When The Tail Wags The Dog (Or When Things Get A Little Crazy)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments

Today is Day 10 and it is not your imagination that there was no Day 9. So this is 9-10 and now you know why today’s word is CRAZY.

[This post is a part of a continuing series on Wonderful Words.
 The Nester is hosting this 31 Day Series. And I am joining Sarah Mae for her What I Know Now Series with this post.)

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Did I hear that a time or two. Or am I mixing metaphors. Oh, joy. And there is this. Too many balls in the air and irons in the fire and does this sound familiar? There is this indicator, you text a text for a child to a friend and question marks come back. And you back track. And you cover your tracks. And you feel for all the world that the tail is wagging the dog.

And all the crazy making feels like disobedience to you. Because haven’t you learned this lesson so many times before,to breathe. And pause. And, those wide margins. Those wide margins of white space and calm and peace and what happened to that and those.

And though the list is long of people in pain and hurt and need, don’t you know. You is me. Me is I. Sometimes we write a corrective word to self and think there may be one who knows this too.

All the eyes on the stove are on high, the flame red- hot, the flame dances high, taunting its orange red and none can be reduced to simmer.

How the list is long and day is short, but the day is not because He designed the day and His day is the perfect length.

How the balls in the air are bricks and if you drop even one the consequences are dire, dropping the other shoe would be softer and less painful, but you don’t want to drop anything.

When it all seems pressing and all feels pressing and the needs are all great and you want to say get in line take a number. But all you want to do is write. And writing soothes the soul like a balm. And writing feels obedient and after that it all may be okay. After the obedience, all will simmer down and the boiling hot places may cool off.

And the woman-child-sister-wife- mother-friend-church- volunteer-child sponsor- mother- of- college -bound -child- soccer- player- volleyball- player- grown -child -girlfriend- has- an- interview-today hat is heavy like lead. And its all good, except for the parent  in excrutiating pain. And the parent, the caregiver is struggling too.

And one more hyphen may cut you in two like a blade. And the mail needs to be opened and sorted, so the CEO of the house needs to sit at her desk. And the hyphens keep coming.

But isn’t that when the full armor of God goes on.

Isn’t that when you yoke up with Him.

Isn’t that when you breathe a little deeper and sigh. Sigh deeper, longer.

And remember what you knew all along.

That chaos isn’t of Him. And that He doesn’t spin you like a top and chase you like a hungry wolf. That He is Gentle and He is Peace-Maker.

And your church is turning upside down too. Wasn’t that suppose to be a plumb line for stability. Wasn’t that The Rock. And there is uncertainty in her future. And you will welcome on Sunday but your heart is heavy at the uncertainty. But its not. Because really, He knows. He knows.

That this was never Him and this is never how He loves. He intended the dog to wag his own tail. His plan was for order.

So this is when you lay it down and lay it aside and say no thank you to crazy, I want no part. Knock on someone else’s door. Or better yet. Leave us all alone, Crazy. Leave us all alone.

And there’s a debate or two and an election and more uncertainty. But is it really? He is Certain. He is Sure. He is Reigning.

So this is when you say, nice try Tricky One. I want no part of that.

I remember whose I am and who I am in Him and send crazy-making out the door, the back door. No place of honor through the front door. That is reserved for the King. Who is welcome anytime, on any day, to order and restore.

He is the Restorer of Order.

And thankfully, the dog can way his own tail.

And she can breathe again.

So she goes looking for the dull, the mundane, the white noise places in her life and gives Him all her balls.

After all, He has always been a better juggler than she.

He holds the universe. Juggles the planets, moon and stars.

So  she  simply holds his hand. And pets the dog who wags his  very own tail.

Joining Emily, Ann, Duane, Jennifer, Eileen , Mary Beth, Joy and The Nester

Window Panes -Day 8

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 8 Comments

She played a game in chilhood. Two raindrops run down window pane, of car of home. She mans the race, Olympic judge of water racing.
Window pane the venue for drops that run like tears.
Eyes the weary travellers, raindrop snails,they wind their way down fogged glass, make and mark a watery zig and zag trail.
Who shall win a rainy droplet race? Which blue ribbon champion wins the rainy dual.
Winner puddles in a pile. Child’s play at the window for awhile.
And she sees the cross, a brace in pane, of wood. Horizontal setting gaze, vertical completes a frame.
Bracing life, and framing view.
Always holding, shaping, marking perimeters of a life view,
The eyes’ view, the looking out and looking past.
Stretching toward the future.
Seeing forward, looking out, a window on her world.
A perfect frame the crossed pane glass, always quartering life.
The pieces become bite-sized manageable. In fours, and eights or more the crossed-paned windows.
Her windcow on the world.

There was the childhood window, bedroom high, peering down below.
Scared of what she didn’t know.
Of monsters underneath the bed and in the closet too.
She sees a hundred stars and moons, the window frames the world.
There were the stained glass windows too.
Sunday sanctuary, art. An early primer into holy beauty.
Gazing off in wonder, with child’s eyes gazing in a trance toward glass,
In jewel toned beauty,
Blood red crimson, beauty contained, beauty framed, worship through the windows.
A gallery of art,young men, the Christ friends stand in solidarity, Peter and the rest.
Sun shines through Sunday windows, panes, azure blue, emerald green.
A thousand Sundays of window art, a portal to her God.
She stares while preacher preaches, lost in beauty, lost in art.
Bold window panes, a masterpiece of glass, windows to a wounded world of which the preacher preached.

