Jan. 27 - Write About A Used Car

By the time she was hauled off, that old gray car had logged many miles zig-zagging across the country. There were two trips from Washington to Ohio and back with two little girls, trunk loaded with clothes, food, and camping gear. One night on the road, weary and ready to find a place to stop, we ventured into Dinosaur National Monument on the Colorado side and followed the signs to a camp ground nestled in a little canyon. On our drive back out of the canyon the next day, I was slightly alarmed at the thin, bumpy road we'd traveled in the dark and the severe cliffs that sometimes hugged the little road. As we rose out of the canyon and back onto the main road we noticed a large park sign that read "Passenger Cars Not Advised".

That same car carried a newborn baby boy home from the hospital one late July day in 1999. The back seat was adorned with melted crayon from young artists who forgot to gather supplies from a hot car ride and a piece of string tied with a permanent knot hung from the hook over the right passenger door. It gave transportation to two restless girls, a wailing baby, and a gaggle of pill bugs that one little girl insisted make the move from Washington to Texas and unfortunately died along the way. The car came with me after the divorce. She would be loaded up many more times with tents and camping gear, make a few trips from Texas to Ohio, and many trips from San Antonio to Austin and back. By the time she'd been run to her limits a deep history had been worn into her upholstery. The driver's seat had begun to sag and rip and her engine sounded rough.

It is no wonder we can become attached to our cars and even name them. They carry us through life on air filled tires as documentation to our adventures, a mobile time capsule of our lives. Our stories are written with every turn of the odometer. And so it was with great sadness I watched her old gray form get towed off to the salvage yard. I said a little thank you for all the dependable years she gave us and watched as the tow truck turned the corner and disappeared.

Jan. 20 - Look Out Your Window And Write What You See

The window view shows a neglected back yard, weeds in the flower beds and vegetable garden, a patchy lawn. A seldom used hammock fills up most of the patio. Empty flower posts are scattered here and there. A broken hummingbird feeder hangs empty from the patio roof. An old dog sighs in his sleep on cool concrete among a tricycle and other outdoor toys.

In better times, husband and wife cuddled on the hammock and napped or read books to each other. The gardens flourished with bright flowers, herbs, and heirloom tomatoes. The dog, younger then, chased after sticks thrown by a little boy. The hummingbird feeder dripped bright red sugar water that attracted the tiny jewel colored creatures to dine.

Though the yard was small, the couple had previously lived in a dreary downtown apartment. This house was paradise to them, a place they could stretch out a little bit and not feel confined by concrete. They were happy and grateful for how far they had come.

That little patch of green held outdoor dinners straight off the grill, birthday parties, long heart felt conversations, and backyard camp outs. Once, under a warm starry night, the couple made love on a blanket in the sweet soft dew covered grass. On sunny days laundry dried in a slight summer breeze, hung across a line that stretched from one end of the small yard to the other.

Then things began to happen. In their struggle with daily life a distance began to creep between the couple. Money problems overwhelmed them. The dog grew old and limped on aching hips. A drought and oppressive heat scorched  the landscape. Suddenly the little space felt confining and no one wanted to go out there anymore. It had become a place of sadness. The curtains were drawn over the window to block out the despair.

But it doesn't end there. Look out the window again. Someone has just recently cleared the garden. A moist and mild winter quenched the dry earth where grass once again grows. The unruly lantana has been trimmed and the lemongrass is coming back. Soon, seeds will be tucked into the ground and flowers filling the empty pots. A new hummingbird feeder will hang with its bounty. When the first seeds burst open with their tender young leaves they will be sprouting new beginnings. Look carefully and you will see hope.

Jan. 16 - Write About A Bed

As the time drew near for your arrival, dear little one, we did what all anxious parents do. We assembled your bed. We placed it near my side of our bed for easier night time feedings. When we finished, I ran one hand over your little blanket and rested the other on my large stomach to feel your movement. I longed to hold you in my arms.

I will never forget the moments leading up to your birth, from my water breaking early in the morning, the excitement of your older brother when we woke him up and announced you were on your way, to your actual birth in the hospital. You had a beautiful birth and your daddy was by my side through out your arrival. He was proud, nervous, and caring as any new daddy is. I knew he was going to be a great father.

Of course, after your birth the most anticipated day was the day you and I would go home, but dear little one, you came down with a fever so they wouldn't let you go. I was sad and worried, but the first couple of days they let me stay with you. One of the hardest days of my life was the day I had to go home without you. The sight of your empty bed was heart wrenching. I cried myself to sleep. We would go through this several more nights before you were released. Exactly one week from the day of your birth you finally got to come home to your little bed. Our family was complete.

