Enveloped

Thick twin holds his arms and legs to the chair.  The musk of days without a shower are lost on him.  The loneliness and despair of his captivity makes no difference; all that matters is more.  He must have more, the only control in his life is the button in his hand, with each click it's never enough.  Falling further into the darkness with no regard. . .

'click' 'click' click'. . . 

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With slow careful steps he makes his way
Silence his only companion

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It is finished

It's all done.  I can't believe it.  30 days and it's all done.  How bout you ?  Any NaNoWriMo winners out there?

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Hot to the touch
Or is it me?
Is it my heart
cold.
unfeeling
a chill runs down her spine
winter has set in
no more spring

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Accepting Mediocrity

Second weekend of the month... still going strong with NaNoWriMo.  I'm ahead of schedule and that's how I like it.  I can't believe Thanksgiving is almost here.  Do you have any special family plans/traditions?  My family traditions generally consist of lots and lots of food... more that just merely a gluttonous amount. This year I am in charge of pies.  I'm pretty excited because dessert is my favorite part.

Though the task of writing a novel seems overwhelming I would encourage you to try next year (and yes, if you don't do it with others then most the time you won't do it).  Though you need to know going into it: your novel will suck the first go round.  No matter how much you read or write other things: a first ever novelist in their first draft always sucks.  Just a matter of how badly it will suck.  It could be only a little or it could be like mine: totally horrible.  I'm not discouraged: only place is to go up from here!  (Look at the greats... or in the case the example that comes to mind is Jane Austen, her first novel wasn't great and took years of tweaking and she still never wanted to publish that.  Her family did just after her death if I recall properly.)  Well, I'll leave you with these short remarks so you may return to your fun Saturday afternoon activities.

Ps.  I promise I'll go back to the regular scheduled writing first thing December.  

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Open book, open notes

Unlike a lot of my posts... or pretty much all of my posts so far this post is going to be about me.  In an almost diary sense.  It is November and that means a lot of things, but what it means for this post?

I am doing NaNoWriMo.  For all you sane people who don't know what I am talking about it is National Novel Writing Month.  This means: it is an organization that links LOTS of people who take on the organizations challenge: Writing a 50,000 word essay in 30 days.  My husband and I are taking on the challenge this year.  Why?  Why would I do this to myself?  Because I love to write, not as much as I love being a wedding photographer but a deep love all the same.

Long ago I started a novel that I loved but never finished.  I hope to one day finish it but it will be difficult.  I am a completely different person now.  Lots of changes happened from the start of that book to now but the two most important is that I came to a realization.  I had been raised in church all my life and saw it for what I thought it was: a group of people who said one thing and acted a complete other way.  To be honest, that really can be the truth in "Church" as we know it.  Church isn't supposed to be a building or a business but it is often how it is treated.  Any way... I could go off on a long tangent there if I didn't stop myself.  But I came to a realization that though the way people acted wasn't something I wanted at all but I did want what they said to be true.  I wanted to believe that there was a God, that he cared.  That there was reason and rhyme to life. I wished that this ultimate love and care from this great being who took the time to create the world.

Long story short, I decided to see for myself.  I had, being raised by a pastor, had always "read" the bible but I decided then and there that I would study the bible.  I remember being told about a scripture that if you seek after God you'll find him (Deuteronomy 4:29, ie old testament: Jewish people promise), so I figured I'd seek and see if the bible was true.  Not sure if that verse was pulled out of context/ie doesn't mean what it sounds like when you just read the one verse or not but I found.  Or I guess more accurately God allowed me to see.

By the time that I understood, it wasn't a understanding the words... I am not sure how to state it really.  I am not a "feel-y" type of person, though it may seem that way with some of my writing, but it took a while to click.  I understood it all but I didn't really know how to accept it is I guess the best way to put it.

But point being because of my realization of a true and loving God and the fact that I got married I have changed a lot.  I mean we all change over time but I really changed.

Changed from a person who would be mortified to even be writing this in a diary that I litterally would have hid weight down in the back of a toilet tank to a person who is laying this all out for... everyone.

