I’m going to like having a sister. Thanks, Marie!!

So, miss me?

I sometimes wonder. Not about you missing me, but about my increased absences. But then endings are often beginnings. And I should really stop watching sappy movies about endless, great, epic love because I start talking crazy talk about quitting blogging. And you and I both know that’s not happening any time soon, despite my walkabouts in the real world.

I really should write something.

I’ve been home a week now. Ok, a week and two days. But I’m far from recovered. There is so much to tell you, I hardly know where to start. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past two weeks. Most of that I processed with my Spiritual Director. But I will share this with you: I am quickly growing weary of flying. Weary of traveling. And I have an abiding hatred for the TSA. You want my lip gloss? I paid $10 for it at a drug store… It’s call Nude Plum. It’s NOT a bomb, dude. GET A GRIP.

Ahem. Look at the pretty flowers. Where was I? Oh yeah, homebody girl. This is not new really. I’ve struggled with agoraphobia most of my life. I hide it well. My parents thought it was just an obsessive need to decorate my bedroom to look like a 20 something’s apartment. I lobbied for my own bathroom and an exterior door. They ignored me. Still, I never wanted to leave.

But lately, it’s not being fearful of the wide wide (and dare I say, RUDE) world. No, I don’t panic in the white, white of sunshine because I live in a place where there is NO sunshine. It’s not the fear of the new or the undiscovered. It’s not fear at all. It’s fatigue. People, I’m tired.

I don’t know why, really. But I’m finding reasons to stay in, reasons to hurry home, reasons to hole up in my own world. And that, that is frightening. Because it doesn’t have to start with fear to end there. I know this only too well.

I’ve been rationalizing. I’ve been telling myself that I’m just on word over-load. My family, heaven bless them, is a chatty and opinionated clan. They are also the definition of INTENSE. I’m the calm one. Yeah. And let’s face it, weddings are stressful events even if they aren’t contentious. So, I know I’m overwhelmed with the amount of talking and listening that I’ve been pressed to do.

And if you’ll forgive me an aside: you know, I struggle with this aspect of blogging. Words on paper are my preference. In fact, IZ and I spend a great deal of time talking in IM. That may seem odd, but words coming at me from all directions leads to sensory overload. And I’m introverted enough that it makes me exhausted. So blogging, obviously, works for me. However, it leads to a perception that I find difficult to bridge. My family, whose memory of me is dimmed by years of living at a distance, read my blog and see the chatty child they remember. They have no clue that I’ve grown into an adult who values silence. New people assume I’m full of words because my blog is full of words. And DANG people, if I don’t feel the need to step into that perception in person. When I don’t, (and yes, there are times when I sit back and watch) the inevitable contrasts are drawn between who you meet and this person writing. I suppose it isn’t news that I’m uncomfortable with both the contrast and my inability to sync those selves.

But all these words… all these words are in my head. And if they make it out into a blog post, they’re still not me relating. They’re me writing. And they’re you reading. It’s the space between I can’t control.

So, I’m tired. Very tired of being who I am not, not really. Or, maybe better, I’m worn out being a louder version of who I am. A wordier, chattier, more present person that I really am. And that has me withdrawing into my inner world. A world where the words never make it to paper, but are jumbled and turned and pointless soup. Until even I can’t stand the sound of them and I finally fall silent. Really silent.

Scary words, for me. I can tell you I value silence. And I do. But there is a huge difference between silencing all those external frequencies and this silence I’ve been marinating in. The similarities to my old agoraphobic self are not lost on me. So I am taking a step outside my inner stew and writing. It’s just one step out of this silent house. And the sunlight is blinding. I hear, though, that your eyes do adjust. Eventually.

And if you’ve read this far… a reward. New Music. No video yet, but the song is cool.

So, I finally scored a treasury on etsy. Go click and make me famous. Pretty please?

You arrived! And you both were simply radiant! Blessings on the journey.

I suspect tomorrow cannot come too soon for you, little brother. It is an express bullet train at rush hour for me. Blurry. I feel blurry. 

There are so many words I should have for you. Wisdom from  an elder sister and all that. But I find, the girl with too may words, that words have quit me in this moment. All I have is what I feel for you. Which, is immensely painful and special and turbulent and fierce. It is FIERCE LOVE. Fierce love does not like to be limited by definition.

