My Weblog

Getting Out of the Box while I'm in the Woods. What?

Last week Sheri dug into the guts of my blog and read Getting Out of the Box. I wrote this several years ago, but as I re-read it -- thanks to Sheri's connection with me -- I realized that I  miss the person who wrote those words.

I guess I've been lost in the woods for so long that I've forgotten much. Maybe I've only misremembered -- not sure. It's obvious that when I penned those thoughts with such clarity of soul I had indeed mislain myself, my certain self, and the words were a striving to unearth the displaced person within my skin. Perhaps the search for authenticity is universal regardless of how many actually achieve it.

I admire the one who had the boldness to compose Getting Out of the Box. That woman who set out untroubled to earn back what she felt she had forfeited, what she knew most of us have forfeited in life . . . our original selves. That's who I miss. That person who knew what she wanted, whose determined purpose at that moment was to dig out from under the waste products of conformity. Truly knowing ourselves is a rare gift. A fight worth fighting.

Thanks to Sheri for allowing me a quick relapse into the past of myself. This trip empowered me to realize that I can never win the fight if I'm not willing to fight. If I'm not willing to embrace what's uncertain, become comfortable with the uncomfortable, and relax into the arms of unreliable. Wait a minute, that doesn't sound like a fight . . . embracing, becoming comfortable, relaxing? Maybe for me that  means experieincing my genuine self could be as simple as accepting what I am and where I am right now . . . the unsettled parts of me, the agonizing and disagreeing parts. The whlole of what is lost in the woods.

 

 

Into The Woods (Part 24)

These are the first words I’ve written since I’ve been out of the pit, unless you count signatures on checks or aimless blog posts or doodled grocery lists. But those words are nothing like these words. These words are real. They mean something.

When gravity turned on me, bits of my soul were shaken out, sprinkled onto a clump of moist woodsy soil like pepper spilling out of grinder. I lay still, my head hanging over the edge of the pit, my eyes studying the patches of greater and lighter dark swinging around in the bottom of the pit. The swirling blackness left me nauseated, wishing I hadn’t opened my eyes. I stayed there for days and days and nights and nights. Not caring that I was out of the pit. Not caring that I was still lost in the woods. Not caring what would happen now. Not caring what had just happened.

Last night it occurred to me that perhaps the pit was a dream. But I knew better.  Had I been dreaming, I would have dreamt I were someone else . . . I was somewhere else. I would have dreamt myself out of these woods, not into a pit. That’s how I knew it was real. That’s how I know these woods are still huge and undeniable and thriving around me. That’s how I can muster the strength not to care what may happen next.

“Get up.” He says.

“I don’t want to talk to you. I want to be left alone.”

I can’t see him. I didn’t even hear him walk up. And I hate that he’s always coming and going.

“I think it’s usually harder for you to talk to me after I’ve been away.”

I turn over like I’m in bed, but there’s no cover to readjust or pull over my head. I hang my other arm over the side of the pit, hoping he'll go away.

“I don’t think it will be any easier if you wait.” He says.

I close my eyes, letting the aroma of wet earth pull my head deeper into the tuft of ground cushioning my body. Why are the areas surrounding a pit always soft and slippery and smooth?

“It’s okay to get up and we can talk about the pit.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, but – if I did feel like talking to you – the pit is the last thing I would want to talk about. I don't want to talk.”

I hear silence. I open my eyes and turn to look. His voice is gone.

I'll write. It's safer than talking.

Countdown to Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writer's Conference

Two weeks and counting . . . This will be my second year to attend the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writer's Conference. Being a part of the conference last year allowed me the opportunity to believe in myself as a writer.

I was able to meet published writers, agents, editors, and soon-to-be published writers from all over the country who were willing to share their time and talents in classes, during lunch, and, at times, while drying our hands in the bathroom. The personal attention and the camaraderie among these Christian writers allowed me to make writing friends that I've kept in contact with all year long -- you know who you are!

And, because my novel won second place in the Novel/Novella Catagory at Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writer's Conference, it provided the recognition I needed to give myself permission to write as a writer.

As I look forward to being a part of Blue Ridge for a second year, I know that there will be bits of confidence to sooth my writer's ego, there will be godly encouragement to temper my writer's spirit, and there will be boundless assistance to enlarge my writer's heart. I anticipate the absorbing and the consuming of information that will spark the internal engine of my writer's brain.

For me, the BWMCWC is like a human periodic table of elements for writers. It's all there -- every component I need to be a success.

The countdown begins . . .

Earth Day is Friday

Photo: Nasa.gov

In celebration of Earth Day -- which is April 22 -- scroll through spaceimages.com and be in awe of our world.

