Deep meditation/
And a nap are vital parts/
of a good work day.
Tag Archives: working through issues
What To Do, God? Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku
When you pray and ask/
“WWat should I be doing?” and/
the answer’s who, do.
Pandemic Smile Maker: Revolutionary ConTEXTing Haiku
I drew a grin on/
my pandemic mask and made/
lots of people smile!
Non-read Response = Nothing to Say: Iambic IM Poem Lament
She’s got nothin’ to say.
In my loneliness I can tell,
I’m under her spell,
But her checkmark is grey.*
[*Facebook instant messenger has a blue check when the message is read, a grey check when it hasn’t been read.]
Which Way: Late Night Romantic IMprov Haiku
Late at night I find/
myself wondering which path/
to take to reach her.
Don’t Mind Read Bus Throwing: Revolutionary IMprov Haiku
If we think people/
are throwing us under the /
bus, we should ask them.
Who Rescued Who: Prose Self-Analysis
People will see a good situation and either praise and glorify it or, like Iago in Othello, find fault and try to tear it down by small and manipulative ways.
So it is with my wife and my relationship. People tell me that they’ve never seen my wife so happy. They tell me she deserves me, that it’s about time a man came into her life who is worthy of her. They think I’ve inspired her to create her patriotic blog, and to grow her book publishing and consulting business. Yet others find reason to cast doubt on our relationship. They claim that we manipulate each other, that we’re just dishonest in our reasons that we got together.
Often when this happens, I question her, asking why they would say such things. I ask her again (and again and again) if she loves me for me, or if she just loved me and married me for the idea of me, to get someone to work with her, to get the house and the property back.
When I doubt like that, I cast my mind back on what Heavenly Father told me to do, and I immediately feel bad because I know Who led me to her. I know who inspired me to come to Chattanooga, to date her, to make the offer on her former house, to court her, and to marry her. I know who drives me daily to clean up the property, to write, to create, to build the kind of Inspired Life we are growing together.
But still sometimes the doubting words come out and I can tell I hurt her. Yesterday was one of those self-doubting conversations. Early this morning she responded. And I think her words are inspired and insightful. She said:
“People who think you rescued me have no clue who I am. I am the woman who, for over two decades, made up the difference with a husband who racked up debt and couldn’t hold a job that made half of what we needed financially to survive and raise six children. I’m the innovator who created the first online mall, the first article directory, who with God’s help built a six-figure business and still managed to keep a roof over my kids heads when Google killed it. I’m the woman who can monetize a dozen ways from Sunday.
I’m the woman who made it through another divorce and her mother’s death and never lost her faith in God, who was able to forgive and come out with a pure faith that my life was about to get amazing. I’m the woman who is satisfied with simplicity … I was happy with a little apartment I could keep clean and a supervisor to fix things. I’m the woman who lost all the monetary niceties and realizes that they don’t amount to a hill of beans. It’s all just stuff.
Some people think you rescued me. Others might think I rescued you. They think I rescued you from your loneliness, from scouring the Western states for a woman who had depth and strength and wisdom and spirituality and a passion for life that matched your own. They might say I’m the one who introduced you and brought you to a piece of property you love so much you can’t resist working on it every day. They might feel that I brought you to something better than you ever hoped or dreamed of — something to channel all your energy and passion and your love of nature into.
Many might also say that I’m the one who rescued you from lonely nights and days and who loves you like you’ve never been loved before. That I’m the one who builds you up and helps you see the beauty in your uniqueness and who helps you find your tribe. That I’m the one who helps you see that you’re a sexy Greek god and a super model.
In my community of personal growth and self help, many who know both of us may think I’m the one who rescued you from your limited view of yourself, and many of your self doubts and insecurities. They might see that I’m the one who believes in you and believes in us and the miracle that God did in bringing us together.
Who Rescued Us?
The truth is that I’m the one who doubts not, fears not, worries not, questions not, because I know that it really was not you that rescued me. It was not me that rescued you. I see the Finger of the Lord in it all.
