Jar of Clay

I am blessed and cursed at the same time. Rarely do I feel “just a little," a blessing creating images and words placed by my heart in my mind. I am cursed by the imagination that follows the images I carry with me throughout the day. 

Emotions, sometimes cold and unyielding displayed in my eyes cutting even the bold, other times so intoxicating I can barely walk unless it is towards the one I need to fall into and hold.  For those I love I must touch with warm hands, keeping at a distance the ones who are unkind, mean for reasons I can't understand.

There are days when music must be placed on mute no matter where I am; it’s words and notes draw me into vain imaginations I can’t escape like sinking sands. The silence steadies my heart and my feet, I can walk again in freedom, the sand disappears and I am standing strong on what is real and concrete.

The music stopped and I could hear the rain, my melodies had hid the gentle beat on my window pane.  This was a soft one that the birds enjoyed.  You could hear it as they splashed and played accompanied by tweets of joy.

I wonder how long did I miss this gentle cleansing so soothing in my ears,  as I lay here grateful the music had stopped so I could hear.  The tree outside my window with it's new leaves slow it down, adding a different rhythm to the drops falling directly to the ground.

I prefer the rain today so I choose to  ignore all the distractions, yes, I know, emails and phone calls are waiting on me to think and take action.  A soft rain like this with no lightning to scare, caresses my mind so I'm staying right here and not going anywhere.

The best way to listen is in my bed deep beneath the  covers, breathing softly so  I can hear the heartbeat of my sleeping lover.  Praying the rain last throughout the day, so under these covers drinking coffee and reading we will stay.

Of course these words came crashing into my brain, driven to write them down so I wouldn't go insane.  Now that the dastardly writing deed is done, back under my covers I go smiling because once again the words won.

One little paper cut, oh no, two little paper cuts, here we go. Three little paper cuts, the pain starts to flow. Four, five, six, little paper cuts, but no one knows.

Words that sliced flew around the place and soon she began to lower her face.  Away from words that cut up her heart, she wasn't even sure what she did to make it start.

Band-Aid here, Band-Aid there, soon there were Band-Aids everywhere.  “Your paper cuts are so small and little, maybe they seem large to you because your so brittle".

"What’s wrong now and why do you cry, words like this are always exchanged between a girl and a guy".  Love swirled hot and then it was cold, she prayed for freedom before she became too old.
She stood still for a moment so she could catch her breathe, her heart and soul had been paper cut to death. Against all odds her courage began to grow and God sent friends to help light the way to go.

In her heart she will always believe, God saw her tears and told her to leave.  God loved her and saw her as a precious gift, the receiver left her unloved and untouched like an unwanted ship in the sea adrift.

The receiver was now filled with great sorrow and regret, but God in his wisdom held her and promised He had a better life for her yet.  Wounded yet healing from broken promises turning her heart cold, she prayed one day to be healed and be treated like gold.

Thank you Sir, you are too kind, but I think that fourth beer made you late night, dim bar lights, blind.  I am not a young girl and there are scars and wrinkles on my face, you might be disappointed if I woke up tomorrow morning at your place.  

See these boots, like Nancy said, they are made for walking.  I'm only here for line dancing, I am not a snob but I don't feel like talking.  Yes, I heard you, "nothing better than a pair of wrangler jeans", but I am not looking around this place for anyone or anything.

Yes, I do like your big ol' cowboy hat but my feelings don't go any deeper than that.  This heart needs to be alone for a little while, smiling with an occasional tear while planning for a new life and life style.  Your lucky I don't go grab that new cattle prod you keep bragging about in your truck, When I am done with it, you might say, you really "feel" down on your luck.  

Just kidding, don't be scared, it was just a joke, I would never use this shinny new cattle prod and give anyone a poke.  So, see you later Mr. Cowboy Hat, here's your cattle prod, I just want to dance, dance, dance, and nothing more serious than that.

