Friday, June 23, 2006

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Sometimes I get a bit high-strung. As part of growing up I've learned to cope with this better, but even still, there are times it creeps in full force. I take a breath. A deep one. I focus on the whole forest and relax.

Tomorrow is moving day for Mister. The house has yet to sell (what the heck happened to the market?). We have been busy. Understatement.

I will follow but not sure when. Waiting can be difficult, I push that to the back of my head. After tomorrow I am going to watch my chest rise and fall and release these stresses into the wind - they do not benefit me. It will all work out. It always does. It is much easier to sway and bend when the standard to straightness is removed.

Parables are pictures that emerge from the jigsaw events of life, however irregular or disconnected they may first appear. "All happenings, great and small, are parables whereby God speaks," said Malcolm Muggeridge, "the art of living is to get the message." To see all that is offered us at the windows of the sould and to reach out and receive what is offered, this is the art of living. Ken Gire, Windows of the soul.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


I can't seem to recall a time in my life when the days so melded into one another. The pace has been intense, but so far so good, as they say. I have missed blogging and anticipate the day it once again becomes a priority.

Blogging has been therapy. It has moved me through many phases of myself, working out scenarios in my head, even when they were not always shared. I have also found a renewed interest in journaling, letting my thoughts just be on paper, uninterrupted by another's comment.

2005 was a year to be a bit easier on myself and my loves. To find joy and affection where in the past I may have been prone to criticism and perfectionism. This year is about change. And oh how I am ready for it. The house goes on the market today. The last four years of our lives, spit and polished, awaiting new caretakers to labor (I hope) in love. Is it odd to want a house to be loved? Cared for in a personal way, because your own story is written into the color of the walls in hidden yet indelible ink?

For so long I thought here was a mistake. For a while I began to believe there were no things unseen, dark days in total disbelief. Perhaps it is all random. Or, perhaps, things do work together for good to those who are called according to a purpose. I fall between the crack, once again. Here, I now realize, has been a part of my schooling. I arrived as a silly girl filled up with unexpectations. I now celebrate myself as a woman, a mother and life companion. The times they are a changing.

So I am moving forward, to a path just off that road less traveled. It will not be perfect. It will be life and it will be my life. There will be new lessons and new joys, and all of this will be a dream I remember while awake.

I question if there is design to any of this. I feel a bit heavy in my legs and arms, as though I have had one too many drinks and am succumbing to the sweet letting go that comes with drunkenness, yet I have not a drop to induce such euphoria. - My journal, May 24/06