To write ethereal words on parchment. My pleadings swell before the quill can touch paper. I realize too late that my musings are lost – the ink is dry and cracked, and no amount of water can revive. The parchment moth-eaten crumbles beneath a feather touch. I anguish. My inability to convert said musings into discernible art. I know I can create, but like a pianist who doesn’t practice, I sit down to play a concerto only to find the instrument untuned. And the litany continues. I tick off the things I’m not doing, not doing well, and fill the bucket only to find a fissure leaking essence from the dwelling before I can get home.
These scrawls were found in a shoebox camouflaged under dust motes beneath a discarded piece of furniture. Drug out as rubble, the contents were bewildering as strewn thoughts pieced themselves together cohesively. Tiptoe prints left on hardwood. Dying daylight dappled through sheer curtains—cedar and mothballs. Smells intermingle as wood is chopped and stacked along the back eve of the home. What was lost has been found. A way to write the hallowed heartbeat. A language spoken at the dawn of creation. The tomb emptied. Salvation’s nectar sustains parched lips. God, you are a mystery. Can I interpret this life in tattooed ink? If only for me? These words are worth the heartache and the joy it took to write them.
Life. It is in the living of it. The waking up and trying. I don’t particularly like the phrase, “fake it until you make it.” But… I get it. It resonates in these barren bones. A world filled with fake selves masquerading as fully-fledged complex creatures can leave one in a dark corner, licking their wounds. The consequence of looking at shimmering mirages in port windows is isolation. Might I find a space of authenticity? I have no fear of missing out; I only wish to be seen. The churning waves sweep feet from underneath – shifting sands are a dangerous place to stand. My heart and my head don’t align. Yet, there is perspective. There is hope as with age wisdom. The seed must die before life is born.
I cherish life. I have an excellent cheer amidst such rich affliction. I know life is far from easy. Like a bully, it can bruise black and blue. Yet there is immense wonder. A faith so mysterious it churns the force of life cascading brilliant colors. I stand and let those colors wash over me. The ancient paths call to me. My lamp and I, filled to the brim with oil, wait at the door. A watchman on a hill tells me of His coming. The in-between currently lived full of iniquity and hallowed ground. The goal is thriving—a need to let pretense dissipate into the fathom. I seek simplicity.
Sourdough is a living thing. It needs air, food, and water to survive. I’ve fondly named mine “Claire.” Yes, after the Outlander character. She has produced some delicious breads, English muffins, and crackers. I desire to keep her alive and flourishing as I seek ways to radiate an authentic life. Adding to my old lady vibes, I’ve decided to start a small raised garden bed on my deck. My local library provided seeds for anyone who wanted them. My dapper husband is building me two raised beds and researching how to nourish the food’s survival. He is my gentle man. The “fairytale” isn’t in the passion or the romance. I find it in the day-to-day belly laughter, sassy and gentle ribbing, and someone who doesn’t want me to be anything but my authentic self. We appreciate each other with lingering kisses and, “I love you!”
The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. I say this in so many aspects of my life. I’ve felt the fool more often than not. The garden is far more likely to fail than flourish. As I began germination, I marveled at each seed’s shape, size, and uniqueness. The thought that only a few tiny seeds have the potential for abundance. As with life, there are no guarantees. The intention is for harvest, but there may be blight. If everything should go bust, Jeremy and I will laugh and say, “At least we tried.”
Each step is dear. Being a stepmother is the most tremendous role of my life. All circumstances have been preparing me for this moment. I love the thoughtful, curious, growing beings I get to know and treasure. The complexities and drama that this role could accompany are non-existent. Why? Because there has been sweet grace. The adults have taken time to heal, work on themselves, and come to the table with no malintent, only the best for our children. Is it always easy and smooth? No. But, it is a worthy sacred space. And I will take the hard for the wonder anytime.
Seeds must die for life to start. As a fully grown plant, who knows, in a moment, I could whither from this strange land to be replanted in a land that has always been my true home. There is more than meets the eye. I will seek to grasp it and live all the way until the last death rattle. Death, this plague of a word. A scarlet letter. A deep-seated fear. I want to embrace it to be free. I want to fall into the black and trust arms will catch my fall.
I’m learning to write again.
Reflection of Providence 