Because of this change, I am starting over.  A whole knew concept... and you don't get to know that, at least not yet. : D 

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Her cool hand hold her resting head.
Deep breaths.
Why? Why is it so hard?
How difficult is it to just let go?
Is it possible?
Thoughts race by leaving a mind stunned

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Sea breeze

It was a bright and clear day.  One like most the rest of summer, different but only to her.  Plopping down she digs her feet into the sand past the heat of the first few layers.  Her own hands seem foreign as they hold tight around her. But nothing can cover the isolation.  Pulling her head high, she closes her eyes pulls in the breeze as it washes over her.  Alone but strong, she takes another deep breath.  With each deep breath a calm fills her, not stopping what is to come but she can breath.  Angst no longer stifles her lungs.  She pushes herself to stand and slowly makes the walk down the beach.  One lone set of footsteps are in her wake, as she slowly makes her way back down the beach.  One hand roams free from paced swing, gently landing on the seemingly unwanted guest.   Looking down, smirking to herself.  Her footsteps won't be alone for long.  

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lurking smile

Head, neck and all her heart hunched over the desk pouring out onto the pages beneath the steady flowing pen.  With each line the words seem to pour out of her with greater speed.

To what end? She doesn't know nor would she desire it.

It is in this mystery her smirk lurks.

How far will it take her?

Why should she care.

The unease of knowing the track could end drives her on. . . the abyss calls

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Flutters to flight

Flights of fancy, moving from one thing to the next seemingly unattached from anything of substance or duty.  Stopping to smell the flowers, nay stopping to relax in beauty.  Fluttering to and fro with seeming indecision it is a wonder how it works.  With each jump, more confusion.  How can all this seeming ambivalence lead to production.  Oh, how I wish my the seeming folly of my life lead to this sweet nectar!

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Sleep or listless dream

In the world alone yet not alone.  How is it that even in a room of people, midst a conversation she is lost in her own thoughts.  A torrid of emotions and stress.  The build up of emotion caused by who knows what pools till puddles form at the back of the eyes wishing to be tears, arrogance meet with a head shake will them back deep into the pool of unrequited emotions.   Sitting in the dark unable to make clear thoughts, her mind jumps.  Deep sorrow and loneliness to irritation at emotion.  Her legs pull closer, as a scared child, unsure of life.  Completely unsecured, completely equivocal, slumped with defeat she sleeps... 

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Storm filled peace

Feet slowly swallowed by the sand, her arms out stretched awaiting.  Sea mist sprays as the tide rolls in.  The under toe pulls at her, guiding her in as a guest.  Willingly she follows eagerly.  The water moves all around her, waves in fury she still follows her guide.  Pulled under or over,, flipped around and round she climbs and drags herself to the eye.  nothing so beautiful, nothing so perfect, nothing so peaceful... quiet, just so quiet. 

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Nature but not natural

It is horrible to admit. . . or is it?  We all do and think things that make us ashamed, well, ashamed if any were to know them that is.  Some days I wonder if it is so bad if I think them when I find so many people who feel the same way or think similar thoughts.  Is it bad that I get upset when someone succeeds in an area of which I am a part?  Is it bad that I, despite the fact I like them as a person, wish them not to do well, so that I might do well?  That’s not even rational.  Who says if they do poorly that I will do well?  Yet I still have these feelings.  

It is difficult to say. . . because the same side that has these intense feelings also doesn't want them to be bad/wrong.  If only on the fact that I feel bad, guilt and ashamed at the notion of someone knowing these thoughts. . . I difficultly say yes, most definitely.  That doesn't change my nature of thinking them or my desire for them not to be wrong.

Secondly, not because of importance but because of it not being natural instinct, as someone who lives and believes that the Bible is true, I have to see it as wrong.  It is not our place to condemn; we are supposed to love difficult as it may be, for me especially.  We are not supposed to covet or be jealous of others but content with what God has given us: as much or as little as that may be.  God is in control and has put you where you are, whether you will be there forever or just for a time we are supposed to be content.  

