Prodigal Poet: An Ecclectic Offering on God, Shakespeare, and the Beatles

I thought of something intriguing today . . . So far I've spent all of my adulthood trying to slay a few different dragons, different but related: 1. Stomping out a bad self-esteem and nurturing a good one up from the musty basement. 2. Telling fears to go screw themselves and find new boundaries for my comfort zoning map 3. Figuring out how to make the seven year old and the seventy year old in me fuse into one cohesive person. 4. Be happy. Basically numbers 2-4 stem from issue number 1 -- the mischievous, little . . . no, exasperatingly huge thorn in my side.  Each of these dragons has, at one time or another (and occasionally all at once), kicked my ass.  Obviously they have been somewhat dominant, hence the "all of my adulthood" part.  And unfortunately, my name being drawn out of the Goblet of Fire was not the reason behind it all.  Unfortunately, the blame is on me.   Little by little I have been chipping away at my Berlin Wall of issues,

My age says I should no longer hold lengthy conversations about the greatest moments in The Muppets repertoire, consort with Smurfs, or linger over trinkets in a bargain bin  marked with Mr. Men and Little Miss.   My age implies thoughts should angle  toward savings bonds, health insurance,  mortgages, property value. My age insists the time to feel care-free and fresh  is past -- now is time for my childlike soul to run on fumes until it just gives out, pulls over, and waits to hitch another ride,  eventually the first part of the trip  disappearing in the distance of a rear-view mirror. Today I am 30.   And what once made me a tad anxious,  now makes me proud.   Three decades under the belt, a fourth just beginning.  The first three were practice anyway . . .  the fourth offers a chance to take what was good  and polish it up for the next run.   The chance to take what was bad, hold it close and nurture out the pain  and fail

  In less than a month now I will be hitting a bit of a milestone.  I will be turning 30.  I will have officially expanded my journey into four different decades.  I'm not completely sure how I feel about this.  It's a mixed bag -- part sadness, part eagerness, and part reluctance.  When I first started thinking about the upcoming September 30 (it's my golden birthday this year, by the way) I began to feel anxious.  30?!  But what have I done in 30 years?  What have I accomplished?  Aren't I still just a kid?  Shouldn't I have a house, and kids, and a career?  In your 20's it's common and perhaps even expected that you haven't done or do not have those things yet.  20's are all about transforming yourself into your adult skin, finding who you are outside of childhood, school, and parents.  30's are . . . well, aren't they . . . well, aren't you supposed to be who you are meant to be by then -- settled, stable, done with figuring thin

Almost two months ago I had a dream that was both familiar and unusual.  Since my Grandpa Clyde (my mom's dad) passed away in November of 1998 I have occasionally dreamed of him.  In my dreams reality most always spills over.  In my dreams I realize that my grandpa is deceased yet somehow I am able to see him, hear him, touch him.  Most often I embrace him and begin weeping, for the joy of experiencing him one last time, for the pain of knowing that it cannot last.  These dreams are a comfort for me . . . sure, a bit painful as well, but mostly comforting.  These dreams seem so real to me at the time that I wake up feeling as though I have gotten another brief moment with my grandpa.    The dream two months ago was much the same; I saw him, knew that he had passed, laced my arms around him, and wept.  He looked at me and smiled, in that calm, gentle way he always did.  I said a few things to him but he never said a word, only made a few noises in reaction to my words.  O

I've decided that life should be more nonsensical . . . like a Monty Python sketch.  It should be full of giant cartoon feet descending from the heavens and awkward men wearing shorts and suspenders, shouting informative quips with a stunningly Hitler-esque mustache.  And most importantly, it should be full of people randomly yelling out, "SPAM!"   Life's hard . . . and stressful . . . and tiring . . . and . . . well, I'm sure you know all too well how to finish this sentence.  Fill in the blanks with your specific frustrations. :)  We've all got problems.  And quite frankly, some of us ARE problems.  So why not freshen things up with a nonchalant stroll through the park, with the silliest walk you can think of.  There is a Ministry for that sort of thing, you know? Just this weekend I could tell that my creative juices were beginning to overflow from neglect because I was seeing all sorts of strange creatures in the shapes and shadows of the clou

* This is part 5 of a series of posts that explore my struggles with self-esteem, weight, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, and the very difficult task of trying to be my fullest self in a world that constantly demands more than what I am. Because this subject is so vast and most of my life has been spent swimming in its waters in some form or another I thought it best to break it up . . . also so as to not bore you to death! Some of you may not be able to relate, but I hope that you will find it interesting anyway. And perhaps you will be better able to understand someone in your life. Some of you may be able to relate and I hope that you will know that you are not the only one -- that the journey may be long, but progress is progress. Remember that no matter how small it may feel, you still are not the same person that you were yesterday. And that is something to celebrate! For Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 please scroll below . . . * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A very significant ph

