Don’t Tell The High School Guidance Counselor I Said This

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I bought a calendar.

I thought that there might be some sort of freedom in being without one. Or was I trying to stretch my capacity for memorizing facts and dates.

I struggle with a faint fear of losing my memory one day. The one who bore me has dementia and it could be in me waiting to pounce.

Sometimes I write and I pause at a word and the word comes slower. So I write more and more. It’s as if a muscle is being worked in the gym of my mind.

I want my children to have my words when they don’t have my words any longer.

When I first started blogging I was determined to use the word I in my posts infrequently, verging on the never.

Today I am breaking my rule of no I’s in my posts. It is a selfish pronoun but it is necessary. I could shift to the third person but that would be silly because at this point you know it is me to whom I am referring.

Putting things on my calendar yesterday felt like a good and needed discipline. There is a tension in the space between spontaneous living and purposeful, intentional living out of days.

I see things less poetically if I am strapped down and bound by restraints of time and space. You know there is a quote about that, the poet is working when she is staring out the window. I need to look up who said it because it is true and brilliant. And it helps me understand where poetry is born.

If you have been reading here for awhile you know the focus on poetry. If you haven’t you can read the title of the blog and then you would know. I think poetry is saving me and giving me new eyes. Both.

Therefore, poetry is important.

There is a way of seeing the poetic in life which comes from breathing deep and walking slow. Of staring long into the places and moments of a day.

If I look out the window long enough I see the beautiful, not the dirt. And I long to write of the beautiful rather than reach for the Windex.

Yesterday I met with my daughter’s guidance counselor to go over her graduation plan. She was doing her job and she does it well.  We were making her schedule for next year and picking courses. This planning of my youngest’s senior year is heart wrenching work.

I starred at her blue eyes and drowned a little in the talk of college.

We talked of AP Spanish Four and of AP English too. Of her plans to be a Pediatric Dentist, of GPA’s and SAT’s and Class Rank. And I felt really hemmed in that office. And thought a bit about how things change.

And we are making plans so far ahead and so much can change. And I know that we need this dance of the deliberate and the planning out of a life.

But where is the dance of the poetic. And what if the dreams change or crash. What if her heart changes her mind.

We would walk in and write out a course change slip and off we would go to a new dream and a new class. Plans and changes of plans. The now and the surprise of tomorrow. The dance of uncertainty and the plans for a life well lived.

There is so much beauty in the savoring of now. And intentional living keeps wandering minds from going too far off track. And we need a plan and a dream and a schedule.

I dance between these two worlds daily.

I am off to work on my calendar and write down some important dates and plans and appointments and a writing schedule of sorts.

And I hope that I don’t lose my poetry along the way. I hope my dancing shoes don’t fall off. It has taken me a lifetime to learn to dance in a place of the poetic. And I don’t want to stop now.

The high school guidance counselor does important work. I am grateful for her and her ability to keep folks like me on track.

I wonder if she saw my mind wander a bit. But don’t tell her I said that. Sometimes the mention of SAT and Class Rank cause me to glaze over a bit.

I am writing now like there is no tomorrow and I am finding great relief in doing so. I knew I was really drawn to the words of my favorite poet Billy Collins.

I wonder how he feels about the use of the word “I”. I have used my quota for the month here.  I wonder if my mind is fading and how long I have with it.

I will be writing a lot in the months to come. And there I go making plans. Maybe I was listening to the guidance counselor after all.

If you subscribe you may want to stop following as it may get a little too verbose in these parts while I exercise my mind in the gymnasium of my heart by lifting the weight of the words.

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joining Eileen and Heather295b3123-4a67-4966-8a77-222919b9921c_thumb_BR_44

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Delicate Balance – Days 6 & 7

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.

If you would like to subscribe by receiving Wynnegraceappears, please scroll down and subscribe either via email or in your reader. It would be lovely to have you along on the journey.

We are also on facebook and would love to have you connect there. And don’t be fooled by the we because it is just me. And I would love to have you reading here. Please know that I appreciate your presence on these pages and I love to hear your words in the comments. That is a wonderful thing.

There Is A Right Time For Everything On The Earth

I don’t know exactly why I stood and stared up at the clock at Union Station.

And found it to be so magical.

So filled with beauty and elegance. Dignity and strength.

But when I arrived at the very busy hub of humanity with the cavernous sense of wide openness mixed with a stirred up bunch of folks from everywhere, I slipped into a trance.

Almost like stirring up a wasp’s nest these travelers rush in and out, on a mission which is their life. On missions which are their lives.

And we were rushing, my group of four. We had so little time. Trying to see D.C. in hours. No way to do it justice. To invest in her beauty. But Time was not to be negotiated with. There was no stretching or extending or borrowing.

But now that I am home and I have time to process, to think back on almost a split second or two of hurriedly passing through Union Station, I have more clarity.

On why I wanted to stand and stare. The marbled elegance drew me in. Her architecture was strong and noble and proud.

But the picture I was determined to snap on the run tells me a story even now days later.

It speaks to me of the delicate nature of holding on to the minutes and moments which are our very days. Of capturing the seconds that tick past. Of holding hard to the time that we have. Cherishing and relishing the all of them.

When I study the photograph I have a sense of calm at the big strong clock face and the steel hands. They seem bold and sure. They have confidence in their telling of the exact time. And I now know exactly when I was there. They are marked these minutes and moments when I was rushing through the station.

They tell me when I stopped and clicked and when I was in awe of her telling. Her showing me time.

I now  wrestle with her, with Time.

Where to invest mine. Where to pour into what He gives me.

How to use my gifts with the Time I have left. When to go and when to stop. How to say yes and when to say no. She looks a little different to me now, Time.

He increases my awareness of the moments and minutes and days. Each measurement of a day is placed under the magnifying glass now. They look bigger and grander. They are more important than even before. The magnifying glass is a gift with which to see. And to gauge.  And then measure.

I am a steward of these grains, these particles, these fleeting fleeing moments of time which are my life.

My stewardship of His precious gift is important. The spending of it. The holding of it. And the loosing of it. The releasing it back to Him. The investing for Him. The seeking ways to serve Him.

I will not kill it, or hoard it. Time. I will not waste it. But rather  I will seek to  spend it wisely. To use it well. But in my own strength and with my own power I am powerless to steward well. It is only in seeking His strength and His wisdom that I can hope for even an ounce of discernment with which to spend it rightly.

So I seek Him to guide. Look to Him to lead. Ask Him to show what to do with the gift He has given. This one of my life, my time, my constantly shaping story.

I have come back home to  a problem which weighs heavy on my soul. It wants to joy-rob and time-steal. It seeks to take my eyes off of investing in the beautiful.

So I release it back to the Giver of all Good Gifts. And lay it down. Seeking His Mercy and His Wisdom. Asking Him to help number and order my days in a way that brings Him glory.

And I do not think He would mind, not even one little bit, if I dreamed of going back to Union Station to stand in awe. To rest. To stare. To wonder in amazement at the big bold beautiful representation of Time there mounted  nobly on the wall.

Looking out and looking forth.

She looks like a picture of Time and she looks beautiful to me.