I state it like it is so simple.  "Just be content."  It is like when you struggle with desiring control and thus tend towards stress, like I do, and people tell you to "trust God".  Yes, by all means that is the answer.  My desire for control and freaking out because I don't have it is a result of me thinking my actions/my ways are bigger or better than God's, no doubt, but to tell someone to "trust God" is like saying "get thin", it may be the answer but it doesn't really help you on the way of getting there.  

How then do we "just be content"?  I don't know.  Not in a day to day actually maintaining contentment.  For me, I struggle everyday I have to search the bible constantly having the learn the same lessons over again.  I find that looking at and memorizing bible verses helps, as cliche as it may seem, in those moments of irritation at your business not doing well, a job loss, a child's disobedience, or any number of things we can think on the verses, or even the one verse, you know and help you set your mind and attitude towards God instead of self.
Right now I have found I have an attitude problem.  Not so much an angry at the world but not looking and being thankful for my surroundings.  So a friend and I are doing Philippians 4:8.  It's a very common verse, many have it already in their minds.  I'm not the best at trying to memorize things, for whatever reason especially the Bible.  Like in Matthew 6:26-28, though often focused on anxiety it is also great for contentment.  It reminds you of how God, in how he created things, provides for nature. . . as silly as it may seem he designed nature so intricately as to provide for all needs.  What makes us think he doesn't have a handle on ours?  Because we know best. . . or I think I do most of the time.  It irritates me that I learn the same lessons over and again . . . but that leads me to another lesson: anger/contentment. . .

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Ease of chaos

With the coming rain and the call of birds over head she ponders "has the beach come to me?" Let it just swallow me up, take me away in the peace of its chaos.  Take me to a world beyond.  A world where fantasy and hidden dreams prance around with ease.  Take me...

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Summer Standstill

Hot even as the wind blows she sits unable,
Hot tears roll down.
Her hands rest at ten and two,
Windows down the smell of asphalt and the coming rain brush against her face.
Hands move towards the keys only to hesitate,
Coil back to her lap as if stung.
Held frozen she sits,
Body still and mind racing, unable to go home.

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OCD doesn't win in the end?

I sit anticipating what will happen next
Playing out all the scenarios
Thinking hard enough. . . it will work?
Planing down to the movements, it can't go wrong

My hand with reach out at this moment
Looking on for assurance
The moment has come
The moment had gone

Left alone waiting
wondering. . .
How could it have gone wrong?

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Nuggets of Gold

Today will lack the smooth roll of fiction piece as I normally write on these pleasant Saturday... nor is it on time (being that I normally write away in the morning) because this week I am sick...

I hate the ever present feeling of pressure and a desire to have blow my nose.  It makes me think of all those really bad jokes I told as a child "Sir, is your refrigerator running?"...

Alas I am that fridge... but no matter the amount of tissue I use it still keeps coming.  I wish I sneezed gold.  How awesome would being sick be then.... Gettin' paid!  So much better.  Maybe I would be more ok with this sickness even now, just pretending that golden "treasures" to be found oh so often were nuggets of gold... nope, not even I am that good at imagining.  And I am pretty awesome at it... and super humble too if you couldn't.

They say you can't catch a sickness over the interwebs but I am not convinced so I leave you now in hopes that you are not infected by this lingering yellow plague.  

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Random Wednesday

Yet another random Wednesday here... and thus a random story.  I cannot recall the idea that spawn whatever this might be called but please speculate as to the cause:

Silent as the dead of night, he crept.  His dress robe wrapped tightly secured at his waist.  Out of his room, down the hall, and out the window he went.  To where at this time of night?  To what or whom?  With each maneuver down to the ground, one slip, one noise, and he would be found out.  Feet landing scuffed but none the worse for ware, he was on his way.  Skating across the lawn, he tried to quickly make it to tree cover.  

