Manatees and Elements

When I was in elementary school, maybe third or fourth grade, my mother let me play hookie from school. It was winter, cold, and gray. She took me to see the manatees at our local springs.

I love those springs. My high school best friend and I spent many summer days there, baking in the sun, and freezing our way swimming to the boil. Aside from those memories, my favorite thing about going to the springs was the manatees. 

They are a graceful bunch, those manatees.

They only came when it was cold, since the water was warmer in the springs than the river.

So, on this bleak, damp, frigid day, my mother allowed me to stay home from school and spend the day watching the manatees. I'm sure we walked throughout the park, too. I'm a sucker for a museum and monuments and history, so I would imagine she let me linger and look. 

It is a good memory.

Lately, I have been thinking more about my mother. And, maybe I am too hard on her, maybe I judge her too harshly. Maybe I am just softening towards her, and finally distance is allowing me to be more gracious in my thoughts regarding her. 

And, I wonder if that day, she needed me. She needed me to love manatees, to watch me watching them. To call her over to see them. To read the signs aloud to her at the old schoolhouse. 

The momma and her babies, nursing. Gah. My eyes are leaking.

Maybe she needed to see me content, and in my element, so get some contentedness for herself.

I write that because sometimes, I just need to see my kids being themselves, doing what makes them, them. 

Because there is nothing better than watching someone being who they were created to be.

I went to high school with some incredibly talented and driven people. Gifted in all kinds of ways: musicians, artists, public speakers, dancers, teachers, and the list goes on and on. 

And some are gifted at caring for others, seeing a need and filling it, and somehow doing it in a way that leaves one feeling accepted and equal, not pitied.

I've had a few of those the past couple of years. More than I deserve, for sure. People I am not certain I would have made it out of the hardest of years as in tact, had they not been there to make sure I ate and slept and knew I was heard, and accepted, no matter how clumsy I was in behavior or appearance.

They saw my need, and were willing to be themselves around me, thus filling my need.

People, we need each other. And, we need each other to be ourselves, and in our element, with each other.


I love them. I want one.

I need you to be you. Not who you think you should be, not who you've been told to be, but you. Whether it is boisterous and charismatic, or subtle and quiet, or both, or in between; we need to see others be themselves. 

It makes us braver, I think. And, it gives us permission, when we see someone else in their calling or gifting, or whatever you want to call it, to be in our own gifting. That maybe we are all running the same race, or fast walking it, but that we do it together, and in our own proverbial lanes. 

I cannot run in my friends' lanes. I will trip them up. But, if I see one next to me, I can be encouraged to run alongside them. To slow down if need be, or quicken my pace if I get a bit distracted. Or, maybe I am encouraged just to see them running in their element.

Sometimes, it has to be enough to take joy in someone else's joy.

Friend, be in your element, whatever that may be; be who you are, be the person that you know in your gut you are absolutely purposed to be. In being you, and doing life as you, you give others strength and hope. 

Be you; and if you need to see someone else being them, you can find me observing the manatees.


This one is me, in manatee form. Diving face first into food.

Sunbeams Like You

Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam
Sunbeams are never made like me.
-The Vaselines, sung in my head by Kurt Cobain

I think I must be part plant. 

Because when it is morning time, and the sun is out, I blossom. My limbs stretch and my mind awakens, and all is right with the world.

I used to think it was the beach that sparked some kind of happiness in me; but now I see that the beach is a friend. It commiserates with me: whether I am pensive, giddy, or sad. It acknowledges and affirms; but that is it.

It is the sun that I need. I need it near as much as I need air.

And I have become needier these past few years. 

Air. Sun. Green.

Those are my three keys. I need to see them, breathe them, touch, write about them, bask in the light and richness.

I told my husband that I think I photosynthesize, like plants. He does not believe it is possible, but he is no botanist, so what does he know?

photosynthesis: putting together the light

Is that not one of the loveliest chemical reactions ever to be described?

My body, no, my soul, needs light; my soul needs to put light together, to be put together with the light. The light puts me together.