I started using Facebook only a little over a year ago (I'm always a late bloomer!). Prior to I had absolutely no interest in participating in one of these social forums, and still don't outside of Facebook. I finally decided to start a page, thinking it could help build my freelance business, which I had just started at that time. I'm honestly not sure that it, so far, has done much in the way of business, but I have surprisingly enjoyed it very much on the personal socializing front. I have come into contact again with many people from my past and also stayed in better touch with some of the people from my present. I am often very bad at consistent communication with many people, so this has been a helpful tool for me in nurturing some of my relationships. Plus, I really enjoy taking those silly, little quizzes. :) I never would have guessed this before, but Facebook has also been an effective tool in my journey toward complete authenticity. It basically provides a

There are days when I love writing so much that I just can't seem to get words out quickly enough to satisfy the inundated crevices of my soul. And there are probably far too many days when I hate it -- I hate the way it feels, sounds, tastes . . . I hate the way it taunts me and chastizes me for not being more clever and witty. Writing is really a love/hate relationship. You don't do it simply because you love it. You do it because you feel you have to -- that you will cease to be you if you don't. I've talked plenty about how I discovered that writing was my life-calling when I was 9 years old, writing my first book of poems for the Young Authors Contest. I had never felt such satisfaction before as when I first put pen to paper for that very first poem, titled "Mothers." I will probably never aptly articulate just what that moment meant for me and what it did to me. I was hooked. I was lost and gone forever in a world full of words,

CAUTION: The post below is a little bit of ranting, a tad bit of raving, and a tiny bit of hostile aggression. Read at your own risk. (Sarcasm intended). I don't know about you, but I hate shopping . . . yes, I'm a girl that hates shopping. We do exist! There are many reasons why I don't like this national female high-inducing pasttime. When it comes to clothes, I get depressed because I feel fat in everything, and nothing fits that perfectly because I don't have a perfectly proportioned body. When it comes to household items, I feel hassled. It's really just a chore, not a recreation. And when it comes to gifts, I find myself wandering around for that elusive, outstanding and most glorious present that just never seems to materialize. That's why I do basically all my gift shopping online. Plus, I can find thousands more things online than I ever could in stores, at least without having to hop around to a dozen or more. The biggest reason that I hat

* This is part 4 of a series of posts that explore my struggles with self-esteem, weight, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, and the very difficult task of trying to be my fullest self in a world that constantly demands more than what I am. Because this subject is so vast and most of my life has been spent swimming in its waters in some form or another I thought it best to break it up . . . also so as to not bore you to death! Some of you may not be able to relate, but I hope that you will find it interesting anyway. And perhaps you will be better able to understand someone in your life. Some of you may be able to relate and I hope that you will know that you are not the only one -- that the journey may be long, but progress is progress. Remember that no matter how small it may feel, you still are not the same person that you were yesterday. And that is something to celebrate! For Parts 1, 2, and 3 please scroll below . . . * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I hated gy

I've been listening again to the soundtrack to "Lady in the Water," possibly my favorite of all of M. Night Shyamalan's movies. I know, it was pretty universally panned as being terrible. But why should I care? I loved it and that's all that matters. I love it because it's simple. I love it because it's beautiful and tender. I love it because I can see and feel the heart and soul that M. Night put into making it. I love it because it's fanciful and whimsical. I love it because it's a creative way of doing a modern-day, allegorical fairytale. I love it because it's honest. My working theory is that the people that hated it, do so because they don't know how to enjoy something with childlike love anymore. Or that they are far too "cool" to suspend disbelief for just a moment. And the rest, well, they were just upset that M. Night took out some personal aggression on the in-movie film criti

It's springtime, and like everyone else, I am glad. Although, the reason that I am glad is not because I hate winter, snow, and cold weather. On the contrary, I adore all of those things. In fact, if I had to pick a favorite season, I would probably pick winter . . . call me weird. I love each season as it comes -- each season in its due time. The reason I am happy to welcome back spring is for three things: the smells, leaves once again on the trees, and THUNDERSTORMS!! Yes, that's right, I love storms. I am pretty much infatuated with all bad weather . . . storms, snow, wind, cloudiness, etc. The only thing I do not enjoy, however, is driving in them. Springtime really pulls out the Transcendentalist in me. I like to channel my kindred spirits of Emerson and Thoreau. I suppose most people would say that nature is the thing that most inspires and rejuvinates them. So I won't say that (even though it's true), because I hate being just like everyone else. So

Dust of the day Light sometimes Thick Always clingy, magnetic, sure Campaigning the status quo Slow to retire, quick to spread A swipe, a wipe Smearing fragments till all is speckled Cristened With the mess of the day.

There have been times in my life when I truly wonder where is the mercy. Where has God gone? And why has so much painful suffering been allowed to endure? Enough of those times have been for my own plights . . . but tonight . . . tonight I am left bewildered as to why my brother, sister-in-law, and two nieces have had a lifetime of burdens weighed upon them in the last several months. They have had more than their share of burdens for years now, but the last several months have been particularly difficult. My seven-year old niece, BryAnna, whom I have written about before was born with Treacher-Collins Syndrome. From her first moments in this world she has been poked and prodded by countless doctors, had innumerable trips down to Riley Hospital, and stubbornly made it through dozens of surgeries . . . at just seven years old. Where is God's mercy and grace through all of this? Well, to be quite frank, it is often times difficult to tell. We all wonder why any child should h