Now in the tree-line, off came the dressing robe only to reveal that instead of his night clothes were riding pants, dress-shirt, and coat.  Even as he pulled off his robe, his pace did not slow.  He was on a mission. What mission? Who could know but he?  Time and time again, as dark as night, he would almost lose his footing on a bulging root or a broken branch, but each time would steady himself just in time. No matter how dark the night, he would not be discouraged from the plan.

A clearing in the distance, is that the destination?  His eyes were fierce and unrelenting as they searched.  With each step, his pace became like a horse's canter.  Neck long and craning left to right, he continues to scan.  Stopping to hurl himself across a small pool, his footing wobbles but only for a moment, then back on his way.  Branches are starting to thin, the sun is soon to rise, and the clearing is just up ahead.

One foot into the clearing, his whole body sighs when his eager eyes come across their match.  To the right of the clearing, just outside of the tree-line, is a person in shroud.  Gliding without thought, he makes his way over.  As he arrives, she pulls the hood down to reveal her face only to pull her fingers to her mouth. With a loud shrill whistle, two horses emerge.  No hugs, no kiss, but a knowing look and brush of hands before they mount.  Riding toward the sunrise, they think only of the life ahead.

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Alone in bed

Though not a melancholy person (by anyone's means) I wrote this peace after a moment of suspension the story literally crossed fully through my mind in less than a second.  And in that second I was this woman:

Alone in bed

So bright.  Too early.  

Aah, sore . . . my hip . . . (Chuckle) last night.  

Just got to reach out; get closer.  

Empty.  

Not for long.  Still warm.  

So tired, where is he.  

Cold floor.

He looks silly in that shirt.  

I want to kiss him when he smiles,

even with that in his mouth.  

Ah, clean breath and teeth.

He doesn't see me,

got him!  

Tackle and tickle, tackle and tickle!  

I love his laugh.

I love you . . .

have I said it out loud?

How long in silence?  

I won't go first.  

Where is he?  

I overreacted, but I will not go first!  

He is coming . . .

will he?  

He wants me to explain it

again?  

He wants to understand?  

I don't like this.  

Yeah, sure, "I look great".  

Changing again . . .

makes me tired.  

Black is better; it hides.  

You can't see it then!  

Why is he looking at me . . .

like that.  

Warm lips . . .

Agh!  

Of course it's not just

your mother . . .

it's you and your mother!  

Side with me.  

No, I'm not ridiculous!  

Listen to me.  

Fine . . .

silence.

I need to say it,

but how?

Mouth dry,

stomach hurts.  

There he is . . . just say it, say it!  

It's just three  words.  

I look like a fish:

open, shut; open, shut.  

got it out . . .

I said it . . .

Oh no, what is he thinking?

What if he doesn't love me?  

Walking towards me . . .

RUN!  

His arms.  

Am I shaking? . . .

His hand is so cold on my face.

I love sun on my face.  

Look at that dog . . .

if you pull back on the reigns he won't jerk you.

Husky . . . so pretty;

distinct.  

Need to remember

to flex my heels

and extend my toes . . .

His hand, so big.  

Mine fits so nicely.

What does that face mean?  

His shoe untied?  

What?  A ring?  

Oh!  I, I didn't think . . .

yes!

The small of my back

was made for his hand.  

1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3, Ouch!  

Don't look at your toes.  

He is so kind to me . . .

What was that?!  

Ah!  There it was again.  

It's on my foot!

It's on my foot!  

Why is the couch so far away?  

Help!  Help!  It's huge!  

There he is . . . help me.  

So big . . . legs out to there,

it had a tail, fangs!  

Kill it, kill it, kill it!  

(shudder) ehhh . . . it's gone (sigh).  

Please hug me . . .

I don't want to ask.

Sticky floor, eh.  

I hate when the floor is sticky.  

Ew, don't put the candy in the popcorn . . .

no wonder the floors are sticky.  

I don't want to open . . . fine.  

Oh, sticky but tasty . . . ha ha fine;

I concede.  

Love you always . . .

even if now it’s silly to say it.  

Sticky or not.

So tired, long day;

another tomorrow.  

