Thriving?

We’re going through a difficult time at the moment – I won’t go into it but suffice is to say one outcome could be pretty crap.

A deep fault of mine is that I allow worry to wrap itself round my heart and squeeze ever so painfully. So much so I find it hard to pray. If you know me you probably wouldn’t realise – as I just ‘carry on’. I think it’s something I inherited from my mum – just ‘get on with it’. Crying about it isn’t going to make it any better…

I had to leave for work super early this morning. There’s something about silly’o’clock – like no one’s touched the day yet. It’s clean.

I’d grabbed some AVON brochures on my way out the door to post along a nearby road. I crossed paths with a man doing a paper round from his Ford Escort…remember when it used to be a young teenager on a bike?

I found myself dwelling on what’s hurting me most – and asked God where he was in all of it. Over the last few days I’ve felt a numbness that I’ve wondered is the vacuous absence of God.

So much so this morning that I asked:

“Do you love me Lord? Do you really Love me?”

After posting the last AVON brochure, unusually, I’d put on my headphones as I walked to the train station. I wanted to listen to a Christian music playlist – if I can’t pray, this is the next best way to talk to God, right?

A band came on and then as I turned into I side street my playlist jumped to the next song.

“How he Loves us..” – Cory Asbury.

‘Odd’, I thought.

I got to the station platform and phrase from the bible came to mind; Paul in Corinthians saying:

“Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh..” – 2 Corinthians 12:7

I realise that there are so many others a lot worse off than me: financially, health wise…but I wonder why it feels like I’m herding kittens? Am I thriving? Am I doing what God’s really planned for me?

Paul talks about overcoming the ‘thorn in his side’ – and uses the analogy to stay grounded in Christ. If I struggle to pray in the worst times, how will I ever feel ‘connected’?

I actually feel like i’ve only just got my head above the water, and I can see the next wave coming. It will engulf me…

Bullies, cowards and empty cupcake sleeves

ImageI don’t normally read the gossip columns, or at least, i don’t normally admit to reading them; but i was moved to post this on my Facebook today:

Was there a woman who saw those awful pictures of Nigella Lawson who didn’t think “If he does this in public what does he do behind closed doors?”

Suzanne Moore’s comment in the Guardian got me thinking – how is it some men think that they can behave in such a way? And why, when Nigella was so evidently being mauled, was someone sitting there taking photos and not asking her if she was ok?

I’m not an expert on domestic abuse by any means, although i have experienced it first hand, and i’m sure there are hundreds of blogs out there commenting on the same thing, but it just makes me wonder: what was Saachi, the photographer, and the fellow diners at that restaurant thinking? From the pictures, Nigella’s thoughts are written across her face…

I obviously don’t know Mr Saachi – but i would have pinned him an eloquent man. But then, some of the most eloquent seem to resort to either childishly sticking their heads under a blanket and hoping a situation will disappear (rather than broach a potentially difficult conversation) or, violence.

Such actions eventually expose them for what they really are: bullies and cowards.

Poem: The Old Man

Cars and buses, feet on wet pavement,

Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.

And you, oblivious to time, you lament

At dark windows, docking your cap.

Dapper old man in your battered suit,

Aiming your lighter toward your fag,

A story set in your own head, you salute

All that is familiar to you; a sad,

Weathered building in Muswell Hill.

Lights green, clutch off, and off,

I launch myself into now, and still

Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.

 

The Only One

I’ve been following the news story on the shootings in Annecy, in the French Alps.

I picture the four year old who was found 8 hours later, cowering under the bodies of her parents and think, what sort of human being would do that?

Zeena has inspired me to start a short story…

My ears pricked to the sound of distant sirens. Yes, they were coming my way.

I closed my eyes, but could still feel the steady drip of liquid splattering against my left cheek. It ran uncomfortably down the back of my neck, and pooled under my shoulder. I tried to ignore the fact that it was still warm.

The sirens had cut through a thick and disorientating silence. Their oscillating wail stepping in to replace the heartbreaking cacophony that had stopped just a few moments before. It was a moment I wanted to claw back; the lull slipping away like the unchecked tears from my squeezed eyelids.

I couldn’t, block out the grating monotony of sound. Instead of trying to make myself small, encouraging the world to skip past me, my whole being betrayed me by exploding.  It was a while before I realised the new, inhuman scream was coming from my own mouth.

I hope to finish in the next few days or so.

Poem: I’m Crap at Resolutions

I’m a bit crap at resolutions, me
I try to find the fusion you see
Between easy, with something impressive
That will raise an eyebrow, or two

I try to allude to tenacity
But in the end my resolve to be
– good melts, like the ice in a baileys dream.
Or, disappears – like my running shoes…(ahem)

It’s something about Willpower..and me.
The two of us – we have no intimacy.
So I steer clear, avoid the exertion
Of beating myself up..or putting me, down.

So! It’s fruitless, and I think you’ll agree
That me, and a resolution will not see
Eye to eye; with an exception of one.
To laugh hard, and often…and mostly at me…

Poem: The Resolution

I’ll allow the tv to collect dust;
Fame, drama, lust and celebrity;
White noise, no poise just
Do not bring you nearer to me.

I’m putting a curb on my tongue;
Lies, gossip, fake intimacy
Dark fun – all leave hearts stung
and, does not bring you nearer to me.

I’ll stick to these resolutions.
New Year, trite promises see
Habits stricken, love proven;
A chance to bring you nearer to me.

I’m erecting a fence around my heart;
Gated, protected. A place to be
Me; with more of you. To start
Afresh, and bring you nearer to me.

Don’t Text When You’re Drunk

I blame laughter and Sauvignon Blanc;
Friday night, an inept DJ.
I wonder how you read my misspelled words.
Did they whisper or shout at 2am?
Mute in the light; grey and painful,
Each idiom deciphered, pored over.
Now expectancy fills the space in my chest,
Heavy and humid like my damp flat.
Present residue, just as unwelcome.
Your silence is unfamiliar; jarring as a 10cc engine.
Immersed in the pounding silence,
I realise…it matters. It saps the energy to shrug.
Another minute goes by, void of you.