Now here you are three years later. You outgrew your little bed and have a big boy bed. When I think about your first week of life, I think of all the babies who didn't get to come home for weeks, months, or even at all. The babies that filled the NICU where you slept without me. The sorrow their parents felt. That's when I hold you a little tighter and feel blessed you are healthy and growing into a wonderful little boy who I can tuck into bed every night.

Jan. 14 - Write About The Horizon

I used to see the horizon with clear eyes, the path before me solid and well laid out. My horizon was beautiful, my days walking the path were content. I was blessed and my heart was full. Then the fog rolled in, thick and confusing. My path became steep and rocky. I could no longer see the horizon. I became frightened and fell to my knees in anguish.

I never expected this, never thought you'd abandon me. This was our journey, to walk together, hand in hand, until we reached that golden crest. There, we'd watch the sun set and end our days knowing our time together was the most beautiful gift we'd ever been granted, our family the most precious investment we could ever make together.

I will never understand why you have chosen to give all of this up, to change course and leave me to stumble alone across this unfamiliar terrain. I fail to comprehend the path that beckons you from everything I thought you believed in, everything we both worked to create. I don't understand what your priorities are. Our beautiful family doesn't seem to be one of them. It seems to me you have been lured down a diamond and emerald encrusted path to nowhere.

I will find my horizon again one day, and I will arrive at that golden crest with no regrets because I stayed the course. I did not back down from what I believed in - our love, our family. In my fighting to keep this family together I continue to count the blessings we were granted. I am saddened that you are unable to.

You and I entwined on this journey together. As you pull away, you tear my heart in half. I have lost part of me. Some day, if you don't turn around to take my hand again, I may be brave enough to truly love another, but a little piece of me will always be missing.

Jan. 11 - You Are In A Motel Room

Old places call to me with their stories. Abandoned houses, old train cars, and especially dingy motels. This motel, in particular, whispers with stories of the lives that may have born, died, or been conceived within these walls.

The shag carpet smells of days when smoking was allowed and I doubt much has changed here beyond the decay of time. Two full beds take up most of the room. A small table and a chair sit by a window draped in the same fabric as the bed cover. The all-in-one heater/air conditioner clanks when I turn it on. There is a floor lamp and two bedside lamps that give off very little light. The room is clean, but no amount of scrubbing can make it cheerful.

I peer out the window. I have an excellent view of the parking lot and the highway beyond. The only sounds are the muffled voices from a television in the next room and the passing traffic on the highway.

I am just another fleeting story in this cheap motel, albeit probably less exciting than some.My story is simply that of a solitary person passing through on her way to somewhere else. What of the lonely salesman who died in his sleep miles from home? A life on the road, wife and kids back home. Heard he had a bible in his hand and the TV turned to an infomercial.

It's not hard to read the stories of all the lovers who came together here in this room. I suddenly feel lonely thinking of these paired bodies comforting each other for at least one night. Its easy to imagine the outcome of some of those unions and the mixed feelings that followed; happiness for some and desperation for others.

There have got to be hundreds of stories running through these walls. Some mundane, like mine. Others, perhaps so outlandish my imagination just couldn't fathom. No doubt the police have been here at one time or another. Acts of violence, tender mercy, love all have taken place under this one roof, a microcosm of the larger world around me. The range of emotion experienced within these walls over the years is a wide expanse. I pick up a bible laying on the night stand and ponder these things as I crawl into bed and turn out the light. The ghost of those before me keep me company tonight.

Jan. 10 - Write About A Wound

Lessons From Kung Fu Panda 2

Paramount Studios/Dreamworks

  
Lord Shen: How... how did you... how did you do it?
Po: I don't know. Elbows up; keep your shoulders loose...
Lord Shen: Not that. How did you find peace? I took away your parents. Everything. I scarred you for life.
Po: See, that's the thing, Shen. Scars heal.
Lord Shen: No, they don't, wounds heal.

Wounds do heal, but only if we let them. Too often we are like soldiers showing off our battle scars. We allow our wounds to define us. Sadly, we can become bitter, resentful people and convince ourselves we have every right to act that way.

We can choose peace. It involves forgiveness, letting go, and love. Our hardened society seems to view these things as new age hog wash, but that is simply our fear of vulnerability speaking. We can also get hung up on destructive thinking that tells us we can't forgive, let go of our wounds, and allow love to warm our hearts because that would be akin to lying to ourselves. After all, we can't deny our feelings. Ah, but I say that is hog wash. None of these things involve denying our feelings or lying to ourselves. In fact, I'd say it takes bravery and honesty to heal our wounds.

Forgiveness seems to be the tough one. It is hard to forgive someone we feel has wronged us, especially when it involved deep trauma like childhood abuse or any type of violence. It is hard enough with lesser crimes, the daily dirt we all carry with us. Forgiveness is not something we do for the perpetrator. It is something we do for ourselves so we can find peace, so we can heal.

