of five minutes

Five Minute Friday.
Five minutes to write, just let it out, no editing, no second-guessing.


Today's word: Risk

My heart pounds, thundering in my chest. Words that need to be said tumble around in my head. Justice drives me. Fear holds me back. Adrenaline rushes through my system, stress building.

And that's just with the thought of what I need to do.

There's still the action to come.

I hate risk. I hate speaking up. I hate confrontation.

It's never felt like it helped.

But sometimes, sometimes you just have to. Regardless. If no one speaks up, the things that are wrong can't and won't be addressed.

But still. Still. Still.

And go.

Today's word was especially relevant for me, with what's been swirling around us the last little while. I've hinted a bit at it in previous posts... church politics are never pretty. And it's even more difficult to deal with when you actually really genuinely *like* all of the people involved. On all sides of the issues.

Life sucks sometimes. We deal. And I'll be having a difficult conversation sometime soon. Sigh.

Linking up with Lisa-Jo...

Five Minute Friday: Good-bye

Five minutes. Just write. Don't edit.
Here goes:

Good-bye.

It's never enough, the last time you say good-bye. So many words, so many thoughts, all inadequate.

So final, it is. So immutable.

I took a walk this morning in the fog; down the hill, past the dew-speckled fields, through the gap in the hedge to the cemetery.

There were so many more flowers there today than usual. Because of Easter, I suppose... we hope for the resurrection; cling to the promise that we were not meant for death.

Walked past where my Daddy is buried... missed him again, all over again, hole in my heart aching for all that was, and all there was meant to be but won't be. Regretted the things I meant to say but never did... remembered the day we said good-bye.

Linking up at the gypsy mama

Ummm...

Note to self: The 'save' button on the top of the blogger dashboard is not the same as the 'publish' button. No one will see your posts if you do not actually publish them.

Okay, then.

Sorry about that, people.  I have cobwebs in my brain. I must have walked through someone's Hallowe'en decorations accidentally.

So, here's my Five Minute Friday post. Ironically, the word for the day is Remember. Here it is, then: five minutes, no editing, no worrying about if it's perfect or not. Just writing.

go:

there was an apple tree in the field by the road, and I would walk there, long ways, heat shimmering off the asphalt, barefoot in the gravel on the edge, just walking, walking. (growing into my seventeen-year-old skin, perched precariously on the edge of womanhood, about to be catapulted into wife-ness.) and I would climb through the barbed wire fence, back scraping gently on the wire as I shimmied through, cross the field with its stubble of grass poking between my toes, and sit up in that tree, hide behind the leaves and listen. birds chirping, breeze rustling, distant sounds of a tractor in the hayfield, cows lowing. five minutes, or twenty, and then back the way I came, arms swinging, steady steps, up the hill and home.

stop.

Five minutes: catch

Catch me if you can!
I hear it tinkle like bells from all around me.
Juggling this that and the other thing all at once, spinning balls, whirling plates; a life revolving in dispassionate circles; me at the centre trying to keep control, knowing that a moment's lapse will send everything shattering.

Only it's not true.

That's not me at the centre. That's you. Steady, unmovable, unshakeable. A still centre in the whirling where I can rest.

Please, God, catch me. Hold me still.

five minutes: growing

Growing.

It's never easy. Is it meant to be? I wish it were.

Stretching, filling uncomfortable unknown spaces. Reaching outward, away from the familiar. 

Becoming.

Bearing.

Birthing.

That's the point of it: to reproduce. To give life. It's never static, ever changing; this cycle of growth: birth, life, death. I carry in the marrow of my bones the weight of countless generations gone before, carry the possibility of those yet to come.

Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it can not grow.

This fragile state, this life, this gift.

five minutes: rest

Sometimes it sneaks up on me, this need, this compulsion, and my eyes close in spite of myself and I rest. I rest, and everything fades, and there is just me, cradled, comforted, healed.

Sometimes I plan ahead, and there is a nest, and I cocoon myself, shut the world out. I make space, and I rest.

More often than not, though, the voices persist. Conversations with myself. Plans. Needs. But how about...? And then...? Or what if...?

I have, at times, envied the monastics. It seems that it would be easier to be still and just focus on God, when you are living a life that is set apart.

I have, however, chosen a different life. A life that includes a husband. Kids. Homeschooling. Cooking. Cleaning. Interminable laundry.

I need to learn how to stop the cacophony that exists in my head. Learn to be still. To wait. To listen. Learn to really rest in the midst of all that needs to be done.

five minutes: older

Older. Yes, I definitely am.
There's grey in my hair. Surprisingly lots of it.
My knees creak when I climb stairs.
My back aches in the mornings.
There are crows feet beside my eyes, and wee lines at the corners of my mouth.

But on the inside?

Not so much.

I look at 'older' people... not the *old* older ones, but the ones that look like me... and I wonder when I'm going to feel like I fit in with them. I wonder when I'll feel like I've attained the wisdom that supposedly comes with my years. Because, on the inside, I'm still uncertain. Still trying to figure things out.

On the inside, I'm still about 21.

five minutes: new

It can be a curse, this magpie brain, this thing that can't hold onto things long enough to let them take root and grow. This brain that is like a sponge, absorbing everything, only it's set inside a colander so that thoughts just pass through, leaving faint memories of moisture.

Look! Something shiny!

I thought that I was being clever. Calling myself a crow. Calling this place the corvidarium - a crow in a fishbowl. I think maybe it was my depression associating itself with the darkness. Black calls to black.

But the other is the more basic truth.

I'm constantly looking for something new. Different. Better. More fulfilling. Shinier!

Only now, I'm being called to something new. Deeper. Focused. Settled.

Time to grow up.

five minutes of focused writing... no editing, no worrying about perfection; just fingerpainting with words.

5 minutes. still.

Still my heart.
Slow the beats that thunder through me.
Calm my soul with the knowledge that there is nothing that I can do.
I rest.
Secure.

Still my mind.
The questions race, the possibilities expand, the not-knowing threatens.
Calm my soul with the reassurance that I am not in charge.
I rest.
Protected.

Still my hands.
The motions of the day have become automatic, frantic, unceasingly demanding.
Calm my soul with the awareness that my imperfect efforts are enough.
I rest.
I rest.