And so I give you what I have:  my deepest admiration for the human being you have become. And for the becoming that has cost you. Your arrival at tomorrow was not by accident—but it wasn’t all by your choice either. Sometimes, what defines us as human beings is not what happens to us. But what we do with what happens to us.

You do not realize it now–how could you? You are blurry too, more than ready for tomorrow. Eyes focused on the light that is coming. But I know this.  You will speed through the day and tomorrow will remain for eternity as the marker of the beginning of your new life together with Marie. You will be you and you will be completely reborn. And you don’t even know it.

But I know, I know that the man you will be at your 25th wedding anniversary, the man you will be in 50 years, the man you will be tomorrow— that man arrived today. He arrived in the way he looks at the woman he will hold for an eternity. He arrived in every step he took to get to this moment. He arrived when he made this choice and he arrived when she said, “Yes!”

Tomorrow is coming and while I may not be ready for it, I know deep in my soul that you are.

I love you, Mark. With a fierce and undying love. 

This is just a small reminder: tomorrow is the National Association of Letter Carriers Food Drive. This year, perhaps more so than in any year of recent memory, food banks around the country are in desperate need of your contributions. Many warehouses across our great land are empty! With gas prices at a record high, more and more people are relying on local food banks. Working people like you. Food banks are pressed beyond their ability to serve and in many communities people are being turned away.

This food drive is always on a Saturday and I don’t know about you, but I tend to get busy and forget these things. So, this reminder is as much for me as it is for you. Please remember to leave your non-perishables for your carrier tomorrow. Every can helps.

(and just so I don’t forget, I’m leaving mine on the porch RIGHT NOW!)

At 10th and Marine

Last year and the year before that, May Day was filled with lilacs. Typically I’d be spending the day cutting arm-loads of lilacs to deliver to friends and neighbors. But this year, this year my lilacs are about 10 days from opening. It’s been a long winter, much longer than the 6 extra weeks promised by a certain groundhog. So, we wait for lilacs.

Only now is Spring waking from a deep sleep. She’s still stretching and yawning and blinking back the heaviness of winter. Spring is a sleepy-head. Spring could use an alarm clock. She has over-slept and doesn’t much seem to care. So, slowly, ever so slowly—she tentatively puts a toe out of bed. We can only hope she braves the icy floors beneath her and makes it into the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

In some ways, I feel like I was gone from this blog long before my writer’s strike last week. I’m feeling a bit checked-out and I blame the weather. IZ has been calling this delightful weather pattern we’re in, “Spinter”. I’m not buying that though, so I’ve been tasking him to prove our weather is worth 2 letters from the word “spring.” I think what we’ve been facing is more like, “S’Winter”. Snow, slush, hail, freezing rain— Yes, I’m going to quibble over that “p” and if you lived here, you would too.

Which brings me to this post: a review of sorts. With bullet points and everything!

Previously on Evidently:

~~My little family went to Seattle and had an amazing time. I do have words about compassion, words I’d like very much to write. I’m in marinade mode, presently. So, it might be some time. But until then, you can read the lovely words Boy Wonder wrote about learning to talk with people of other faiths.

~~Also, 15 days in April is coming to an end today! Wow, time flies, eh? As of tonight, between donations and Thrifty Goodness revenues we’ve raised $80.00 for the Women’s Resource Center. More funds may trickle in and I’ve yet to hear from those who participated, but this feels like a very good first time out!

It’s easy in any service or charitable organization to notice the deficits. I hear it all the time at church, “Wow, look at how few people showed up today!” But, you know, that’s the wrong point of view, I think. In order to live lives of abundance, we have to foster eyes that see abundance. We can choose to focus on who showed up and be thankful for those people. And with that, I want to tell you this small story.

I woke up Sunday morning to an email from an etsy customer. She’d purchased several items and was owed a shipping refund. The subject of her email stated as much; I steeled myself for the request. Thrifty Goodness has a no gouge policy, but people tend to not read the fine print. And I’ll admit, I was groggy, in desperate need of coffee, and in no mood to deal with petty behavior.

Imagine my surprise when this woman wasn’t asking for her refund, but offering to donate it to Women’s Resource Center. It’s a small amount, but a HUGE gesture. I was so touched! And then, really ashamed at my own pettiness. I’d expected to meet something other than what I encountered—and then grace stepped in and I found myself humbled by this small act of generosity. Oh, for eyes that expect to see beauty in the world. Oh, for a heart that hopes with generosity of spirit. We can, we choose.

