Tuesday, April 23, 2013

move on.

Spring has fully arrived out here. That always gets me jazzed up.

A plethora of really difficult and painful things lies just below the surface of the jazzed up feeling, though.

Stories of children being run over by cars, mamas giving birth to sleeping little ones, vulnerable people being injured and killed by ignorance and mob mentality. people being harmed, intentionally. people being harmed accidentally. baby girls' bodies being violated in the sex trades, children's innocence being robbed from them. the endless pain and fervor of violence, madness, torment, SIN.

this world is not my home.

this world is not our home.

To write those painful and very real things out then makes it seem all that much more ridiculous to write about wanting to dig my sewing machine out and stitch up some curtains for Hubs' VW bus, or to embellish some cushions, or to finally have my perfect cloth diaper stash for two sweet baby boys' bums. Or to make sundresses for my girl. Or rearranging furniture, creating artwork, & on and on and on...

Or to spell out the combination of sheer joy and memory and love yet also difficulty in choosing portraits to make it into frames I've spray painted to get up on my gallery wall.

I don't like the combination of guilt and paralysis this induces. I feel like I do an injustice to the memory of the lost, the gone home, the ones left behind if I move on and do things that seem menial, or selfish, or extravagant.

But is sewing diapers for my child menial? Selfish? Is making my girl a dress extravagant? If I were the one who had one of my precious family members go on to heaven too soon want others around me to stop their lives in honor of my pain?

No. Most definitely not.

I would want them to acknowledge my pain, to weep with me, to hurt for my hurt.

and then to move on. Doing so allows me to also move on.

So I want to remember the joy of these days as well as the pain, in all honesty. Because they are both there, and they are both real. To feel is to be alive, no? To sit and be numbed by the guilt of feeling anything either way is nothing short of a victory for the wrong team.

Like so many others, I was paralyzed by the recent tragedies in the news, again and again. Add those onto the strain of the yoke of real life, and it's enough to topple any of us down. The ache of the world in turn caused me to have a paralysis in my heart, to not speak, to not write, to only see small snippets of joy and know how to shout pain in our little house. I felt I couldn't share because my little real-life day to day was not as deep & wide gaping pain as all the others out there.

But neither is my joy, many days.

Deep breath in. And out.

And now I choose to listen to a new song. A new voice.  The voice of Truth.
Joy and pain are part of life. I want to choose joy. I want to see the helpers in the midst of tragedy. I want to BE a helper in the middle of the chaos. I am choosing joy. I am a helper. I am a warrior!

Life's gonna get me down with babies having colds and not sleeping, girls growing into preteens, headstrong toddlers throwing food and clothes and phones in the garbage, bigger toddlers throwing everypossibleitemhecanfind into a hidey-hole beside the couch that much resembles a hoarder's nest, a mama who loves this life and loves these children and loves the Savior but still has so many moments of failing and tears... so while I'm down there, I can use that time on my knees to pray, to scrub, to pause. To smile into wee curly-lashed eyes. To fight hard for the joy in the middle of the pain of real life, the sweat of the every day, the maddening monotony of ... monotony.

The stuff that turns a mama's hair grey.

And then I can get up and dance. So can you.
We know that while we are here, there will be pain. There will be heartache, sorrow, loss and death. But there can also be dancing. And sweet, drooling grins. And goofy scream dancing. Hidey-hole pillow fights.

Moving on.

Back to the jazz.

Years ago, when I first became a single mom to my two oldest lovies, I started seeing a counsellor in college. She was the bomb. She challenged me every. single. time. I have a deep respect and love for this woman. Kathy, if you ever happen upon my little blog, know you are loved and admired and I am so very grateful for having you in my life.

She had me look at our coffee mugs on more than one occasion, to remind me of how I was only seeing my situation from one perspective. She would then turn my mug, and show me how it looked different from a different angle, an alternate perspective. Same mug, but it looked different.

And that many times all I needed to do to move on from the pain I was in was simply shift my gaze, turn my perspective to a new point of view and perhaps I would see something new, enhance my awareness, and find some balance, some relief, greater understanding and some peace. Like light being shed to increase what I can see, which in turn deepens my compassion, broadens my love, increases my joy and brings about such peace and patience in faith.

Brilliant. Moving on is not a bad thing.
Especially when it calls out the growth of new spiritual fruit in a mama's life.

Moving on over here, making some changes in my internal (and online) life where I've spread myself too thin and coming back to a happier place, a place where I can nurture our young roots and tend to these young souls and pour into my Husband, my children, our home.

It feels good. 
And I am so excited to be getting back to the joy here. Tired of the tired.

Happy moving on day to you. I'm going to pour a fresh cup of coffee. 

1 comment:

  1. Eloquent as ever dear old friend. Love the thing about the mug! Happy moving on day :)-Karen


make no mistake, I am smitten with your words. please say hello, or pour something out - you will make my heart happy.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...