I need life that makes me thrill in its wonders. Pink blooms on glossy stems with light reflecting in all directions, being courted by a breeze. I need drops of rain dancing on grass in the light of day. Waves crashing in salty motions, coarse plants matted in the grainy sand, and a golden orb mirrored in the water.

I need life in motion.

When I cannot see the sun I search for it. I purposely seek it out: I need it, desperately. I need the reassurance that it is there, though it hides on occasion. I need to know that it has not disappeared forever, that it is still setting its sight on me, too.

It is likely that I am a sunflower in a human disguise.

And some days, I am like Kurt Cobain, and I believe that Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam. That Jesus don't want me.

When the sun hides its face, I withdraw, and cower into myself. When it seems like Jesus hides, I retreat, too. Because it is on those days I am not certain he wants me.

But that is a lie.

I am a sunbeam. Or, as a sunflower, a representation of the work that is done by, and with, a sunbeam. Even on those days the sun rejects me, I have enough. I have enough light to be put together until the sun shines in its full glory.

I wish I could tell Kurt Cobain he was a sunbeam. Somehow, his lyrics moved and stirred something in me in my adolescence. They gave voice to my emotions when I had no voice of my own. Since I can not tell Kurt that he was a sunbeam, and Jesus wanted him very much, I will tell you.

You are a sunbeam.

You are significant.

You reflect and utilize light in a way no one else does; and we need it.

And, more than needed, the way light is put together in you is wanted.

Sunbeams are made just like you.

Need more reassurance or want to talk, or whatever, email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com

You are precious to me, dear sunbeam.

Bare Bones and Wordy

I feel like a chicken bone

Picked clean of my

Skin, fat, and muscle.

Picked apart, but there is still meat on those bones.

I find myself writing little lines of prose here and there; with a sharpie on the calendar, in the notes on my phone, on a scrap of paper found in my purse. Because even though this is the most draining time of life I have yet to experience, in every way, there is still a little more I can give. Even though the chicken bone looks clean, there is still yet another sliver of flesh remaining; and so it is with me. While I am exhausted and emptied, there is still a few drops of me left. 

So I let the drops leak out. It is the only way to get more of me. I write, I sketch, I color, I do whatever I can to squeeze out the drops of creativity; and I put them in my cracks. Like tiny pieces of putty, I use those drops to fill in holes. 

That is my gift. God gave me a gift for words and silly things; and I use them to heal myself. I use them to let God in, to let Him heal me. 

I find myself in words

Reading, it is my home

It is in words that I belong,

I belong to them.

Reading somehow nourishes me; creative language nurtures and comforts me, gives me the ability to articulate and voice my emotions. Writing reveals me, prunes me, allows me to stretch a bit more with each word.

Do what nurtures you; not what nurtures your ego, or hurts, or vendettas, but what nurtures you. You, the person, the soul, the one that was made with intention and purpose. 

The more you give yourself to the craft that nurtures you, even when weak and road weary, somehow, the more healed and whole you become.

Life will find a way: let it.

Some people sing. Some people organize. Some people formulate mathematical equations. Whatever your thing is, whatever it is that was planted inside of you by God, do it. Do it well or do it feebly, but whatever you do, do not forsake it.

Do not hide, or bury, your talents. Let them out into the light, let yourself be in the light. Sweet friend, no more hiding yourself. No more hiding your talents. Be you and all that being you entails; be you with all of the muchness you can summon.

Let your gift, talent, dream, see the light.

For far too long I refused to allow myself to dream. I refused to read books that were works of fiction. I did not write poetry or essays. And I was stunted, shortened, and despondent. Because, for better or worse, the silly and wordy things are the things that God chose to seed inside my soul. And when I reject them, I lose a chunk of my purpose and zeal.

Instead, God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.
1Corinthians 1:27 NKJV

Want to know why I choked my talents? Because I did not think I was good enough at them. Or because other people did them better. I labeled them as foolishness because I heard someone else say it was foolish. Someone said that my way of doing things was childish, so I stifled it.