I hate when they’re cold . . .

but he is warm . . .

won't mind if I bury my feet there

and back up against you?

Ahhh . . . his heart beat.

In his arms . . .

warm,

safe,

loved

(sigh . . . yawn).

Too early,

so bright.  

Snooze.  

Reach out.

Empty.  Cold . . .

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Assignment two

You ready once again for an assignment visa-ve my old assignment via my sister-in-law?  Well, if you're not ready then you can just read what I have to say about the matter... or just my assignment, you  know... whatever

Assignment:  Take the person from assignment one and put them in a story (introduce a conflict, make it worse and then resolve it)  in 750 words.

The loud blare of the alarm signals the start of another day for Debra. Pushing herself onto her side, she slowing gets up, groggy and disoriented.  With a yawn and a stretch she gets to her feet, two steps and she is across the room.  Small with walls, remind her of the years in school she would rather forget.  Just like all the mornings before she can hear the muffled sounds of raised voices: a man, woman and an infants cry for attention.  As she pulls on her faded khakis she wonders at why she can’t seem to say no to food and hating that her legs are always too long for the pants she has.  Shirt on, hair in place she takes a step to the right where her kitchen lay, grabbing a piece of peanut butter toast she is out the door.  

Three minutes to spare as she makes her way out and down the stairs.  Looking down at her shirt as she pins on her metallic tag with name embossed across it she misses the last step falling down and tearing a  small whole right below the knee.  Back in to change and out again as fast as she can; she is now five minutes late.  In the car and ready to speed to make up the time, she is off down the road.  With each red light she breathes deeply wanting just to will the light to turn green.  Finally, it there is a light that is green.  She steps on the gas but nothing happens.  All at once it seems that the car shakes, screeches and thuds.  Pulled off on the side of the road, she rubs her hands across her face, willing herself to action.  Out and under the hood, the car hisses in time with Debra's huffs.  Hissing, what was it that she knew about hissing... nothing.  Pulling out her phone, she starts her way down the A's of her contact list.  Who can help?  Who is free?  She calls one and another.   She finds a co-worker who will trade shifts with her, giving her twenty minutes to get to work.  How to get there even in that time?  Down and down the list she goes.  In the driver's seat Debra forces a smile pondering what positives of this situation, she cracked, only enough to allow for one small tear.  Wiping  firmly away Debra shakes herself and plants a smile, willing herself not to cave.  Pulling out her phone again she continues down the list.  In M's she see the mechanic she used for her oil change a while back.  Calling him would help but cost.  Debra breaks down and calls her mechanic.  He said he can come but it would be a while but if she hid the keys on the car she didn't have to wait with the car.

She walks, the sun beating down on her she feels herself start sweating.  "Good thing I remembered deodorant", she shakes her head and laughs to herself.  With each step the snug fit of her shoes reminders her of every inch of her feet and how they long to be free.  Each car that passes, makes the walk seem all the more long and all the more slow than reality.  Debra snickers to herself as she envisions herself walking in slow motion.  Finding the bus line that will take her close to work she stops and sits down on the rickety, slowly rotting bench.  With each minute that passes Debra tries not to think of the conversation that lies ahead.  It being her second time being written up, at least the first time it wasn’t because she was late, she knows that her job will still be there but what if something like this happens again.  Giving herself a shake, trying to pull her self up she finds her pants pull snug.  Debra looks to see if a her pants have snagged.  No, no snag but a large wad of gum has smushed between her pants and the old bench.  With three hard pulls she is free and gum free, well almost, just as the bus pulls up.

With a sigh, she falls into her seat.  Amused by her own, all be it, chaotic adventure she thinks over the day and is amazed that she will make it to work at all that day.  It only adds to her humor that the bus is packed and she is sitting next to a mother confidently, naturally and ever so freely feeding her toddler.  Looking the other way and silently snickering to herself at the fact never did she think she would get to see a stranger's breast on the bus.  Finally as the bus makes it's way to her stop, her phone rings, the ID displays "mechanic".  Walking down the aisle and off the bus, Debra answers.  The mechanic tells her that it was just a belt and that the car needed some coolant, he continues to say that he would throw in the tow since it was only a few minutes from the shop.  The strangers stare as Debra yelps and kisses her phone repeatedly saying thank you.

