I sit relaxed on my bed, this cool August evening. After days, weeks, almost, of running from my journal and my blog, my heart wants to talk... Why? I ask myself. You will never be a writer. You don't have a way with words. Poetic words don't flow from your mind to your pen; in fact, the speed at which words arrive on the page from your mind could be likened quite well to how molasses pours from a jar in the dead of winter. Yeah. Not fast. And I look over my words many times before I finish, and bite my lip. Think. Wonder. Should I write it differently? Ah... yes. How? I know not. Some sentences take forever to phrase just right. Even when I talk I have difficulty saying and explaining things just the way I mean them. Yet I still love words, and my heart cannot go for so long without needing to lift my pen to the page of my journal, or to sign in to my Blogger account. And write.
And so, I sit here yet, on my bed. The fan hums softly and the breeze causes my hair to tickle my neck. The sweat that dampened my clothing now makes me shiver slightly. The darkness seeps through the slats of my two blinds that cover the windows in my bedroom. Cars roll by on the road in front of my home, one here, another there... The gentle hum of voices relieves some of the stress of the day, and I wish it could always be calm. The Gentleman Prince slips into my room, crying about a bug bite. I give him lotion. Three books reside on the floor by my bed. A journal. My bible. A book. A book I have been reading which makes me uncertain. A book about relationship difficulties... about abusive relationships. From my reading, I know change is necessary. I know that now. Yet I shrink from the difficulty of it, and I feel glad I am not alone. It would be harder... and yet in some ways easier... if I were alone. Yet I am glad I am not alone.
If my life held a timeline of snapshots, what would they be of? I don't know yet what snapshots of my teenaged years, and of these months, that I will remember, but if I could say right now, I would paint a picture of waiting... But that is abstract, so there can be no snapshot of that. Instead, there are snapshots of tomatoes. Big, red, beautiful tomatoes. Heirloom, regular greenhouse tomatoes, plum tomatoes... Snapshots of big pots of tomatoes cut up and devoid of most of their seeds, cooking down into sauce. Snapshots of the big canner, and sterilized jars. Snapshots of canned pickles and tomato sauce and tomato juice... Snapshots of swings, and rabbits, and corn... Snapshots of watermelon and cucumbers and bike rides. Long night bike rides, with lights, up and down hills; and then the flat ones over an old railroad trail. Passing the kindly gentleman with his giant dog, making habits and creating memories... Snapshots of pure terror; girls riding as fast as possible to get as far away as possible from the dark, tree infested, creepy and evilly enchanted farm, where a man called out to us, asking who goes there; scaring us dreadfully, calling for his dog to be let loose... His watchdog, he said. The snapshot I see, I see that we were going fast. Very fast. And my pepper spray was in my hand, and my breath was short. I see we were laughing and almost crying, and extremely worked up. I see more snapshots, many of bike rides. Snapshots of going up hills, yes... difficult hills, but even more of going down hills. The going down is the memorable part, and there were many of them. The hills up were worth traveling to go downhill. I see comrades, having fun and sharing nicknames. I see flowers by the roadside, and pretty girls stopping for them. There are many snapshots...
I see a snapshot of children curled up on a beanbag at the library, reading and being read to. I see giant stacks of books, my favorite ones, and sitting with the Gentleman Prince beside me, listening quietly to the stories. I see sketches of anime characters on the scrap paper table at the library... I see books pulled of the shelf, so many that must be brought home.
I see reading sessions with the Gentleman Prince, who is beginning to read. I see children running outdoors, happy to be free and wild. I see music... I see songs that are played over and over and over in my earbuds, because I love them so. I see cards... Cards that are beautiful, cards that I make. I see meals, cooking that soothes my soul. I see days where the food is scarce, but I also see days where I am so blessed that I can do naught but lift my hands to the sky and cry tears of thanksgiving. Thank you, Jesus... Thank you. I see efforts to create beauty... I see love.
All in all, I see long days... Days that I can barely endure. Days I don't want to be alive, and nights I cry. Nights I cannot sleep and nights I dream big dreams in. I see nightmares and I see blankness. But I also see hope, and joy, and love. I see pain and loneliness, but I also see laughter and friends. And that is my snapshot of August.