She grew up on a country lake far away from city lights.  Bonfires and camping on the beach often filled warm summer nights.  Horses and chickens ran around the place, you never knew what animals were going to show up only to disappear without a trace.

Late night four wheeling through woods underneath the stars, riding double with matching Wranglers far more romantic than  local bars.  Hanging on to a summer love while he drove, moonlight with the smell of honeysuckle always present with a shortcut through the groves.

Then came those moments when you knew it was time, moonlight would lead him to stop for a kiss his memory would not leave behind.   The trick was getting him to turn back around and drive on so you wouldn't have to let him down.

Kicking the sand around with his boot, stating his case why we should stay so I can bless him with my loot.   This particular memory makes me giggle, the threats to end it all if I didn't give in a little.  

Sometimes on Mondays there was a kind of regret, for all those "break up with you if you don't" moonlight threats. 

 Of course,  the gift of a blood moon to light my way, bringing memories of once was a kind love  to end my day.  Sweet dreams Mr. Moon, until we meet again. 

She had been there for years, a scrappy, happy, friendly little dog loved by all, but being older, her photo rarely made the "eligible for adoption” wall. Too busy playing with volunteers, her friends and loving life, to notice potential owners when they came around, well,.. maybe once or twice.

She really didn't notice she missed out time and time again, but the day came when a loving young man adopted Floppy, her best dog friend. She spun around so happy for her, but when the door closed, she realized all her friends were gone and a chill ran over her fur. 

A small voice followed closely by fear said, "this small cage may be where you spend the rest of your years". Her favorite blanket left behind by a volunteer who cared, for the first time didn't bring comfort, she looked around at all the puppies and was scared.

Determined to love and make a difference with what time she had left, she loved on other dogs and puppies who arrived scared half to death. One by one she watched them go to their new homes, thankful to have made a difference but there were times she felt alone.

Then a new family visited her for over a year, making many promises to take her home and hold her dear. She decided to take a chance on eight little hands, a huge backyard with an inside bed and lots of love promised by the man.  

A few years after she arrived, slowly things changed, and their lack of attention came as a surprise. She continued to love, guard and protect the house, as for the words "I love you" they became as quiet as the dreaded house mouse. 

Then the day came when the backyard became her permanent home, even the little hands had grown bored with her and once again she slept alone. She had heard of this from other dogs who had been returned, promises of love and affection would grow to be something only the dogs would yearn. 

Then the days came when so many cruel things were said, "what had she done" was the question running through her furry, cute head. Petted and paraded about only on special days, once over she would be put back up into her backyard cage. 

Longing for promises and affection from yesterday but they were rarely given so she ran away.  Several times they convinced her to return with promises of a warm house, but soon she was ignored, like their fat cat pretending not to see the dreaded mouse. 

She felt pity for them; she had done a good job loving and protecting them every day. She took off her little collar knowing she would never put it on again regardless of what they might say. She anticipated their attempts to keep her for themselves, but never again would she trust in anyone who would adopt her only to be put on an unloved backyard shelf. 

She wondered why they were fighting so hard, yet again, for her to return.  She felt nothing but pity with all their words, deeds, prayers and promises of lessons learned. Forgiveness was given taking the burden off of her heart, returning to the shelter and the kindness of friends she would in time, when her heart was ready, make a new start..

Dear God, please forgive me for being mean today, I am so exhausted I couldn't seem to find one nice thing to say.  For the ones who love me and understand, I know their eyes will hold mercy when we meet again.

Sleeping on office couches while waiting for zoom calls to start, troubles outside of work have weakened my normally kind heart.  No one reaches out for help because their life is going great, I need rest so I can be kind and smile while carrying around this weight.

Tomorrow I close the door with instructions on what to do while I am away.  I want to sleep, turn off my phone and let my words come to life for more than a couple of days.   So hate me in a few weeks if I return and haven't changed, if I am still a mean girl and act the same.

Maybe I will return to sit on the island cliffs where I watched the Orcas dance, or drive out west to watch wild horses in the mountains while they prance.  Little voices are begging me to come with them, help them with their "floaties" and watch them while they swim.  

