I Heart Bad Poetry! (#136)

No locusts descended,

no crows came to feast,

no disease made it's yellow and tell tale marks on your leaves.

To all observances I expected a good return for my work,

my precious labor with worn hands,

dirt under nails,

tending to your needs.

But healthy green plants,

fed by my care and diligence changed in one turn of the moon.

What promised to be an abundance,

became dark, tall and slender saplings,

reaching out from what was once rich soil,

like the silhouette of a grim reapers hand,

with charred and thorny finger bones

a glossy black and bitter fruit dangling from it's tips.

Sickly sweet,

rotten from first bloom,

and plump with your poison.

This far from humble farmer forgot,

lessons learned so many times before,

not to put my faith in the sweat of my brow,

or trust in the plans of my heart.

For I can plant,

I can water,

but God gives the increase.

God made the seed.

I can't force you to yield what I'm due,

I can't and I shouldn't try.

All I can do is leave your dark and angry stalks in the ground,

to wither or grow as they must.

But to leave it indeed – as it always was anyway – in God's care.

Groundhog Day

There comes a day in the long winter sleep when the Groundhog stirs in his burrow and thinks to himself that it must be time to wake. So he drags himself out of bed, washes the sand from his eyes and puts on his Spring attire. This definitely includes a crisp green linen jacket or some white wool knickers, with a top hat. It was hard to wake, but now he is happy with the anticipation of some time in the sun, waking the flowers and making his garden lush once more. His fruit trees will soon bear all kinds of beautiful fruit. So he grabs his wicker basket full of tools and makes his way up carefully dug halls to the door which leads outside.

In fervor the Groundhog throws the door open holding his hand up to block his eyes from the dazzling light of Spring, the kind of light that can only come after long, cold, dark days. But, to his dismay, when he opens the door that glorious light does not come bursting down upon him as he thought. Instead there is only a pale grey sky with black branches reaching towards the colorless clouds. Those clouds faintly glow, with the promise of the light they veil. The Groundhog looks about, at his dead garden, at the blackened naked trees and he is afraid. He feels the cold wind tap him on the back and when he turns to see what manner of ice has touched his soul he sees a black and twisted thing following his every move. He remembers why he went down his burrow for the comfort of sleep and quiet, that the world is a cold, scary fruitless thing when there is no light. And in that instant runs back into his door. Only as he settles back down in his bed for 6 weeks more of sleep does he hazily realize that twisted thing was probably just his shadow.

There comes a day in the long winter sleep of what some of us call “the desert experience” that we wake and think about tending to our garden again. Some of us may even have proclaimed as much on a blog, foolish though that person maybe. Then that person went to the used book store, found a bunch of Anne Rice novels for a dollar and settled in for 6 more weeks of winter.

Cut Me Mickey!

I'm rusty at this.

It has been years since I was alone with my thoughts, was able sit and read or write undisturbed. I can't take a shower or sit on the toilet without an onslaught of interruptions. Why? Do I live in a war zone? Am I famous and hounded by paparazzi? No, it's worse than that. I'm a mother. A home schooling mother no less. My wonderful gifted 10 year old son is with me 24/7. [Here I must insert a disclaimer that I love being able to home school, I'm thankful, really I am. But, there is a mixed bag/trade off/sacrifice in any life decision and this is it.]

And my lack of private time isn't the only issue. I was listening to a lecture today by RC Sproul about John Calvin. In it Sproul said that Calvin would have been very happy to sit in a cave with his books and a pen to be alone and write. I know why and it's not because he just loved to write and read so very much. In a cave there is no cable, possibly no texting and definitely no laundry to fold. In short, there are no distractions in a cave. Well, no enticing ones anyway. Of course, I'm so easily distracted now-a-days that I'd probably find moss and stalactites entrancing. I used to be happy to sit and write too. Now I spend a lot of time on Face Book liking pictures of cats wearing sunglasses. What happened to me?

I have a few theories. First, I think that pregnancy did something to my brain, a wash of hormones dissolved the synapses or something like that. I can't remember …. well I can't remember what I don't remember but I am pretty sure that at one time I could read and translate Biblical Greek. I mean I have this framed degree on the wall in my home, it claims that I have a Master's in Theology and I think I had to learn cool sounding stuff like that. In fact have a vague memory of a C+ being a major victory. Case in point, sometimes I call my Son by the dog's name. Sometimes it takes me 3 minutes to remember how old I am. It could just be the special mental mist of exhaustion that only parents know. There is a reason prisoners are tortured by lack of sleep. Being a mother means I am on call at all hours and my clients take advantage of my hours to the full measure. In any case, I have forgotten most of the important things I learned or have read. I once had a memory that could surgically recall the right facts for a fantastic apologetic, on the fly and unrehearsed. Now, a resounding “huh?” is my best reply to any and all questions (because I'm usually too foggy to even listen well).

Here's another recent development that I can't blame on my son. I can't think about important things for too long. I grow impatient and want to be entertained instead. One awesome way to do this it to obsess over fantasy worlds, like a vacation from reality. I now know how to cast a patronous charm but, I can't remember all the solas or how to parse a Greek verb. However, I have read all the Game of Thrones books and I know the mottos to each noble house now....so I guess my little vacations from reality have really paid off. You know what? It occurs to me right now that the memory loss issue I mentioned above might be more about mental laziness. Somewhere along way, as I ran my good race, I got tired and started to walk. Maybe I put down my torch and let the fire die, sat in the shade and took a nap. And then I dreamed of unicorns and decided not to wake up. Anyway, *whew* that insight left me exhausted. I feel like a chain smoker who just ran up a flight of stairs.

So, why I am I writing all this? You, imaginary reader, might be asking. Well, some people want rock hard abs and resolve to exercise periodically in their lives. Don't get me wrong, I want rock hard abs too. But, one difficult thing at a time. I'm writing because I want my brain back. I want my spiritual life back. I'm making a resolution to start writing and reading, praying and thinking again. I'm gonna be like a theological Rocky, running up steps and drinking raw eggs. Except I'll be breaking out my Greek flash cards and drinking in a lot of old text books. I'm announcing it because if I make a public commitment I think I'm more likely to stick to it. This blog will chronicle my ups, downs, random  thoughts as I attempt to fulfill this goal.

P.S. I did wait until this season of Game of Thrones was over to make this commitment but, I assure you that was totally coincidental.