 

My Struggle to Start Smoking

 We’re all going to die someday. Why does life have to be so finite?  So limited?  So difficult to figure out?  Especially if it’s all just going to end someday anyway?  All of this got me thinking about my options.  I’m not comfortable not knowing the how or the where or the where or the why of it all . . . so why not be proactive in the process?  I considered my choices.

Eaten by a lion vs. anaphylactic shock. Eaten by a lion is so Dark Ages, but still, it’s possible.

Falling off a cliff vs. horrible accident. Wait. Aren’t all accidents horrible?

Maybe I need to think “inside the body.”

Cardiac failure vs. Emphysema. Now that’s very, very possible. Almost probable.

But I would need a catalyst.  Something to spur the internal event. I was ready to take my destiny into my own hands . . . I’d start smoking. I’ve heard that it’s tough to quit smoking, so surely, starting would be a breaze.

As I pull up to the Pekin General Store (which is not really a general store  at all—not like the real general stores of old with rifles and penny candy and straw brooms), all I can see are large posters in the windows for tobacco.  How is it I never noticed those before? I nod at their reassuring promises of fresh tastes and bold flavors awaiting me. How inviting. This looks like a good place to begin my quest.

The cigarettes are behind the counter, forcing me to ask the clerk for assistance. I step into line and assure myself that this isn’t about my dignity, it’s about principle.

“Can I help you?” The young attendant leans heavy on one leg, his hand on his hip, his gray name tag yelling “Sam” at me.

“Yes, could I have a pack of cigarettes?” I report in my most confident voice.

“Which one do you want?”

Another patron enters the store forcing Sam’s gaze to leak in his direction, round the store and then back to me.

“Sam, I’ve never smoked before and I was wondering if you could recommend one for me.”

Sam looks at me. Somewhere in the distance a refrigerator door opens and closes. “I don’t smoke.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” I nod. “That’s commendable.”

Sam stares at me. “So, which one do you want? We sell over 20 different brands.”

“Which one do you sell the most of?”

“Don’t know.”

A man with brown shoes and brown eyes steps into line beside me, setting a gallon of milk and a box of Twinkies on the long counter. I smile at him as the aroma of stale cigarette smoke fills my nostrils.

“Hi,” I turn to the man. “Do you smoke?”

Stupid question, from the smell of him, of course he smokes, I just don’t want him to know that I know.

The man nods.

“Great!” I feel too much excitement behind the word; the man takes a step backward.

“I was wondering if you could suggest a cigarette brand for a new smoker?”

“You the new smoker?”

I nod in expectation.

When he bursts out in laughter, his eyelids narrow into slits. It isn’t until Sam joins him that something inside me melts.

“Wait just a minute,” I glare at Sam. “I’m a paying customer. You have no right to laugh at my purchase.”

“You haven’t purchased anything.” Sam says between snorts.

“Fine.” I look back at the smelly man whose laugh is turning into a fitful, smoker’s cough.

“Will you make a suggestion or shall I simply pick one and let the fates decide?”

“Give her a pack of Camels. Filtered.”

“Fine. Thank you. That sounds nice. Thank you.” I nod toward the man and reach for my wallet.

Sam, feeling a bit guilty after my reprimand I’m sure, rings up the pack, setting it on the counter in front of me.

“That’ll be $4.94.”

“What? $4.94? Are you sure? Nearly five dollars for a pack of cigarettes? Well, I don’t know. That’s steep. I had no idea they cost that much.”

Through the glass door behind me, another patron enters the general store. I watch Sam’s eyes follow the inviting women down the aisle toward the refrigerated sodas.

“Excuse me. I have a ball game to get to. Do you mind if I check out while you think about it?” The smelly man behind me leans onto the counter, his eyes searching Sam’s absent face for assistance.

“Here,” I throw a five dollar bill at Sam who produces my six cents in change and a receipt without ever taking his eyes from the fetching sight at the back of the store.

I pick up my purchase and leave.

“Happy smoking,” Sam yells after me. I can hear another wave of snickering as the glass door lands heavily into place behind me.

As I sit in the car holding my hard-won reward, I wonder if it’s possible that this tiny pack of nicotine could hold the answer to my dilemma. I tap on the pack, making the cellophane crinkle, listening and thinking.

I look up to see the smelly man walking past my car, smiling and waving at me with a wide hand that has a gallon of milk attached to the index finger. I lift a limp hand in return.

I look back at my Camels and feel as if my study in disarming death has been thwarted. I watch the smelly man get in his brown Chevy truck, light up a cigarette, and pull out of the parking lot and I feel stupid. Not because I have a pack of Camels that I’ll never open, but because I realize that every part of life is hard . . . the living and the dying. The starting and the stopping.

I sigh. If it’s this hard to start smoking, I can only imagine how difficult it must be to stop smoking.