dear diary – ola and love

the winter wonderland comes to me, glistening like silver slippers.  the taste of eggs and mushrooms is still in my mouth as I step outside, the cold hitting me hard.  this is a beautiful morning.  my house was slow in waking up, and still, everyone is in their pajamas, eating pancakes and talking about Grandma coming over with her friend Roger.  I was up late last night, watching that skating movie with mom, and thinking about love and beautiful music, and hard and impossible things.

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dear diary – burning pages

Today, I burn pages.

I wake up and check my phone. It reads 6:47. Good, I think. 1 hour before I need to start dressing for church. I ate too late last night and my stomach feels fat and bloated. I need to find a shirt that covers this ballooning muffin top.

I sigh and roll out of bed.

I pick up my bible and notebook. I stop. Peeking out of my trundle drawer is my blue notebook. THAT. Blue notebook. I pick that up too.

Blue notebook. Shrouded in memories. I pull back the elastic band and she flips open to the first page. THAT first page.

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when songbirds stop singing

I liked you.

I confess i did.

I loved sitting under the lights with you talking about The Hunt for Red October.

I loved walking the dark streets with you, trusting your guidance and your tall, strong, dark shape alongside me. I trusted you were there and you would protect me from ghouls and monsters and drunken men.

I loved dreaming with you; dreaming of how we’d change the world and change ourselves and change lives and change systems. You had dreams, boy. Dreams bigger than the Montana sky and wider that the Red Sea.

You were happy, boy. And I was too, or so I thought.

I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden, I realized that despite the dreams, the talks and the walks, we were still strangers, you and I.

I knew your dreams but I didn’t know you.

You knew my best but you couldn’t see my worst; you didn’t know me.

So we’ve drifted. Like plywood in the vast ocean we float – further and further away. Sometimes I look out in your direction and wonder where you are now. Africa? Asia? America?

I don’t know. But you are far, far away. I still have the vast Montana sky to look at though. So I still think of you.

The shadows make me think of you too. As do the lights. And The Hunt for Red October.

Thank you, boy, for letting me hear your summer melody. You sang a song – though it wasn’t mine.

I pray you’d find another songbird to sing with you.

05.05.2018

I had a headache.  The snow was falling.  Again.  The battery on my phone was dead.  I was exceedingly parched.  It was Sunday and the week stretched on before me.  I sat in the old white van; bouncing along with 500 tabs open in my mind.  There was the phone to charge, the water to find, the clothes to change into; room to clean, books to read, people to text, dishes to wash, and at least a hundred more things.  Along with all the “to dos” there was all the “want tos” or all the “should dos”.  I really should reach out to that friend; I really need to write a letter to that girl; I really need to pray for him; I really should visit her; I really ought to start doing that.  And on and on and on and on….

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04.30.2018

Dear April,

You were a very good month.  After a slew of not-so-fantastic-could-have-been-better months, April, you were very good.  Lots of growing, growing, growing, ever growing, learning, failing, growing….well, you get the picture.  But also lots of laughter and joy, and joy and laughter and resting and deepening and smelling flowers and drinking coffee and ya know…all that good stuff.

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04.19.2018

“Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.”

― Charles Baudelaire

To me, most poetry used to invoke the image of an old woman snoring loudly in a rocking chair, while her ornery cat, Jemima, sits in her lap and her cup of tasteless tea rests beside her. Perhaps others rather like this idea, but personally, I would rather be an old barefooted woman who plows behind a team of oxen in the fields, makes poptarts for the neighbor’s children, and still drinks kombucha in her old age. But that’s just me.

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04.07.2018

It was finally one of those days where I got home early enough from work to lace on my running shoes and inhabit the fresh evening air before the sky turned to dusk and the cold threatened to freeze my toes.  I would much rather have been barefoot, but…patience.  Summer will come soon enough, I told myself.

As the sun began to fade behind the neighbor’s fields, I picked my way over the crusty, white earth to the place where I had left my garden the previous fall.

The air had been warm enough today to melt the earth somewhat, and my running shoes squished noisily over the brown grass as I surveyed the “ruins” where my garden had been.

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