Walking towards the building that has become, strange and dysfunctional as it may be, a second home to her, she laughs, having checked her watch, at the irony of making it in on time.  

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A random Wednesday

I have recently become unemployed.  I chose those words wisely because that is what I am at the moment.  I wasn't fired and I didn't quit... interesting quagmire that is me.  My husband likes to say that I am famous (within those who know me) for my "yes/no" answers.  NO, that doesn't me a give a definitive answer it means I can't seem to give either so definitely so I give both.  Such as life with me.

Thus said, I have some time on my hands and I started writing again and for no particular reason or rhyme I wrote this: 

She waits, sitting at the end of the dock.  Small ribbon twiddling between her fingers as she waddles from post to post, wondering what lay beyond.  The cold water went all the way up her small legs as she kicked away imaginary foes.  Singing lyrics only she knows to a song no one knows, she waits.

She smiles, watching the birds overhead.  Stories come to mind as to how they decided one day to just fly.  Standing up she pushes her arms out to the sides, lifting them up and then back down, again and again.  Eyes shut so only she can see what it looks like to fly; she smiles.

She runs, racing the fish below.  Cheeks in, lips open and shut as she speaks to the fish, telling him of his beauty.  On her stomach, she reaches to pet her new friend.  Up again looking for more adventures, she runs.

She laughs, watching the dog chase the cat up a tree.  Rubbing her eyes with a large yawn, she wanes.  Small ribbon twiddling between her fingers as she waddles from post to post wondering what lay beyond.  Arms wrapped around her as she snuggles in the crook of a warm neck; she laughs.

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50 Challenge

My husband and I have similar passions: art.  Every form and every facet, from painted oils to video games (he knows much more about the later and can thus appreciate it more but I try).  One of our past times is to challenge each other with writing assignments.  This challenge: write a short story in 50 words. Not 48, not 52: 50.  It is more difficult than you would think.  So here is my attempt: 

Slender hands knit away without need of vision.  

The creak of old wood as she paces.  

Craning to see further up the empty road, waiting.  

Arms wrapped tightly, she holds herself.

 Empty, her home, the road, her arms,

in her hands a letter,

marked official,

addressed to her,

never opened.

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My husband. my love

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Assignment: I think I can I think I can

As per an assignment from my dear sister-in-law, I wrote this bit.  Her assignment (which I would advise you do) was pretty simple, or so it seemed, describe a person in 500 words... the task is not as simple as these words seem to imply!

Debra, or so the oval, beveled , metallic tag says, is more than your average worker. Surrounded by cold, scuffed tile with prints marked across of telling how many have come through on just one day and a flicker overhead that can only be a product of florescent lights, oil is in the air, not as thick as to make the skin sticky or floor slick but there is not doubt of where the Mason-Dixon line lays.      A child’s birthday party gone array, Debra gingerly shifts her weight from one foot to the next, only to have her way cut off by another child jaunting barefooted in her path.  Finally, making it to her destination: the trash bins, she diligently wipes and picks clean the trash flap.  What makes her express tenderness and contentment when handling reprehensible behavior and stubborn rubbage?  Is she just waiting for her prince charming? Maybe she has Gandhi's secret.  She has taken the time between her long shifts to sit and meditate: find tranquility?  Each fare across the dining room her eyes hide a smile.  Soft features across an deep ebony completion.  Hand-me-down khaki pants rest well above her black tennis shoes with Velcro straps matched only by the well worn black and grey uniformed polo.   While working rarely would her lips part but when they do out comes soft dulcet tones, leaving no hint from where she might have come.

