Calming the Current

n o v e m b e r 1 2

These past few months, I’ve waded into still waters; slowly slipping into a silent shadow. Being less visible and more intentional: cutting out television, fasting social media, reading more books.

Capacities have fallen from the sky, pooled together. They’ve collected, causing a great current. I’ve been fighting this flood. Drained from the time poured into my creative ventures, work, responsibilities, steady schedules shaken up by bi-weekly travel. Worry-water drips from my eyes. My muscles are sore from straining against. Body weak. Weary. 

This cyclical circumstance reins familiar, and I pause to take a breath. I can be calm, continuously penning alongside the current’s capacity. I hold quiet dreams in my heart, learning to be okay with the plethora of journal entries that hide between the bindings of my notebook. I separate my worth from my works, my words. 

I’m seeking strength within this silence, finding boldness in grace. My everyday endeavor is to avoid the restlessness, and search for softer moments–to simply be in silence and let it soak into my skin.

There’s growth in this, too. 

I’m leveling into a less loud presence, allowing undivided attention to others. I’ve been repeating the same scriptures, rather than rapidly reading though. Praying throughout the day, reading the little written whispers listed within the margins of paper. I’m taking gentle action from simplicity. Learning to let go of all worry and to hold tightly to truth.

I’m learning to serve others well. To be soft with myself. 

To rest. 

Surrender

m a y   8

With a quiet mind, 
and soft spirit, 
either you will show me or teach me; 
though they are synonymous.

• • •

m a y   15

Just take a moment—
I tell myself—
to lay and look up at the sky;
see how small you are, 
beneath the myriad of the white billow’s bloom. 

Oh, how our woes,
could never crumble the clouds—
my eyes are drawn and drift, 
along their lull. 

All else evaporates. 

• • •

m a y   25

I hear the red cardinal call, singing the song of today with the occasional hum of a modern day machine. I’m practicing open awareness, the simplest form of gratitude. To acknowledge everything in existence, and to soak in all surroundings. I look at what’s ahead, along with each fuzzy-faint fragment happening within my peripherals. I’m amidst a stagnant scene—neighbor boy, not even four years of age, playing with airplanes while a maintenance man fixes another’s air conditioning. 

Recognizing it all, without label or thought. Solely existing, inevitably followed by gratitude. 

Little pieces of tree pollen fall on my head and tangle in my hair. Alternating bees linger around my yellow mug, filled to the brim with hot tumeric, ginger tea. The breeze picks up and releases more pollen, gravity pulling it to ground. 

This is where serenity dwells, within the stillness. My tired mind has finally been emptied of its clutter and clamor, and now is solely taking up space. I get lost in this space, buried in gratitude. Amidst this space, this blank scene, anxiety isn’t able to erupt in any form nor capacity. For I am breathing freely, standing still with a wide-lens view, encompassed by my surroundings. I’m allowing myself to hear, feel, breathe. 

• • •

j u n e   8

It’s a pause of a page turn, 
mid-way. 

A thin piece of paper wavering; 
no camaraderie nor support from either ends of the book; 
rather stagnant, enveloped only by air, 
connected, only through the shared spine. 

The pages which lay left are known, 
their words well read, 
though the words on the right, remain unrevealed—
though a few catch my eye; 
terms recognized, 
restless to be read, 

but it’s a pause of a page-turn, mid-way.

• • •

j u l y   4

My shaky knees sit together, 
with feet on the wall, 
propping me back into the posture-failing chair, 
a few feet away from my mother-in-law in the hospital bed. 

I peer out the blinds onto the small-town city, 
saturated in the sunset’s glow. 
It’s harsh light glares through the blinds, 
onto the wall that’s been begging for its light. 

My mind is a mixed up ball of yarn, 
a thread of thought that’s been tumbled and knotted—
stature matching my stomach. 

A low quality audio recording plays to her in the background, 
along with the occasional gurgle from obstruction in her lungs, 
accompanied by the throat humidifier’s hum that moonlights as a white noise machine.  

My hummingbird heart and half open head tosses confusion, 
fights with frustration; 
I ache for her bones that have been touched by pressure ulcers, 
I have sorrow for her skin that feels the fabric of the hospital gown, 
of every pinch and every needle, 
though isn’t able to move a muscle. 
I pray for her mind that working in full capacity, 
but can’t communicate verbally. 

I breathe deep.

God’s never left us,
and hasn’t now. 

He hasn’t vanished for even a second within this all-enduring wait; 
though we wonder when this hour will be over. 

He’s in the humidified air,
alongside the shoulders holding a cinderblock weight, 
and in the bright blue eyes of my mother-in-law. 

He’s there when our hearts lay so heavy, 
when the diagnosis offers months, 
when doctors share the prognosis with tears welling, 
when my soul feels shattered.

He’s in these moments where her husband feels peace, 
one that surpasses all understanding; 
He’s in the hearts that the nurses carry, 
their patience and diligence. 

He’s holding us, 
calming our minds, 
holding our hearts, 

even amidst the mess.