the Ink

I’ve always thought of my life as a Story and yes, that is a capital S.  And, this is not just any old short story anthology sold on the bargain shelf at Borders next to the generic Pasta cookbook.  My imagination has, instead, placed each experience in its own chapter of what in the science fiction world can only be described as a space opera; a saga of such grand importance that it spans not only generations of time but also the vastness of space.  Every conversation, business introduction, failed relationship, letter written, so essential to the whole of it, that even a passing glance with a stranger is given weight when retold.  Of course I have considered myself to be the main character of said narrative and from a young age understood that my ability to perform flawlessly in the heroic role required of me was the only thing that kept the around me world from spinning off into oblivion.

 Fast forward to present day and here I sit.  I now am married to the perfect male character, so gentle and true yet beautiful and passionate that my readers can’t help but be enamored.  The retelling of our serendipitous meeting and surprising courtship has their romantic hearts quivering with contentment.   However, the Story has now taken a most unsatisfying turn.  My body has once again been taken over by a myriad of physical issues and I await yet another doctor’s appointment.  Because of the various symptoms, I’ve been stuck in the house for what seems like an eternity and yet in reality has only been a couple of months.  This brilliant adventure has ground to a halt and I find I’m living a Story that even I wouldn’t want to read. 

I find myself struck with the thought that not only is there the distinct possibility that I’m not the Heroine and I may not even be the Sidekick or wise Teacher.  What if I’m only the Bag Lady that is vaguely mentioned in the second chapter as the main character heads off to another crucial encounter?  This shock to my egocentric system has caused fear and anger.  Where is this Author anyway?  I ask.  Even through the critical dramatic moments that have caused my character to grow I have trusted Him, recognizing that it was all for the good of the Story.  Yet this plot gimmick makes no sense, the Story appears to be standing still.  This isn’t one of those tales that skip over years with the change of a paragraph or turn of the page.  And still there are no answers, only the clichéd endings that cannot satisfy such an elaborate epic even if I’m not central to the resolution. 

For the moment I sit, trying to think of a way to tunnel through the paragraphs to the next “good part” and yet it doesn’t appear to be up to me.  If it was in my hands, I would have moved on from this topic to fulfilling Dreams a couple pages if not a chapter ago.  I can only come to the conclusion that the Author’s hands hold the pen and I am only the ink with which He writes.

Living Room

The weak winter sunlight nudges against the blinds, firmly shut so as only to allow faded illuminations. Though slightly dim, the saffron walls infuse the tiny space with cozy warmth that penetrates the January chill that seems to seep through layers of wool, cotton, soft tissue, and bone all the way to the soul. Classic white molding with circular flourishes frame the room and lead the viewer back through time to a softer era. The décor itself is a hodge-podge of eccentricity enchanting and surprising the eye with unexpected delicacies. An oversized dark chocolate colored steamer trunk, complete with shiny metal hinges peaking through a layer of years and rust, stands in for a traditional coffee table.

The top of it holds dusty carved wooden bowls which each cradle a different treasure. In one stands the tiny iron Eiffel Tower, brought back from the City of Lights, now towering over a growing collection of tarnished coins. Another holds a matching ancient iron and copper incense burner topped with a conquistador style hat with a fleur de lis cut out on each side to allow the hazy perfumed smoke to exit. Balanced in the very center of the trunk on the Dominican landscape of a cigar box is the bowl which holds a most cherished possession, a miniature replica of the goddess, Nike. Carved from a single piece of alabaster, the feeling of the wind swirling the yards of her garment and rustling her wings as she prepares to take her victorious flight encompasses you.

Piled high on wooden tables, cream leather benches, even covering some of the mocha painted wooden floor are books of every shape, color, and topic. The black and white checkerboard version of The Real Mother Goose sits on top of The Book of Classic French Pastries while The Complete Works of Voltaire balances precariously on Ireland from the Air and Kate Spade’s kelly colored Style. Stacks of Vogue and Fast Company intermingled with Food Network and Wired spill out of a lopsided dark woven basket and into a haphazard pile beneath its table.

Deep wine and golden threaded pillows the size of couch seat cushions lounge intermittently among the feathery throws and down comforters that grace the arms of the couch. Overlooking this scene is a large painting that foamy green color copper turns when it tarnishes, splashed with fluid streaks of crayon box sienna brown. And on the thick wooden door ornamented with a large brass doorknob, complete with a skeleton key lock, hangs a peacock wreath strewn with shiny plum and cerulean balls accompanied by a sparkling rhinestone peeking out from behind the turquoise eye of one misbehaving feather. Dangling off to one side cheekily is a metallic trinket, daring its reader with a single word upon entering this marvelous room, dream.

