taste the rainbow and the rain arrow

I shot the rainbow with my arrow.

It took a few tries to hit my target.

When I hit just right, at the apex of the bow,

the bow took my perfectly flung arrow,

And shot it into the heavens.

And by that, I mean the stars.

And by that, first I mean the moon.

And then all the planets that happen to be in a row, above or below.

And then the first neighboring star, if you happen to be heading in that direction,

Our sun.

And then, if your aim is true, it will reach the heavens.

Which can also be a term for the skies we see...

So it might just hit beyond our reach.

Which, if you think about it, is a good place to shoot for.

In any case.

Flew to the sun.

Once upon a time, I was caught in the sunshine, and between me and the sun stood so many miles of space, and one window.

So I jumped out the window.

And flung myself through space.

The heat from the force of my jump caused a burning sensation in my legs.

Which fortunately kept them from freezing off while I flew through space.

I held my breath.

I wore my glasses, because everyone knows it's safer.

When flying through space.

To wear eye protection.

This everyone knows.

Back at the window, the leaves waved to the empty desk inside.

And the sun shone on the keyboard.

unknown

I saw you get out of your car.  You turned the radio down just enough for me to miss the name of the last song.  I heard you are getting married.  That's great.  I can't remember the guy's name.  I met him once at the  intramural softball game.  I remember you at church softball games, when we were in high school.  You know, back when we went to church.  I suppose you look happy.  You looked happy then, too, but much skinnier, and your clothes didn't fit as well.  Nobody was holding your hand on the bleachers, and you always wondered what it would be like to have a player to cheer for, other than your dad, who was pitching.  And it's hard to cheer for a pitcher, especially one who doesn't hit or run or make fast plays.  And is your dad.  I think you're used to being embarrassed.  But that could just be me talking.  Now it's all intentional.  What will you use to manage your shame?

love song melancholy

It hit me, the melancholy, listening to sappy love songs that my sister sent me as possible wedding music fodder.  "You and I, we can conquer the world."  First, Rob doesn't like Michael Buble, and second, I don't feel like we can conquer the world.  Maybe Rob does, but I don't.  I don't feel like a power couple.  I feel like making no grandiose promises.  We are more like the simplicity of "I Will Be Here".  That's simple enough, but maybe really hard.  Who's to say?

What on earth is oneness-- what is unity in diversity?  What on earth is sanctification and how does that correspond to oneness in marriage?  What on earth are we here to do?  I remember that we were getting pretty excited about Christian living when we listened to Pastor Jeff talk about participation in the glory of God, living the way we were designed to live, spurring one another on to living well, from the spirit of Christ, everything.

Tozer on Spiritual Concentration and the inner life. “Retire from the world each day to some private spot, even if it be only the bedroom (for a while I retreated to the furnace room for want of a better place). Stay in the secret place till the surrounding noises begin to fade out of your heart and a sense of God’s presence envelopes you. Deliberately tune out the unpleasant sounds and come out of your closet determined not to hear them. Listen for the inward Voice till you learn to recognize it. Stop trying to compete with others. Give yourself to God and then be what and who you are without regard to what others think. Reduce your interests to a few. Learn to pray inwardly every moment. After a while you can do this even while you work. Practice candor, childlike honesty, humility. Pray for a single eye. Read less, but read more of what is important to your inner life. Never let your mind remain scattered for very long. Call home your roving thoughts. Gaze on Christ with the eyes of your soul. Practice spiritual concentration. “

Tell stories. Use words if necessary.

Once upon a time, I ran out of stories.  So I had to borrow other people's stories.  Some are better than others.  Some help me start story-ing again.

Once upon a time, all my stories had no beginnings or endings, just middles.  It's because I forgot about the beginning and couldn't imagine an ending.

Once upon a time, these things happen every day.  Thank God for imagination, for memory, and for the shared collective of human stories.

We can do this.

a little bit ticklish

What kind of man is he, this friend of yours, that we may admire him?

Well, he's a story-teller, first and foremost.

He's a learner, so he's a teacher.
And he's a little bit ticklish.
I keep trying to avoid it, but he's made of the stuff.

He is funny and silly and serious.
He is quiet and merciful and brave.
He surprises me with what comes out of his mouth.
That is, when I am listening long enough.

An excellent game player, and that's a fact.
Careful and precise and mindful.
More competitive than he lets on.
Learning is as important as winning, and more.

He texted me this morning asking if we could be pirates.
Of course my answer was yes, and when.
What do we need, did I have to lose an eye or leg?
He suggested we start tonight, which settled it.

One of the handiest men I know.
Like an un-flanneled Al Borland, with glasses.
Fixed the light switch box in my parents' basement,
Eradicated a mouse from my kitchen drawer.

Unsentimentally, I can tell you that he cries.
He cries for himself, for his own pain, and for others.
He cries in real time, and when it matters.
I believe in his connection to life and death, and the other.

I guess it's a little bit ticklish.

miss january

Hanging on your wall, downstairs in your basement room, or perhaps still in your backpack, or on your desk, in a pile and a flurry of other things, is the calendar that my dad made for you for Christmas 2013.  

I wonder if you will hang it up, or if you will keep it someplace private and quiet.  I wonder how often you will look at it, and how you will feel when you see the pictures.  I wonder who else you will tell about it.  

*(My dad gave my boyfriend a calendar full of pictures from me.  As he opened it, he wouldn't show it to me at first, and I assumed the worst-- embarrassing childhood photos. But no, it was nicely done, with pretty quotations and recent photographs.  What a sweet gesture.)

Is it not good news?  Is not all good news so personal, a father saying, "Look, this is my daughter.  Is she not lovely?"  

I told you that it felt like a twelve-month lease.  You laughed because you couldn't help it, you were shocked into explosion.  I always like it when that happens.  I like seeing your insides out, a truth you can't help telling.