Five-Finger Scales
Each time my life moves from a moment of busyness to one of calm, I have to relearn - to remember - everything I've forgotten.
I have to recall what it means to rest, and what it means to be idle, and how those differ. I have to remember why it's important to seek a moment of solitude and reflection - especially after such a hungry, lonely semester. I have to keep hold of the days that have a tendency to slip by, silently, speedily, worthlessly. I need to take this time to stretch out my soul that has become so cramped in the rush of routine over the last three months.
I am a new person this summer, a different woman than I was in the spring. Now I need to pause, to take the time to explore this new me. Above all, I cannot let myself slip back into the petulance and pettiness of my fifteen-year-old self, now that things are easier again.
Growing up, whenever I left the house Dad would remind me to "Remember who you are." For so many years I've laughed that off, not realizing how easy it is to forget. In the heat of the moment it's frighteningly simple to forget all the things I've learned, forget the changes I've undergone, forget the God whose creation I am. It's too easy to let the sleeping snake of natural-girlness wake up and shake its ugly head, blinding me to my true identity, potential, even to my true feelings.
One of my goals over this break is to write. A lot. I want to write everything - stories, poems, songs, my Virtuous Woman book; I want to edit and rewrite the MaeNo (and, oh yeah, give it a title). I want to bury myself in fiction-writing this summer, and not come up for air.
But I think I'm not ready for that, not quite yet. This has been a year of transitions, of questions and answers and more questions, of revelation and beauty and pain and did I mention questions? And I think that, before I can dive into the stories of Maeallyn or Hytharan or even the woman of Proverbs 31, I've got a lot of writing to do for myself. There's a good bit of journaling, and pondering, and poetry-ing, and essaying that I've got to do on my own story, before I'm ready to tackle anyone else's.
And so it is that I make new goals on this, the third day of my break. I make a goal to keep an hour or so of each day to myself and the Lord. I make a goal to sketch everything - tastes, smells, sounds, thoughts - so that I will always remember this summer and the miracles that will happen. I make a goal to fulfill the measure of my creation. And, last and perhaps most importantly, I make a goal to live in full accordance with my beliefs, my values, and my truest self.
This is going to be quite the summer.
Later
This is what summer is supposed to be. Sun-child that I am, the heat of mid-July makes it impossible to spend too much time outside early in the day. It is only after sunset that the temperature is bearable again, and so, like owls, we all slip outside into the summer night.
In Idaho, even in July, nights are crisp and cool and quiet - as different as possible from the hot summer dusks we have at home. Here, the air is warm and heavy and full of the sounds of summer creatures - crickets, cicadas, tree frogs - all joining in in a chorus that is loud enough to keep you awake at night. I am sitting in the hammock chair, my fingers twined into its colorful threads, rocking gently back and forth and listening to the summer sounds. Along with the wildlife, I hear voices from next door - the cat begging to be let into the sanctuary of the porch (where she would promptly proceed to dig her claws into every soft surface available and leave long hairs all over the chair cushions) - children playing somewhere in the neighborhood.
The night around me is dark, rendered completely black by the porch lights, but unfrightening. Unlike the wild desert nights in Idaho, this dark holds no menace. Mine is a tame jungle - nothing worse than snakes and a quintillion species of insect lurk in the trees; the only howls are those of the neighborhood dogs in their constant quest to outbark one another.
The door to the house opens: Two blond pirate-hatted heads and one plastic sword peer around the doorframe. It's nearly ten, but bedtimes later in the summer, when the heavy Southern heat encourages afternoon naps and makes the night more interesting, anyway.
The invaders look around for a moment, seeing only Jason and I sitting each in our own shell of silent journaling, and pop quickly back inside. I am left with only Jason's intermittent observations and Tiger's plaintive wails.
I look at the words I've written, ten minutes or so of steady streaming, dotted with crossings-out and hasty corrections. Most of it, I know, isn't very good - I'm rusty, overdescriptive, after a semester of neglect. I'm full of cliches, of worn-out words. I've forgotten how to be spare, and sparsely beautiful.
And yet: I'm smiling like I haven't smiled in - well - awhile. It's not much, I know. But it's a start. And for tonight - as the deep, thick dark of a Carolina summer night hangs around me almost palpably - it is enough.