Writing that last paragraph sickened me to my core, but it is the truth. I stopped being me because someone else thought it was stupid.

This is why I beg you to be you: because I know the disease of living by another human's measure of your worth, and it will surely bring you death. Jesus did not die on a cross for you to measure up to another one of His creation's yard stick.

Fly, take root, and bloom, little seed. Then repeat.

Y'all, it is all grace. It is all grace. These little words, it is a grace I get to write them. It is grace that I get to take twenty six letters and arrange them into words. It is grace that I no longer demean or demoralize myself with someone else's words. Please do not take offense by this: but you do not define me. And I will not take offense when you do not allow me to define you.

Be you. Do what makes you, you.


Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Philemon 1:3 KJV

And now, fat full

of words and prose,

I am contented.

Garden

"Got a garden of songs where I harvest all my thoughts / wish I could harvest one or two for small talk."

Ani DiFranco

All the thoughts, thriving together.

I have a lot of thoughts, just sitting in my garden. Are they seeding and rooting and growing; or are they simply rotting? I do not know. But I do know this: I thought I was better than I am. I thought I was big and tough and brave; thought I could do it on my own.

But, I am sad.

It sounds like my garden is rotting.

I thought the depression was under my thumb; but it seems that instead of me indenting it, it is leaving its mark on me.

Fight or climb; work with or against.

And I struggle. 

My little garden is sad that she does not get to grow her thoughts. 

I thought I was bigger than the depression; turns out making it a competition is no longer beneficial. Because there is no bigger or better: it just is. There are choices to be made. 

I would rather sit and just, not. 

Instead I just sit in a ball of insecurity, agonizing over the next minute and then the next one, all the while doing nothing. No tears, no anger, no release. 

I am the same Heidi I was before being motionless, before birthing a baby, before getting pregnant. I am still her, and I am quality goods, and I am goods with a depression. 

And that is okay. Plenty of goods came from the depression era.

Depression era glass, to name one good thing.

And plenty of good things have depressions in them.

Africa's Afar Depression

I am learning (in a painfully slow manner) to work with the depressions instead of against them. Instead of using my energy to fight, I'm turning the glass to see it in a different angle, to capture the mosaic in the light. To find the good in it, to see how the indents let light through.

And it is hard. Hard to turn it and work with instead of fighting against or giving in. Hard to make it work for me.

And I wonder how one with any other malady views their disease. Does one with glaucoma only focus on the haze or the light they see through it? 

Even in the smog there is light.

It all comes down to choice. Choosing the emote the good, because one knows it is there and not necessarily because they feel it.

I am not fighting. 

I am turning. I am changing. I am rephrasing. I am absolutely refusing to believe that this depression holds no good for me in it. 

 ". . .all things work together for good. . ."

Romans 8:28 KJV

I know there is more to the verse. And it applies to me and I am focusing that all works for good. Including depression. Somewhere in depression there is a prize for me and others. 

So, I choose to not wallow in it; because the prize is not found in wallowing. No, that is where death lies.

There's good in it, somewhere.

The prize is in finding the works for good. And maybe it is in doing the works that the real good is found: the actual act, and not the outcome.

Depressions are marks that become wells. Wells that can hold weight and water. 

I want my wells to be satisfying. For others to drink from the wells and be stronger, not hindered. For my wells to actually hold something and not be bone dry: would that not be worse than bitter waters? At least with bitter waters you know to stay away... but with empty, there is no indication, there is simply a well.

Come on in, the water's fine.

I want the easy. I want the cured. I want the smooth surface.

But that is not me. 

I am Heidi: wife, mother, friend, sister, homebody, writer, reader, runner, needy, road tripper, student, hopeful, haunted, needed, tenacious... and there's so much more to me than a list even. 

And there is so much more to you, too. 

You are more than a list. More than a name. You are more than a body.

You are enough. You are plenty.

And what could be more than that? What could be more than enough; more than plenty?

Today I just need enough. Today my plenty is enough.

"We both have gardens of songs and maybe it's okay / that I am speechless because I picked you this bouquet."

Ani DiFranco