Friday, October 31, 2003

Please speak slowly
my heart is learning
teach me, heartache
stop this burning....

The All-American Rejects

After talking with my stepdad about the "issue of sensitivity" which had been viciously mauling my consciousness for nearly a month, I came home feeling quite relieved, and safe, and protected. I had been meaning to talk to my stepsister about the issue before going to my stepdad, just to get her opinion, but had been unable to get ahold of her. When I got home, there was a message from her, so I called her right back.

We talked for a while about the issue at hand, and then I told her about my conversation with her dad, whereupon she said something I hadn't thought of before.

"I bet it made dad really happy, for you to entrust him with this. He loves his daughters, that includes you and Chifunda, and he would love to be able to help you."

And then I realized that I had never needed him. We had co-existed, we got along, we were family, but I didn't need him. He had never had the opportunity to play father to me, because I was independent, and I had a father already.

But that night I had needed his help. He was the only one who couldhelp me. He was the only one I could trust. And I had known the previous week that if I could only find the time to talk to him, if I could only tell him what was wrong, everything would be okay, and he would carry that burden away from me and I could finally sleep in peace.

I put the phone down and sat in thought for a few moments. Asking for help has never been easy for me. I learned very young to find my own solutions. I learned that there were no favours, that everyone requires repayment. I thought that I could remain free of obligation if I just took care of my own problems. I guess maybe that's where my pride comes from. I guess maybe that's why I refuse to go to God when I'm desperate, when I know that I can't possibly help myself any longer.

But don't you think.... don't you think that my stepdad's joy is miniscule in comparison to the desire God must have to be my salvation? What are the odds..... that if I would come to God, He would not look at me as a nuisance, a helpless annoyance that needs assistance YET AGAIN, but as a daughter who He is thrilled to provide YET MORE assistance to....

I don't think He ever gets tired of it. I get tired of it. I don't want to ask for help. I somehow manage to take my understanding and expectations of my human relationships and try to lock God up in them.

Do I know right now that He's the only one who can help me? That if I can only get to Him, tell Him how I can't save myself from my life, how I need Him to fix it all...... That if I can only tell Him, that then He'd carry this burden away from me and I could sleep in peace?

Do I know that? Can I lay down my independence, my stubborness, my pride, and just tell Him I'm bound to fail miserably and be consumed by this earth if He doesn't step in and lift me out of it?

He is the only One who can help me. There is no one else. So what's my problem??

It's that damned pride. It'll get you every time. Word to the wise. Pride is a killer. Nip it in the bud.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003

Like...... seriously?

LICK DICK..... that's what you'd like to say?

I know, I know. Fresh snow, a wide lawn tucked between 3 stories of balconies and the bare trees of the river bank. It's like a massive blank pallet, a clean slate for your day. Oh, to be the first one there, to share your message with the sky, to say something to the world that's bigger than yourself. I used to answer the call, on white winter mornings, pulling on my snow boots. Yes, I too, wrote my words in the snow, where my mom could look out her kitchen window and smile at my cleverness.

So you pull on boots and mittens and throw on a jacket, race out before anyone, and then with engineering genius that rivals the mathematical technology of crop circles, you write...... LICK DICK.

I made my way across the snow, kicking and stomping until the words were indiscernible.

Words like this belong in an exchange of obscene name calling between Clark and I. They do not belong in the beauty of creation. Once again, humans make things bad. They cut things down, they make things dirty and spread their stink and then if that's not quite enough, they write dirty words in the clean white snow.

We clearly harbour individuals of high integrity at our project.

Tuesday, October 28, 2003

Every day for the next week, my homework is to come up with a list of ten beautiful things. The benefits of this exercise are manifold and you can figure them out, but personally, I think it'll mainly take my mind off the government conspiracy to repress the poor and Mayor Murrays new hair brained scheme to fritter away excessive tax dollars.

Can I come up with ten beautiful things tonight, though there's snow outside? Can I see the beauty in the world though my eyes hurt and I face 5 months of perpetual coldness? Ten things every day for a week, that's 70 beautiful things in my life, and I suspect that sitting, staring into space, trying to figure out what to put on my nightly list, might take away from my time here, at my computer, writing on my beloved website.

Well now, let's see if I can just make my list right now, and use the time I save to get into bed early. Here goes.....

A cold can of pepsi after a rough day
New boots in winter
Fresh, untouched snow in the forest
An answering machine message from the person you wanted to hear from
Chai tea on a cold morning
Having enough
Pants that fit just right
Chitenge fabric
Lucy Liu

Whew, that was tough, but the day's been so long I can hardly remember what happened, so how can I be expected to think of beautiful things about it? I just want to go to bed.

You should think about trying this exercise, it certainly is helpful in the quest to achieve the ever elusive "sense of gratitude" which I know you're working on. wink wink

I have to go now. Because I'm tired.

Monday, October 27, 2003

Her hair is tangled and her feet are bare, but she's happy here where they have to leave her alone and she's safe from their judgements. She swings from branches and runs across endless fields of sweet and musty grass, with nothing but the sun pressing down on her. Sometimes she climbs trees above crowded sidewalks and silently watches the people walk by underneath. She knows they won't look up, but she can never decide whether that makes her happy or lonely.

She can run faster. Sometimes when the ground is racing under her feet and the wind is whipping through her hair, she believes that she's flying like Peter Pan, and her happy thought is a big dog with a wagging tail or a hot woodstove in the morning or a fort made out of hay bales or a slingshot, handle wound with twine. When she's running, leaping, flying over rocks and bushes, under branches, it's easy to forget all the monsters in pursuit.

She's faster than all of them.

Written in Creative Journalling Class.

There's this issue of great sensitivity.

It has been bothering me. It has been nagging me. I have been afraid of confronting it. I have been talking to people about it, for the first time in my life.

I knew that I had to confront it, so today with fear and trembling I approached my stepdad to ask for his assistance. He was understanding, compassionate, safe. He said that I'd done the right thing to come to him, and that he'd do something about it.

The relief I felt...... that I feel now..... I don't often place myself under the protection of another, but knowing I can trust my stepdad to take care of it..... knowing I'm not responsible and never have been..... knowing I don't have to tolerate it anymore.

When you're a kid, you don't expect people to listen to you, so you just don't say stuff. But now I'm older, and in a position to protect the younger ones. I'm only sorry I didn't say anything sooner.

I've never appreciated my stepdad so much. I trust he'll take care of it. I think I'll sleep peacefully tonight.
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