So, YES! It’s a matter of seeing with our hearts and being thankful for what we have. For those who show up. For those who read. For those who leave comments. For those who support. For those who are present. Of course, we miss those who aren’t here, we wonder about those who don’t read or comment or support—BUT, and this is the critical but, but we choose to focus on the abundance.

I’m certainly thankful for those of you who stepped up and supported this cause. So, Margaret, Katie, Connie (my mom!), and all those etsy shoppers, THANK YOU! You’ve made a very real difference in the lives of some of our most fragile citizens. The world is a better place because of you. And I am a better person for having known you.

~~That just leaves the weather. It always comes back to the weather, doesn’t it? I’m with Calvin, let’s move on to Summer.

Hey oh, here I am,
And here we go; life’s waiting to begin.

Boy Wonder: So, my friend. . . he likes to pretend he’s living in a television show.

Me: Really? What kind of show?

Boy Wonder: Well, it usually changes every time I play with him, but he likes to start out by saying, “Previously on. . .”

I can’t tell you how I laughed over that. It’s brilliant, really. I can so identify with this kid—blogging my life often feels like I’m writing for a reality TV show. Or maybe a medical drama or slap-stick comedy, depending on the week. Sometimes this blog even looks a bit like a public access version of Martha Stewart Living, bad lighting and poorly scripted craft projects included.

Of course, occasionally television writers go on strike. And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a week of a self-induced writer’s strike on this blog. It’s not that I can’t write. Or even that I won’t. It’s that I’m finding myself hording words. Saving them really. For what, I’m not exactly sure. IZ keeps whispering a nasty four-letter word in my ear. I keep batting him away with little flicks of the wrist, because I’ve never had any aspirations for publication (book became a dirty word in grad school).

Actually, that’s not exactly true. There was once a time in my life where I had every aspiration to publish—but that was because the word publish was directly linked to the word perish and as such, a necessity of life. I don’t doubt that my ego would have been immensely gratified, but it’s not like I’ve ever had a burning desire to see my name in print. While we might associate publication with glamour—uh, yeah, Oprah’s book club isn’t in the habit of pushing narrative theological tomes. Ever.

So, no. I don’t have dreams my blog will “make it big.” I could care less. And no, I harbor no delusions that anything I write here is publishable beyond the click-publish move I make to post this to my blog. It’s just that lately, what I have been writing doesn’t seem to fit here. Write what you know and know your audience. This blog isn’t the place for what’s been eating away my fingernails and haunting my sleep.

The thing is, though, I have no ambition for publication. It’s a ridiculous amount of work and I’m inherently lazy. I mean, for starters, I’d have to stop abusing commas and parenthetical statements—clean up my act and my copy to submit to an audience that might want to read my work. I don’t see that happening. Which leaves this blog abandoned while I write for no reason other than to horde.

For the record, hording is BAD. In fact, the God of the Hebrew Scriptures forbids it in Exodus 20. We know it as the 10th commandment. Thou shall not covet, something, something, something. . . Our understanding of that word, covet, is a bit off. We’re too literal as are most of the translations of the Hebrew. However,  some scholars are more liberal in their interpretation and believe that this is a direct commandment to not horde. It’s called latifundialization; we’re implored to not scoop up everything in sight in order to keep it for ourselves.

Now, this twenty-dollar-don’t-use-while-playing-scrabble word doesn’t really apply to my lack of posting. It is addressing the nasty business of wealthy land-owners consolidating land to the detriment of smaller subsistence farmers—putting the lives of many at risk for the enjoyment of the few. So, yeah, the 10th commandment has NOTHING to do with my self-imposed writer’s strike. Except, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m hording. Inside my head is this wicked 10th century (BCE) landlord shouting in his most miserly voice, “Mine, mine, mine—no words for you! You can STARVE! Down with the petty masses, it’s all MINE!” Of course, he speaks Hebrew, so that’s just a loose interpretation.

Hording thoughts and hording ideas and hording words. This is where the analogy stops. But it is enough to put me in a pickle. I’m writing words and hording them while leaving this page blank. It would be one thing if I were making an attempt to put those words out there in a different venue, but I’m not. It’s not that I can’t write or won’t write. It’s that I’m hording what I am writing. For no other reason than I can.

Thou shalt not. So maybe, I’ll call an end to this writer’s strike and start blogging again.