I have to recall what it means to rest, and what it means to be idle, and how those differ. I have to remember why it's important to seek a moment of solitude and reflection - especially after such a hungry, lonely semester. I have to keep hold of the days that have a tendency to slip by, silently, speedily, worthlessly. I need to take this time to stretch out my soul that has become so cramped in the rush of routine over the last three months.
I am a new person this summer, a different woman than I was in the spring. Now I need to pause, to take the time to explore this new me. Above all, I cannot let myself slip back into the petulance and pettiness of my fifteen-year-old self, now that things are easier again.
Growing up, whenever I left the house Dad would remind me to "Remember who you are." For so many years I've laughed that off, not realizing how easy it is to forget. In the heat of the moment it's frighteningly simple to forget all the things I've learned, forget the changes I've undergone, forget the God whose creation I am. It's too easy to let the sleeping snake of natural-girlness wake up and shake its ugly head, blinding me to my true identity, potential, even to my true feelings.
One of my goals over this break is to write. A lot. I want to write everything - stories, poems, songs, my Virtuous Woman book; I want to edit and rewrite the MaeNo (and, oh yeah, give it a title). I want to bury myself in fiction-writing this summer, and not come up for air.
But I think I'm not ready for that, not quite yet. This has been a year of transitions, of questions and answers and more questions, of revelation and beauty and pain and did I mention questions? And I think that, before I can dive into the stories of Maeallyn or Hytharan or even the woman of Proverbs 31, I've got a lot of writing to do for myself. There's a good bit of journaling, and pondering, and poetry-ing, and essaying that I've got to do on my own story, before I'm ready to tackle anyone else's.
And so it is that I make new goals on this, the third day of my break. I make a goal to keep an hour or so of each day to myself and the Lord. I make a goal to sketch everything - tastes, smells, sounds, thoughts - so that I will always remember this summer and the miracles that will happen. I make a goal to fulfill the measure of my creation. And, last and perhaps most importantly, I make a goal to live in full accordance with my beliefs, my values, and my truest self.
This is going to be quite the summer.
Later
This is what summer is supposed to be. Sun-child that I am, the heat of mid-July makes it impossible to spend too much time outside early in the day. It is only after sunset that the temperature is bearable again, and so, like owls, we all slip outside into the summer night.
In Idaho, even in July, nights are crisp and cool and quiet - as different as possible from the hot summer dusks we have at home. Here, the air is warm and heavy and full of the sounds of summer creatures - crickets, cicadas, tree frogs - all joining in in a chorus that is loud enough to keep you awake at night. I am sitting in the hammock chair, my fingers twined into its colorful threads, rocking gently back and forth and listening to the summer sounds. Along with the wildlife, I hear voices from next door - the cat begging to be let into the sanctuary of the porch (where she would promptly proceed to dig her claws into every soft surface available and leave long hairs all over the chair cushions) - children playing somewhere in the neighborhood.
The night around me is dark, rendered completely black by the porch lights, but unfrightening. Unlike the wild desert nights in Idaho, this dark holds no menace. Mine is a tame jungle - nothing worse than snakes and a quintillion species of insect lurk in the trees; the only howls are those of the neighborhood dogs in their constant quest to outbark one another.
The door to the house opens: Two blond pirate-hatted heads and one plastic sword peer around the doorframe. It's nearly ten, but bedtimes later in the summer, when the heavy Southern heat encourages afternoon naps and makes the night more interesting, anyway.
The invaders look around for a moment, seeing only Jason and I sitting each in our own shell of silent journaling, and pop quickly back inside. I am left with only Jason's intermittent observations and Tiger's plaintive wails.
I look at the words I've written, ten minutes or so of steady streaming, dotted with crossings-out and hasty corrections. Most of it, I know, isn't very good - I'm rusty, overdescriptive, after a semester of neglect. I'm full of cliches, of worn-out words. I've forgotten how to be spare, and sparsely beautiful.
And yet: I'm smiling like I haven't smiled in - well - awhile. It's not much, I know. But it's a start. And for tonight - as the deep, thick dark of a Carolina summer night hangs around me almost palpably - it is enough.