing in every smooth and creamy detail. But far too often the elusive ice cream opportunities roll by like the ice cream man, tinkling music in the distance, headed off to some other writer who has time or means more than you. But oh! What a treat when you can take the moment and revel in the delectable goodness of the written word!

To take the time to stop and savor the full delight of a few paragraphs of ice cream. 

Because

because sometimes you feel lonely,
or worse, you feel alone. like there's no one there to hear or help you bear the burdens that you own.
because sometimes you are tired
and you wish a friend would call, just to share a laugh together, to lift your spirits when they fall.
because sometimes you are lost,
and hungry and afraid that you will never find the answer to the many prayers you've prayed.

because sometimes you are lonely, tired, lost or unaware
of the love your Father has for you, or that someone down here cares

He sends you out to visit, and share friendship like He does.
Just because.

Five out of Six

This is the sixth post I've started since the last one I've published. 

I'd say it's because I have a baby now and get called away a lot, but that'd be the truth. 

I miss writing. 

I miss feeling like I have time that for a few moments or a few hours I could just sit and write and think while I'm writing. 

I love finding the "Best words in the best order" as said Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in Table Talk, July 12, 1827.

I have not-so-secret ambitions of becoming a famous author. I don't think it's really about the fame as much as writing something that really makes a difference. That would mean that I accomplished the writing dreams and also made a difference.

I guess I'm really worried about making a difference, because I find myself asking that question and using that phrase quite often. Though, luckily for the people I talk to often, this mainly happens during inner dialogue. 

I don't think I would write a novel. There are just too many. And I don't really like to read novels that much. Or I should say, I don't make time to read novels. I'd rather make time for people. But back to the genre-decision quest. 

Poetry comes the easiest to me. Every time I write a poem, it seems to be more like a puzzle. I have to find the best words and the best order. I have to organize my thoughts and ideas have to be presented in a familiar pattern, but with a meaningful message. Meter, rhyme and word choice are king. Then, at the end of a great poem, I feel a sense of completeness and clarity. 

Writing is also creating, so I feel as though I have contributed to goodness, even without certainty that anyone will ever read my writing or care. 

AND! Once again, I was doing something else instead of finishing this post. 

Do posts have to be finished?

and one more, just for fun.

I know I'm almost 25, but I still feel so much alive.
I'm not quite ready to settle down to just one job, or just one town.
Ideas excite me and I know there are many directions I'd like to go.
I'd like to swing on a trapeze, or glide down fabric by my knees.
I want to learn to paint and cook, but most, I'd like to write a book.

I'll gather up amazing phrases, explaining things between the pages.
And some will laugh while others ask why I rhyme when I don't even try.
But the words will flow and my heart will soar, if only I could write some more.
If only I could spend my day in capturing what I'd like to say
I'd teach people to try things they couldn't have done, and the more that they read, the more they will have fun.
Oh, just to play for a moment or two with words and phrases as authors do!

But now I have to retire for the day. I hope tomorrow I'll find more sweet things I could say.

I Can't Tell You How Much I Just Want To Write Right Now. . .

. . or maybe I can.

I just want to write.
I want to close my eyes and let the words just flow out of my fingertips.
Here goes:
That is the one advantage to typing over writing. As long as I don't think too hard about the letters themselves, I can type extremely well without peeking. I guess I didn't have to worry so much when I was in the Fourth grade typing class I took, it all turned out alright in the end.
I was recently reunited with a cd of mine called "rain's Musical massage". And as I sit here, I feel like I could almost will it to be the middle of summer and pouring rain right outside my cracked bedroom window. Just enough for the sound and smells to come pouring in over my face as I breathe in the clarity and the newness. The world turned quiet, the warm air mixing with cool water, the freshly cut grass and wet pavement.
I miss summer right now.
Summer still seems to hold on to it's childlike possibilities. Even though budgets and other adult things try to infringe upon its seemingly endless hours of hope and possibilites, Summer remains a time of exploration, of excitement, of trying new things and enjoying long afternoons of old things. Summer means time at home, inside the house or in the outdoors. Summer means warmth. Sun, oh and the break of summer on my shoulders and my cheeks, red with the season's first twinge of redness still radiating the heast off my cheeks.
All while the rain falls gently into puddles. And the thunder rolls over the blanketed sky, enfolding the flashes of light in with the air, thick like icecream for my lungs and face.
Hush, as the rain pulls me away from the worn-out day.
Breathe in the sweetness, as out flows the dry, fruitless air that once filled these lungs.
Wash away the worried, distracted self, seeking the aide and attention of the world. Let the soft rainfall dilute my thougts into droplets, that dissapate into the silence of the new earth. Clensed, peaceful and prepared for whatever may come tomorrow. Tomorrow, when the sunset and night will be just a passing memory, and the sunrise will bring hope, peace, renewal, and a fresh look at everything.
Tomorrow, Tomorrow I will find myself washed up on the shores of a new me. The sun will warm the moist air and illuminate the path one more step.
Tomorrow
can hardly wait to be
today.

How My Brain Works

For some reason, I've thought of my mind as a large secretary's room.
There's a nice desk at the front where I sit.
But the rest of it is an endless sea of filing cabinets. Some of them are in alphabetical order, but most are grouped by people, events, and periods of my life. That part doesn't really matter so much.
Whenever I think of something, I imagine I've retrieved the file and it's open on my desk. As long as I'm thinking about it I leave it open there so I can leaf through it. Generally I have at least two or three thought files open; sometimes to cross reference 'cleaning the room' with 'what I'll do tomorrow' and of course 'what I should eat next' is frequently fun to leaf through.
When I'm driving "basic driving skills" is open, so I can occasionally remember the 10-and-2 rule I etched on a page from driver's ed classes. But then 'music and rhythm' is open on top of that and "singing lessons" usually is open there too. And recently the "what do I want in a car" file is open as well.
Sometimes though, driving is the best time to start putting away folders. Every day needs wind closing time, when I take a few minutes to straighten the thought pages, or shuffle them into the right folders and file them back away.
I lose a lot of papers though, having so many files open at once. Most passing thoughts are not recorded in complete sentences, scribbled on bits here and there, or they are thoughts but never find a place to be filed, so they are recycled and sometimes they blow around when the air conditioning turns on the next day. but most I never find again.

So, I'm sorry if I forget your birthday or new last name. I probably filed it under "awesome" instead of "best friends" last time I was thinking about you!