Everyday Life: When Empty Needs to Stay Empty

My day begins with blue eyes starting me in the face.

I'm startled from the rest of sleep into the fullness of day, and I'm pretty sure this is what being born must feel like.

One moment, safely nestled in the peaceful bliss of warm and safe and cozy and full and then not long after emerging into a world where there is cold and hunger and need and empty.

I am born every morning into a life full of need.

Mommy, I need you to hold me.
Honey, I need you to fill his book bag.
Mommy, I need you to sign this line.

There's the needs that don't cry out in voice but still sing out just as strong.

Load the dish washer.
Fill their bellies.
Fold the laundry.

And then there's the needs that are rapid-fire shot into my email inbox, dinging at each round emptied.

The website isn't working.
There's a mistake on page four.
We could really use your article a few days early.

I am born into the neediness of everyday.

And here I am needy myself.

After days, weeks, months and years, I'm finally coming to realize that it's impossible to fulfill all of the need when I myself need so much.

I'm hungry (in more ways than one).
I'm not working well.
I'm a hot mess.
I'm empty.

Empty. Every morning I am born into neediness and empty that needs to be filled.

In more than one way.

And in realizing that I can't fill all of the empty, I realize Who can. And how He fills me with what I need right now.

Right now.

In this season.

And right now, in this season, I'm reminded that there's empty that needs to remain just that  -- empty.

Right now the inside of my life is much like my garden -- there is harvest happening. And harvest requires tending. Some things that are empty right now -- the dresser drawers and the dish cabinet and the blog posts -- they have to wait when the fruit is ripe and needs to tending.

Right now -- in this season of mothering a preschooler and kindergartener -- there is a high need to be present, to tend to them as they mature and ripen.

Maybe the dishes go from table to dishwasher and bypass the empty cabinet.
Maybe the laundry goes from bodies to washer and dryer and back to bodies instead of inside dresser drawers.
Maybe the article only exists as an empty white screen void of black type.

Maybe in this season of harvest all of those things remain empty amidst the need while the hearts slowly learn what it means to be

full

fuller

fullest.

Everyday Life: A Heart Tug of War

In second grade, my teacher told me that writers have names like Hyacynth upon reading a story I wrote when she'd only asked for a sentence.

And a seed was planted.

Growing up I defined myself first and foremost as a writer, and out of that definition I bloomed.

I drank words like greenery gulps rain; I feasted on sentences like the garden does sunshine.

None of that changed when I married or when I birthed my boys.

None of that except my heart.

Motherhood grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a new name: mommy.

A name given by the two little pieces of my heart that now walk around beating outside of my body. And in that name of mother, I discovered another identity, too -- one seen clearly in the reflection of motherhood: daughter.

Beloved by my Creator and made to be a writer, yes, but a mother, yes, just as much in this season. 

And so goes the tug of war on my heart, centered around who I am.

I am always daughter; I am always beloved.

But right now, I am very mother. And in motherhood, I feel writer slipping away from me.

Because writers, well, writers

should write books.

And submit pieces to magazines.

They should carve out a few hours per day to lay down stories into print.

Keep up their clips and skill and hone their art.

But where are the hours for that in motherhood?

Time? Yes, there is time to sneak a few thoughts onto paper, time to write a mini manifesto about why feeding spaghetti to the small ones on a stressful day never actually ends in waves of calm, time to pour out small gleaned moments into black on white.

And that's it. That's all I'm willing to give it right now.

Because while I have to keep reminding myself that, yes, I will always be a writer and, yes, I will always be mother.

I will never be a mother in this season again.

And the most important story I'm writing right now is the one we live out everyday.

This piece was written live at Saturday's Creative Soul even during our Writing Circles. Want to sign up for a virtual one? Click here!

Everyday Life: Brake

He messages me in the middle of the day.

It's not unusual, but it's more than the characteristic "I love you" or "good morning."

I read heaviness, words hanging like soggy sheets on the line.