And now she looks to frame the world without a windowpane.
Just plane and simple life view lense, with words, a window to her world.
A lense of grace, a lense of love, a lense of paneless gazing
On life, with hope,
All through the blood soaked cross-barred pane.
As much a she is able.

Counting gifts

*Hope for healing wounds of the body and soul
*Joy of family
*Joy of progress with middle man/child’s college plan
*Receiving a hundred dollars for my Compassion Child for a post a wrote. Thank you Compassion, I can’t imagine how my sponsored child will spend one hundred dollars
*More and more and more precious friends in community in this bloggy writing world.
*A increased hope and dream of a book one day
*Safe arrival of travelling loved ones
*Time spent back in my mountain cottage to write and wake to cold mountain air.
*A flat tire, yes in the right place
*My AAA tow truck operator was humorous and kind, good natured, and wearing a cross of our Lord on his neck.
*Seeing my sisters all in one room

Writing in community with The Nester, Ann, Laura and L.L. Barkat

Delicate Balance – Days 6 & 7

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 2 Comments

Who has not lived that doesn’t know that dance, the one of in and out, a bob and a weave of a clumsy waltz. Like a prize fighter penned in the corner. The bob and weave in the ring of life. A punch, one two, of difficulty, pain.
Who is not part of this commonman, every man, every woman club, begun by Eve and Adam. Thank you very much.
Who does not struggle to make sense out of the hard and the rough, to soften them down and smooth them out with words and love.
Who has not found a limb or two, maybe all four tangled in a web, sticky, ensnaring our hearts our lives, in confusion and hurt.

And who has not cried out, flailing hands towards the heavens and yelled like a child in the throws of a tantrum at God and asked why?

Is there one who has not sought restoration and reconciliation from broken life, like shards of glass, shattered into pieces sharp, pieces which cut through, bleeding life drips droplets puddle.

It is all that He wants to mend the cut, and cup the chin, and wipe the tear.

It is what He longs to do for child of Eve and Adam too. To mend, restore, the balance so delicate. The delicate pieces and places, He knows.

And in the wailing and crying there is Hope. And when the relationship slips to a place where balance is lost, like life’s level and equilibrum hang in the loss of balance.

Think on these things. Rest in His arms. And look to the Restorer to re-order, rebuild and realign.

The Carpenter, Builder, The Restorer of Hope, Rebuilder of Lives,

The Delicate Restorer of Balance, He mends the lives of the broken.

What Amazing Grace, what Amazing Grace indeed.

Writing in community today with Deidra and The Nester for the continuing series of 31 Days of Wonderful Words.

This is Day 6 and Day 7 of the 31 Day Series which we are a part of at The Nester’s. There a community of bloggers is writing for 31 days in October. If you would like to back journey on this blog and read previous posts in the series please do. Previous posts have included Ordinary, Savor, Hope, The Poetic, and Dancing.

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Dancing – Movement of the Heart (Day 5)

~ Elizabeth W. Marshall ~ 9 Comments


Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.

Robert Frost

Dance – Movement of the Heart

Elizabeth W. Marshall

If only all would dance. Simply, a little more.
As shadows, sun’s rays, and white foam waves,
Their rhythmic breaking in and on the shore.
What a gentle teacher ocean is.
Of how to find your rhythm, how to learn to dance.
Water, foam and wave thrust on shelly sand.
The dance of wave on wave, eyes Beauty from the shore.

And we think far too often to save it for the feasts.
For man to do a pas de deux when woman dresses up for out.
But what of the dance of the everyday, the simple celebrations.
Of life and living, joy in the daily, movement becomes art.
And what of running fingers down the page, and letting words join in.
The dance of wordplay, phrase finds rhythm on the page,
Partners up with thought and steps from line to line, a dance.

What if words would partner with the heart, to do a dance of lyrical  along
The lines of prose, does it become poetic and more a jig with steps more
Light and gay, where space is left so eyes can linger, breathing soft and slow.
Creates a space for eyes and hearts to partner up with mind, and waltz and
Sway, no need to rush, the pace is slow, the soul can take her time.
The pace of living can slow and savor, seeking steps which linger,
Long and longer, sweet and merry, hurry left behind.

And do we long to dance, because so early on we did, swayed and rocked as babies
The motion taught so young, to drift and sway and rock and sing, why leave that
Back in childhood. Can’t every movement restore Dance, isn’t life worth dancing truly?
Find steps light and graceful, feasting on the now, with song, and grateful pairing up
As happy partners, loving life and dancing in the moment.
Learning from trees their limbs sway, the tails of dog, like metronome have rhythm.
If only all would simply dance, a little more when living.

(Thank you for joining me on this 31 Days – A Series of Words. This is the Part 5 in the series. Other posts have included Ordinary, Savor, Hope, and The Poetic if you would like to back travel and read. Grateful to have you journeying with this pilgrim.) Note, in crediting Robert Frost’s quote on dance and my subsequent piece, I have placed my name beside my writing. Please know this is for clarification simply and that I highly esteem Robert Frost’s work and feel humbled to even be on the same page. This was to give credit, no form of comparison. Please note this, and extend grace for any wrong association or comparison which was never intended. Thanks, for grace. –Elizabeth.