For those who never walked through the desert of exhaustion land, there is no way they could be expected to understand.  But if you have and you care for me, days like this when I am not perfect, will test whether or not you will flee.

 I decided to lower the shade on my window yesterday, for fear of what I might see on display.  The view after take off had been full of beauty I promise, but later changed into a storm re-awakening Doubting Thomas.

Keeping the shade down is what I decided to do, how can you be afraid if you can't see the view.  What was so smooth and easy to fly, had become bumpy with dark clouds scaring me in the sky.

I think about my ship tied to the dock with its moorings sure, a storm like this would make them harder to untie I am sure.  Thoughts of its small cabin bring relief, while this giant cabin shakes me like a leaf.

What is this country we are flying over and how long did I sleep, when did we crossed into the border and how deep?  Slowly we approach the lighted pathway below, knowing a dangerous mission is waiting in the places we will go.

Barbed wire and high fences bring an illusion of safety we know we can't trust, staying on guard day and night is simply a must.  For the ones left lying in the streets, begging for bread and water is a need we desperately tried to meet.  

With hundreds dying around us we could not move fast enough, with a supply chain run by those we could not trust.  Images of children left alone to die, never left me and shaped the rest of my life.  

I saw so many miracles that I finally lost  count, meals arriving at the last moment with just the right amounts.  Not one more or less than what was needed for the day, children laughing again because the pain of hunger had gone away.  

She believe they were in love with the idea of a perfect she, along with the  perfect plans created just for a perfect her and she. As time passed, and she was someone other than what they imagined her to be, they lost interest but continued to love the idea of a perfect she.

Slowly, but  surely, they grew angry and frustrated with the real she, but refused to give up on the idea of a perfect she.  Longing for love and affection, the real she disappeared in hope for friendship found in love meant to be, even if  it was only given when she pretended to be the perfect idea of she.

So here stands the imperfect, flawed real she, fighting for the the heart inside of how she was created to be.  Forever given up on love and the painting she hoped it would be, simple and imperfect set in a frame of passion, grace and shared mercy. 

Memories and  messages held in our minds like old books, are checked out from time to  time to take fresh look. Making a warm cup of coffee or pot of tea,  settling in our chairs to relax, remember and read.

Browsing the  aisles of old books to determine which one to read, would it be smiles  and laughter, or sorrow when reading about how they made your heart  bleed.  Traveling adventures and mischievous events is a fun section,  knowing you only survived being young and stupid because of God’s  protection.

Walking through the sections about friends, wishing  we could all live nearby and be close again.  Sitting besides the shelf  holding books about loss, wishing you had known because before you knew  it, time together was lost.

In the back are the books about The  Hims, some make you smile and others you never reached for again.   Reading about the ones that loved you so and at times the ones you never  even got to know.

The good Him books hold laughter and friendship within it’s pages,
some  with rumors untrue written by fools and sages.  Some books with passion  as its burning core, the first time you told yourself you never felt  anything like this before.

The Hims built many of the shelves  holding my books and their words, some like a melody so beautiful when  heard.  Other words in anger thrown at you like bricks, proving he was a  (dxxx) (insecure boy who thought he was slick.) Pick the one that fits.

Why, oh why,  does it have to be, the same old, same old, beginning at three. Is it  possible to use seven, eight or nine, to wake me up and create these  silly rhymes. Afraid not to get up and write, because sometimes my words  disappear before daylight.

Where do the words come from and why  sometimes do they go, always come fast, never, ever slow. As always I  am amazing at what is written by my pen, followed by a fear something  might take the words all away again.

I don't think anyone else  will care, if the words of my soul were never laid bare. I suppose they  are meant to help heal my heart, so one day I can give life and someone a  freshly mended heart.

I guess my Dad left me his need to write,  but unlike him, I will probably keep mine hidden out of sight. For now  it is important to keep this all tucked away, for how long my soul  doesn't want to say.