Let others say what they will. I know God, and I know what He did. And He is the one who rescued us both and gave us each other. And when you pause, when you stop listening to others, when you dive deep into your heart and soul the way you do, you know it is He who is creating this amazing life for both of us.
It’s time we stop doubting, rehashing and second guessing the past. It’s time we get busy with faith. It’s time we focus on being what God brought us together to be.
She’s right. I know the truth. I know who drives this relationship, why we often get simultaneous inspiration. I know who rescued both of us, even after we’d done all the self work (alone) to get ourselves into good places. When we were ready, He brought us together. I know Who is guiding us, Who is helping us discover, create and deliver our God-given purpose (which, ironically, is to help others discover, create and deliver their inspired messages). I know Who rescued us from being ordinary, Who reveals His Will to us individually and collectively on the daily, and Who is helping us do His will to help His children.
And now I have written a piece that, when people doubt, when people question, when people criticize who we are and why we are together, I can simply say:
I’ve written a blog post on that very topic.
I Was Enslaved, But I’m Breaking Those Chains: Free Verse Poetry
I don’t pretend to know
what it felt like,
back then,
to be enslaved,
held captive,
beaten,
tortured,
or worse.
I don’t pretend to feel
what it felt like
to have the chains
loosed,
to have the bands
broken,
or to escape,
following the drinking gourd,
walking with dry feet
through the Red Sea,
to have the locks broken
on Dachau’s gates,
to sign my sacred honor to a Declaration.
I do not know the feelings of these,
or any other,
liberations.
I do not know that enslavement.
But I do know how my mind,
my heart,
my soul
has been enslaved
by self doubt,
by fear,
by Angst.
I have felt those shackles,
those binding chains,
the tyranny of my own mind
that held me fast to falsehoods
and stole my freedom.
Now I know, too,
gladly,
what it feels like
to be set free,
to have chains of sin loosed,
to have the yoke of self-doubt broke,
to have a partner and guide
help me
as I move
towards freedom.
Inspired by the writings of Marnie Kuhns, FrontPorchSense.com essay on Personal Freedom
Yearning For A Downtown Small Cafe
I hear.
I feel.
I see.
I’ve gone quiet.
Ah, Marianne!
Ah, Trish!
Muses of the bench!
What moments I had
with you
(and Paul, and all)
in that small cafe.
Not for the discounted
pastries (past 9 p.m.)
came I,
but for the fuel
that filled me
from words tumbling
and singing
and screaming
from hearts
and souls
and minds.
How many
napkins
ripped I apart,
furiously scratching
short verse
that vented my brain.
Now?
Now,
so far from that place
I can’t even remember
its name;
So removed
from the Enliten’d
creative muse
that once
lit my flame;
I struggle
to have a voice,
to say what I must,
what I should.
My woods,
rocks,
rills,
temple’d hills
sing loud
and sweetly to me,
as wrens call
each morning
and wind and owls and coyotes and I
howl
each evening.
And I can capture that all,
that peace.
There is no torment,
no pain,
as there was so often
there.
Yet, here,
there is something still
missing,
a driving force
that came from knowing
each week,
on one night,
I needed to stand up
on wood-plank’d floors,
to raise my voice
toward a black and silver orb,
to lift my hands,
to clear my mind,
to speak for myself.
Looking Back Lamentation
Today
I dusted off my writings,
walked through decades
of thought,
broken hearts,
emotions plus and minus.
Today
I gathered observations,
some of my best wonderings
from wanderings.
Bemused,
I smiled and grimaced
at both the genius
and the foolish silliness
that my fingers
had pounded or caressed
out of a dozen keyboards.
Mostly,
I question
not what I wrote,
nor that I wrote,
but what happened?
Why have I —
my fingers,
my mind,
my soul,
my heart —
gone
cold and silent?
This question perplexes me,
yet does not need to be answered.
The why
is not as important
as the turning from it,
the change,
the regeneration
of the creative flame.
The moving on.
The how?
I’m doing it now.