Once we forgive, letting go of our wounds and allowing that space to fill with love and compassion toward others will occur with little effort. It is then we will truly know peace. Of course, it is not going to be easy. Just as Po struggles through out most of the movie, we too will struggle with forgiveness. But it will be worth it. We will be more capable of maintaining what matters most - our relationships. If we can't forgive those in our past, we will not be able to forgive those around us right here, right now. The wounds we carry around with pride also prohibit us from closeness to others. We wouldn't let anyone touch an open wound. It hurts too much. Wounds to our soul are no less painful.

Jan. 08 - It's What I do In The Middle of The Night

My dreams seem real anymore. When I roll over to your side of the bed and feel the cool sheets I am shocked to find you are not there. I've heard that the Aboriginal people of Australia believe true reality is the dream world. My westernized mind wants that to be true, because in the middle of the night we are together doing normal things that couples do. We go for walks and you hold my hand. I feel the warmth of your touch. You sleep beside me and I can hear the rise and fall of your breath. In the dream world our lives are so ordinary I forget you've been sleeping on the couch for months.

During the day I catch myself when I start to reach for you. This magnetic undercurrent that pulls me to you is so strong, so natural I don't even realize I am reaching for you until I catch the slight movement of my hand. My dream world is the reality of my soul. I've never stopped loving you. In the depths of my soul, the depths of my dreams, I believe you still love me too.

Jan. 04 - "A Year after Your Death"(after Czeslaw Milosz)

A year after your death would it be easier? Would the pain and heartache lesson? Even with the current void between us I can not imagine you permanently gone. I can not fathom the loss of hope of reconciliation, the loss of possibility. I dare not think I'll never feel your touch again.

At times, I must confess, I have thought it easier to deal with your death than this rift you've torn, but no, it would simply be another kind of pain. It really doesn't matter how you lose someone you love. The heart can't tell the difference. It aches all the same.

If the tables were turned, a year after my death how would you feel? Would you be stripped of hope? Would you feel guilt, remorse? Or maybe my love weights heavily upon you and my death would be a burden lifted. Don't answer this aloud. My intention is not to judge or even to find out the truth, but simply to remind you that some losses are permanent even though our hearts may choose to ignore the unfathomable.

What do you believe in, dear husband? What valuable jewel does your soul cherish? These are the questions I'd like to hear you answer. Sometimes you must trust and believe in things that may seem ethereal, things like miracles, goodness, and hope. Sometimes you must allow your soul to feel what is below the surface and beyond vision. It is only then you will be able to understand and cherish what is truly valuable.

Until death do us part. Through good times and bad. In sickness and in health. Those words were not meant as chains that bind but the simple recognition that marriage has many phases. Sometimes you will feel round and full, and at other times you will be consumed by darkness, but do not let that darkness overshadow the hope that resides in your soul or the love that shines in your heart. Stay with me and we'll walk through the bleak night together until the moon is full once more.

Jan. 03 - You Are Standing In A Doorway

I'm standing in the doorway watching you sleep. I study your face, the lines of time and worry softened in slumber. You look ten years younger, as if time hasn't passed since I first met you. But, of course, it has moved in between us like an icy cold front.

I sip my coffee and wonder on this day of celebration, the birth of our son, what goes on in your mind and what has really taken you so far away from me.You were wounded and vulnerable when you stumbled into my life, a lifetime of issues clawing away at our soul, but I fell in love with you anyway. Perhaps because you were vulnerable.

You sigh and turn in your sleep. I long to place my hand on your shoulder, to kiss your scalp where, on uncounted nights of making love, I'd run my fingers, tracing the path of your sweat. I want to curl up next to you, hear your breathing in my ear. I want to reach into your heart and remove all the blackness that resides there and free its black moth form to dissolve in the sunlight.

I am imprisoned within the door frame, unable to approach you, unable to climb the wall you have built between us. I can not free you from a prison of your own making even though my fingers bleed from scratching at the stones between us. I am helpless to do anything but watch which way you fall. May you choose to fall back into my arms.

Jan. 02: Write About a Time Someone Said No

"No," he said, his little fists clenched in defiance. "No, no, no!"

My precious little one began his long journey toward independence with that one tiny word. It broke my heart and filled me with joy all at once, even while I was wrestling with frustration toward his acting out. I had two choices. I could be the mean guy. Instead, I picked him up and held him close. I could feel the anger leaving his little body as it gave way to tiny sobs.

"Shhh," I whispered. "You've had a busy day. You're tired. It's time for bed."

Instead of taking him right to bed, however, I grabbed a blanked and wrapped him up. I headed to our well worn recliner and cuddled him like I did when he was an infant. These days are passing quickly and I wanted to cherish every moment I am blessed with. I sat with him and softly told him how much his daddy and I loved him until he drifted off to sleep. Then I sat a little longer just gazing at his beauty.