I feel like we've gotten beat up in some ways. Maybe it's just that we are walking in fog and need a lamp to guide each step.

It resonates.

These past few weeks have been damp with fine mist, thick and heavy, hanging in the short, hurried conversations, in the rush of meals around the dining room table, in the quick sinking of bodies into the bed at night -- a fog we've been trying to feel our way through.

A fog so thick it's forcing us to slow from the rapid speed we've been driving because highbeam headlights are useless.

And blinding.

That afternoon before he leaves work I call him; we are supposed to go separate ways tonight -- me to an appointment, him to a meeting, the boys with a babysitter.

Instead, though, I ask, could we just brake?

Could we flip off the bright beams and pull over to the side of the road?

Come together and look at each other instead of straining our eyes to see out the windshield a few more miles beyond where we are?

He drops the road map, and we halt to a stop.

We fling open the doors for some air,

whisper prayers for clarity into the darkness, breathe in

Your Word is a lamp for my feet and light to my path. Psalm 119:105

We sit in the soft glow.

together.

in the heavy fog.

in the stillness.

and realize we can see the ground on which we're standing.

And for now

it's more than enough Light to see the next step.

{This piece was written live at our Creative Soul Writing Circle. More on this tomorrow! In the meantime, join a virtual Writing Circle.}

Thinking, That's All: Awakening

There is light at the end, but today I pray for wide-angle vision.

I don't want to waste it away -- the time -- on waiting to live fully only in the fullness of light.

I want to see, live nestled inside these moments with little boys who only want to snuggle their mommy and serve her pretend sparkling wine from the restaurant of imagination.

I don't want to lose it to the darkness of anxiety-laced thoughts about MRIs and ENTs and MDs and whatever follows those letters and their diagnosis.

I cry-pray rest enough to unclench white knuckles from clinging to my life.

I cry-pray hot tears, sink my hands into the low back of a black kitchen chair and feel two small arms wrap around my thigh, a head press against the side of my hip.

I weep quietly for a few moments and usher out breath from my shaking lungs, squeezing tightly the shoulders of my oldest son.


I won't go there.

I won't go to the places where I'm drowning deep in the waters of picturing his life, his brother's life, his father's life if the what-ifs were to unfold.

I stand my ground against diving into the waters and then force jelly-like legs to move into the wide-angle frame of life outside the tunnel in which I'm standing.

He follows me around the house, stays close enough in his play that he could dive in after me if I jump.

At not even five, he thinks he's lifeguard to my wild-toddler-at-the-shore moments.

And I know I have to move away from the sand, the beach, the lure of drowning myself in what-if waves and stand firmly on the Rocks

my back to the ocean face toward the Sun glowing in the horizon of tall grasses and little boys and a strong-heart husband and this life-gift spread out before my eyes.

This piece was inspired by the Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circles prompt "awakening" in the Life-Out Loud genre. It was edited after critique from fellow writers. Join a Writing Circle and take part in the writing process at a whole new level!


A few friends have said I was too vague in this post and asked for explanation to the MRI references. I've had some lingering head pressure issues we thought were stemming from sinuses ... but my sinuses are clear. A specialist suggested doing an MRI to see if we can find what's causing the pressure. It's probably bothing but as someone who battles anxiety, the unknown can grow if I let it. 

Thinking, That's All: The Space of Rest

We all quickly pour ourselves in through the door, breathing out the chaos of the day and inhaling the quiet of the space stretched out before us

Weekly we come together to slow down, to discuss life in this foreign land of busy, seven polar explorers* trying together to navigate the harsh terrain of our over-busy, over-scheduled lives in bodies that weren't meant to pushgopushpushgo.

You know that jar analogy? one of the seven asks, a half smile spread across his face. The one with the rocks and the sand and how if you put the rocks -- the big pieces of life -- into the jar first and then put the sand -- all the small, less important stuff -- in, everything fits?

The rest of us nod, all too familiar with the jar and the overflow of the sand spilling out everywhere and the rocks never all fitting.

