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

Deleted

I got deleted. My words and intent and heart... deleted. Again.

"Fell off the jet way again."

When I was younger I got deleted a lot. I was told I did not remember properly. Or that I just made things up. In adulthood I was told the person just simply forgot the things they made me endure as a child. Made to feel like I was either crazy or my hurt was not worthy of remembrance. 

My innocence deleted, no apologies.

I do not remember many things that happened; but I can feel them in the shadow of my memory bank. I can feel how my psyche will not allow them to surface. And what I do remember is mingled with different sights and smells that sometimes distort whether the memory was of pain or joy.

They are there, but I just cannot reach them.

Punches thrown on Thanksgiving. Insults hurled at Christmas. Palpable fear at birthdays. Horror movies under kitchen chairs.

These I remember but then they were all thrown away because the person did not know better. My path beaten, all for the ignorance or illness of my caretakers.

I would journal insults and harsh words said for future reference. And though I knew I did not lie in my diary; when I would confront the person I was met with ridicule. 

Just as though my words and memories were deleted by them. 

Worthless.

Let go of the deletions: you are worthy of remembrance.

Of course, that is simply not true. My words and memories have value and exist, regardless of who tries to delete them, or block them. My heart and intent are valuable because I am valuable. My hurt matters because I am a living, breathing person. 

You, my friend, have value no matter who refuses to acknowledge it. Parent reject you? That's on them, not you. Not. Your. Fault. Leader or mentor makes false accusations against you? You don't have to prove a thing because you are already approved. You are alive, brave one. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone but you. Get unfriended on Facebook? Find me and I'll friend you and keep you as my own. You are living no matter who unfriends you-that makes you a tangible and valuable being.

Wayne and Garth may not be worthy, but you are.

Know who you are. Know that your mere existence is worthwhile. Know that you choosing to live and breathe against the odds is a task to be treasured. 

Your words, intent, and heart matter. And they can never be deleted by any mere mortal. Refuse to allow their rejection to be accepted by you; meaning, accept yourself no matter who rejects you or tries to silence you. Keep speaking. Keep living. Know your immense value. And live it.

Need a ear to listen or eye to read your words? Email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or comment right here on the blog.