Strolling out of what reads “employee’s only”, she makes her way with broom in hand to brush away what remains of people that came before.  She passes with a breeze of muted melody.   Her hands, with rag, ready, waiting for action. She peers around as she completes a table to see where to go next.  In the corner, next to the bathroom, she spots some cemented wreckage, pursing her lips, she marches as quickly as sore feet will allow to take down that odious mar.  A wave of oil, Lysol and Shea butter waft behind her as she makes her way back to retrieve a new rag.  In spite of cleaners, oil and hand washing, soft, smooth hands take on yet another table with her wrung towel.  Smiles and nods in understanding as she passes a young mother trying to console her small child while she makes yet another loop around the dinning room.  Stopped by what seems to be a customer with a question, she is led into a long conversation; showing pleasure and assuring them they are being heard all the while.

Debra is no ordinary worker.  As she takes on the dust, dirt and crying children, she finds pleasure and manages to spread it to others.  Despite having to clean areas meant for disposal, and wiping the carnage of previous meals she keeps on, always looking for the next thing to be done.  In the face of long days on her hurt feet, she hums the day away with melodic tones of cheerful thoughts.  Debra is no ordinary worker.

By Rachel Abi

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Reasons to not like me

Do you wonder why add me to your dashboard?  You may not want to read me... how do you know?  Well, here is the best way for you to know.  

Dearest Whomever,

   So much of the time in a letter of introduction we feel the need of putting facts and dates.  This seems so formal if the point is to delve into “who I am”.  For as much as facts and dates help define the parameters, it doesn’t define “who I am”.

        Parameters:  Youngest of five, whacked up childhood, raised religiously, trust issues, raised to be an over achiever, ironically couldn’t get the concept of God, Angry at life, met God in a way that I now cherish Him as a personal friend and the person in whom I base my life, in love with my husband, struggle with daily life, not a fan of kids. . . at least not my own (don’t have any).  These are the facts.  

        Who I am:  my desire to over achieve leaves me handicapped in life most often.  Raised to never say no to a new adventure, I am most times unable to make a choice.  I have twelve things I desire to do in life but can’t decide which to do.  Doing one means saying no to all the rest: this cannot be done.

        Do to so many reasons I must prove assumptions about me to be wrong.  If thought loud I am like a mouse, like a sibling I parade as the opposite.  If you think me unable, I will die trying.

        I am stubborn beyond belief.  Though I will admit doing wrong it may take a long road to surrender.  I will win every will battle.  I will get my desires. . . or so I would like to think.

        Control freak puts my OCD’s lightly.  I have many an issue in my life but none so limiting as my desire for control.  From my desire to have a relationship of dependence to God, to baking cookies, this desire for control inhibits my real desires.  Though I may try to let them go, oh so often I let them in whelm me in a way that cannot be undone. . . unless I release control to the one whom already has it: God.

        I have trouble allowing people in or forgiving when they have wronged me.  God has given much grace since years past but the deep wounds of years gone long ago leave their mark deep within my being.  This often means that I get hurt by people.  I desire full honesty and openness in a friend and so often am not allowed.

        For today: I am pursuing my desire: to refine an ability to write passably well, to do something productive during this uncertain time in my life, to allow some of myself to come out on page, to enjoy life rather than wither away in the mundane.

This is me.  This is who I am, not who I want to be.  This is my struggle.  This is my pain.

Rachel

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Flibbertigibbet

Do you ever feel unable?

I make lists in my head of all the things I want to do... all the places I want to live... want to see.  I get overwhelmed at my own ambition and inability all at the same time.

I want to be an artist... but not in one way but in so many ways.  I want to paint, draw, sing, act, dance write... and of course take pictures.  I want to play instruments.

I want to travel... everywhere

I want to live... anywhere and everywhere

I want to blog my thoughts and I want them to be deep (though coming from me... it's not going to happen).

I want to cook from scratch everyday.  I want to be healthy...eat healthy.  I want to have a six pack and no muffin top.

I want to help people.  I want to make a difference.  I want to be playful and serious.

Is it so much to ask to do and be everything?    Is it so much to ask that I can be all... alas yes.

But I have yet to figure out what to give up... Then again I am not really trying.  I am now just trying to be passable at a few anyway...

Rachel Abi

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