It's a lie, he says, spitting out the words like bitter fruit.

I lean my head in to really hear what he's saying, and he continues.

All of that sand, all of those rocks -- you just can't fit it all. Some of that sand, some those rocks just have to go, he finishes, relieved to have spoken up against the prevalent thought that if we just ordered it all right it would fit.

The jar is only so big, someone else pipes in. 

It's true, I say. There's only so much space. 

We sit around this truth like its a fire radiating warmth into cool arctic air, explorers intent on thawing cold noses, hands, hearts that have been captured by numbness.

I know this all too well; time and space have long been rigid squares on the flipped open calendar I'm forever trying to pen my life into.

Thing is, though, just like the jar, all of the life I'm trying to cram in doesn't fit in two by two inch squares.

Just like we can't make the jar bigger, there's no way to add inches to the calendar boxes.

And, the truth be admitted, we weren't made to fill every crevice of time, every inch of the jar until both are overflowing out of control.

Truth be admitted, we were meant to rest, remember every one day out of seven.

Sabbath.

It's a  foreign sounding word here in the arctic -- archaic and bound up in thoughts of rules and judgement and nos.

But at its roots in means rest and remember.

After we unlearn all of what it isn't, breathe in a bit of understanding that was lost in translation of restirction and culture and supposed righteousness, what remains seems to be this enormous box with a ribbon.

And all I can ponder is if I'm really going to unwrap it instead of just picking at the paper.

*Annie Dilliard first related our journey here in this time and space to that of a journey of polar explorers who find that they cannot do life alone in such harsh elements. Her short essay appeared in our VantagePoint3 material that detailed what it looks like to live in community. Our group of seven is journeying together through year one of VP3. What we discuss in our groups is sacred, and I sought out permission before publishing from the group member who shared about the jar before sharing here his revelations that have lead to truth in my mind, just to be clear. :)

This piece is a product of our Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circles, where writers come together virtually to share a work and then offer encouragement while giving constructive criticism while applying benevolent pressure to others in the circle.

Bigger Picture Moment: Benevolent Pressure

"I believe in very small group of people who want what you what and are willing to commit," Anne Lamott on writing amid the benevolent pressure of other creative souls

We've come, I think, to a crowded, darkened middle school gym, sneaked in through the back door a few minutes late to hear words from a great wordsmith because we writers feast on words like a kid devours a cupcake for breakfast. 


But I don't know really what to expect from this small blonde dread-locked life-poet once I see her standing in the spotlight, rocking her weight back and forth between both legs and waxing reality about the Holy Spirit and tattoos and how everything she eventually lets go bears claw marks from her fingers clenching tight. 


Oh, me, too. 


Everything I let go of, too, boasts my imprinted fingers and hands. 


And, then, she moves thoughts toward writing because that's what writers do; she muses on about life for awhile and then it all circles back to words, words powerful words. 


Words alone. 


And words together. 

Me, Anne Lamott and Melissa, two irons in my journey 

But there's a difference, you know. 


She speaks to my heart when she talks about how writers need to give themselves permission to write ... about how writers flourish amid the "benevolent pressure" from other writers. 


"I believe in very small groups of people who want what you what and are willing to commit," Anne Lamott says. 


Oh, me too. 


I never gave words before to that belief; however, I realize I've been living it in life with my friendships and in my marriage and in my relationships. 


But have I believed this even for my creative endeavors, my passions? I feel like I've been seeking it for almost two years now as one of the co-founders of Bigger Picture Blogs. 


Only now, though, am I putting it into practice with my heart completely wrap-wound-up-around the debut of our Writing Circles forum. Finally, we've combine two things I love, two things in which I believe deeply: sharing life through painting pictures with words amid other kindreds who write life out loud. 


The Proverbs say that as iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another; we need community to permeate through all aspects of our lives if we are to be stronger, sharper.


And so as it is in life, it is true also in strengthening the skill of creating and bringing to life words and stories, of writing; there is "benevolent pressure" applied in the sharpening. 

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Melissa's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.