Evergreen

writer, artist of the soul, & infinite dreamer

Sugar and Spice

Our days are peppered with possibilities, seasoned with the suggestion that we will see certain individuals in the places we’ve grown accustomed to. Call us “creatures of habit,” but there are goods to be found in routines. By virtue of them, we foster unexpected connections. Sometimes a friend of convenience can even become one of your closest confidants.

New student orientation is tomorrow, and I am curious to see how new souls will integrate into the atmosphere here once again. I am excited for the unexpected blessings that will come from seeing those who are at a beginning, when I am caught up in the middle (in some respects).

In other respects, I too am at a beginning. My routine is no longer limited to sphere of myself, but my newly married husband bobs and weaves in and out of place and moment in our tiny (but big for us!) apartment on cold mornings. I hearĀ the sound of dishes in the other room as I dress for the day. But they aren’t merely the sounds of another preparing for their day in the same space, irrespective of my plans. The dishes sound because there are two and we will have breakfast together–a deep breath before we dive into the day.

I am thankful that what were onceĀ my routines are steadily becoming ours. There is such a comfort in the daily simplicities that foster our connection. I’m growing accustomed finding him next to me each morning. To the spontaneously choreographed dance of preparing meals together in the kitchen. To seeing him at his desk as we check off our list of ‘to dos.’

Right now, I wait for another routine. For lunch, when our bodies rise in symphony and bring us together over microwaved lunchbox meals. I wait for his voice, his smile, and his eyes. I wait for my Beloved and what this day holds for us.

Breakfast (sc)Rambler

The day has gotten off to a slow start. Two more exams left to go. I’ve finally made it to the library, coffee in hand, seated at the table in the corner by the Babylonian Talmud and Midrash Rabbah.

My mind is tired, but willing to keep on–even if that be at a slower pace than my younger self would approve. Then again, I often feel like I’m letting my younger self down. But in all fairness my younger self had unrealistic expectations for what real life would look like played out in the day to day.

This morning I acknowledge that I know far less than I think I do. I don’t have it figured out, but mom always said you can accomplish anything with the right tools. This past year has involved the acquisition of more tools for the task set before me.

More will be revealed in time. Today I will set my mind on the task before me. Tomorrow can worry about itself.

(re)focus(ed)

“Just a little bit longer.”
“One more big push.”

The end of the semester comes in stages. The crest of paper deadlines ushers in the next wave: finals imminent against the horizon. Once you’ve expended your last vestiges of strength, dig deep into the dregs and complete the journey with excellence.

Fatigue has me floundering today as I face my screen and a semester’s worth of notes and outlines (four-fold). I am hoping for joy in the reflection that finals studying provides, but visions of soft blankets and warm drinks lull my resolve with their intoxicating promises. I will disregard their suggestive siren call. There is more to do before we rest.

“One more week.”
“Just another month longer.”

Spirit Wrought

The amber sun streams on autumn
mornings transforming tree’s leaves until

transparent.

The coffee, mixed with personal luxuries of
hazelnut and cream, remains underneath

dark.

The text of greeting comes with a regularity
of tradition–vibration. smile. response. Set on

silent.

The prayers we speak together are infused with
words not my own. A vocabulary cultivated from
past days not un-like this. Sufficient, Merciful,
Compassionate, Ever-present, Thankful, Prince of

Peace.

In the morning I will rise

Some mornings rising poses more of a challenge than others. These mornings it is not chiefly a physical fatigue, but rather the internal exhaustion of my mental, emotional, and spiritual capacities.

Yesterday I found myself falling, fearful of the inevitable end. To hit the floor and shatter my porcelain self into a million little pieces. I still feel fragmentary–half of me stuck in free fall, the other half swept neatly into a tray waiting to be repaired.

It’s hard to quantify the struggles that come. This might be the hardest thing I’ve yet faced, but I have more tools than I did ten years ago. Or maybe I’m the same person I was back then, but as a result of seminary and Scripture my sin has been laid bare. An ever-present thorn lest I should boast in myself or my works. I see no way out on my own. A broken vase cannot self-repair. I wait for the hands of Another to find my pieces and paste me toward perfection.

Sunday is quiet.

This summer it is the one day I do not have to go in to work at either of my jobs. It has shown me a different side of sabbath than I’ve ever seen before.

It’s raining again. Somewhere saved away in my drafts are musings I’ve made about how, for me, writing seems to most often coincide with the falling of rain. I have yet to determine correlation or causation.

Late afternoon, sipping on port, watching the rain drip from the neighbor’s gutter in time with the rhythm of my heart. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for the past few weeks. Some days are better than others. Some days I have to remind myself to inhale. Time is crystalline and sharp, so I hold my breath as to not cut myself on its corners. I’m holding my breath until time is elastic again. Until it gives itself to bending and is more prone to laughter instead of tears.

But the rain knows. It knows what comes after the falling. Brightness and warmth always push through in the ultimate. Within a future of unknowns there are things we can still count on. Day and night come in turns as their fixed order is the result of a covenant with their Creator.

Quiet is Sunday.

Zen and the Art of Breakfast Borritos

Here smack dab in the middle of summer, fate (i.e. work scheduling) has given the mornings to me and accepted days and nights as an acceptable offering. I will once again find stability in breakfast. Now with the addition of coffee on front porch, I set my face like flint knowing that the help that I’ll need has already been promised and delivered.

I hold my breath tight in my chest, waiting for the day to begin–not looking forward to taking the plunge once again after a week of adventure miles from home. Change is hard. Although, like with most things they get better with practice. Still, my will rebels against the suggestion of routine change regardless of whether it’s for the better or even for the best.

This is the way of the school schedule. When the dust settles and most have flown south for the summer, I am left to fill the void with morning dance parties in my bedroom and omelets garnished with borrowed parmesan. Exhale. Who knows what new adventures in (pseudo-)independence this day holds.