Glorious Addiction

I have to admit the smell of a book is one of my most favorite things in the universe. I still remember wondering through our giant public library as a child and finding that perfect book. Climbing up into the car with my newly checked out book in my hand, I couldn’t wait to get home to open it. Garage door would open, the seatbelt would snap off, and I’d be shooting through the door and onto the couch. I would pull open the cover and the smell of paper and adventure overwhelmed my senses. It is not just the smell that captured me, but also the feel of a new book, never been read, in my hands. The story that awaits me, promising never before imagined excitement, a new tale. The truth is, there is nothing new under the sun. Every story is just a re-telling of the same ancient content that has been handed down since early days of mankind. Yet, the setting and the adjectives, the unexpected twists and turns of a re-imagined hero’s tale, is enough to send a quiver of expectation down my waiting spine. It doesn’t seem to matter that I can predict who the killer is, when the heroine will end up with the right man, or what the thief actually stole when prying in the secret desk drawer. It simply doesn’t matter because, yes, it is true, ladies and gentlemen, I’m a bookaholic. Let me rephrase that. “Hello, I’m Melissa, and I’m addicted to books. It’s been twenty-three minutes since my last sniff/touch/read.”

Truth is more fascinating than fiction...

"That little smirk…" as he spoke his discomfort was palpable.

"Annoying, huh" she replied…the smirk deepening with the merriment she was experiencing from the distraught appearance of his beautiful face. Softly, so softly, the words she least expected were spoken, delicately, as if the sound of them could cause the façade of nonchalance to which he clung to fracture. "I love it."

Admitting is the first step.

Love: Fairy Dust and Land Mines

Love is battlefield. Full of hidden land mines. Shark infested waters when you can't swim and all you have are floaties. Love is a many splendored thing. Pink fairy dust, and poetry. An entire pint of Godiva Dark Chocolate Raspberry Truffle ice cream. Love is dishes washed, dinner cooked, stories listened to that would be incredibly boring if it weren't for the enticing eyes of the storyteller. Love is forgiving of flaws, embracing of reality, and a demolition expert when it comes to destroying jealousy that claws its way up from the pit of your stomach. Love gives time without expectation of acknowledgement or a thank you card. It doesn't come with a manual or podcast and even if there are instructions on ehow.com they probably aren't accurate. Love is multi-dimensional yet simple. It's never having to self-edit, yet speaking truth with self-control. Love is scarier than any of the "Saw" movies, Cher's face, or the thought of being married to Kevin Federline. More joyous than a perfect ancient tree so massive arms don't fit around it. Full of peace deeper than the first step taken into the ocean as face is tilted to steal sunlight. Love is a place. I'm there.

Add Friend...

There is something mysterious and fascinating about getting letters from someone you don't really know...something almost intimate about a stranger stealing time out of their day to think of you and spend expensive bits of time and energy to share thoughts, dreams, ideas -asking questions...and then the feeling when you discover you're actually anticipating the next letter and you open your inbox to find it waiting for you...a whole new world to read. Thrilling. Surprising. Unexpected, yet comfortable

53511

There are moments when it creeps up under your skin…you know that damp grayness that hangs around after the universe has decided that three days of sunshine in Wisconsin is far too many for this time of year. It tries to steal into your soul and dissolve the joyous emotions of Spring and potential and love and….hope. The horrific abomination which is the scent flowing from Frito Lay Corp envelopes you as well and causes the inevitable vow to yourself to never again eat a potato chip for as long as you shall live. Uneasy restlessness digs its talons into your center and your stomach knots deeply. You breathe in and then out, trying to cleanse the dirty sock feeling that lingers inside. Looking up at the clouds you think, "clouds are momentary. The stuff they are made of dissolves in sunlight." And the unbearable load that weighed on your heart begins to lighten...

Night in Paris via text...

9:13 - Me: Night in Paris, the Eiffel Tower lit up, café on a small street, where an old man with a saxophone sits on a curb. Me and you.

9:16/9:18 - Him: Under the striped overhang, café double glass doors still open, reflecting shimmery lines from the small shop across the street, while strong rich smells ease / out of the café with the passing of the waitress, the fresh batch of dough for morning cooking at the next shop over, hinting raw vapors of fine flours and grains.

9:21 - Me: Crusty French baguettes wrapped in a crisp white linen with rich thick soft butter on a small china plate are placed on the table by a gaston, named Louis.

9:31 - Me: He winks at us as he passes with a knowing look. The cool night air laces fingers with the scents flowing from the heated perfectly lit kitchen of the café.

10:08: - Him: The barista looks at a coworker as she says with a mischievous smile to suggest to him, “those two, you can see it all over them,” and continues her duties.

10:10 - Him: The walk down from the art district over the cobblestones that still line the back alleys, hiding the best shops, well worth the difficulty of you in heels.

10:15 - Me: And the tiny little bookshop tucked away in a corner showcases a multitude of delights that enrapture me, you wait patiently as I dig through literary treasures.

10:21 - Him: The pages turn, scents pass with every page as though not relating just the story, but also its long twisting history of the hands, houses, and cities its passed.

10:23 - Me: Minutes turn into an hour, than two and at the clearing of the owner’s throat, we two treasure seekers are brought back to reality that its closing time.

10:27 - Him: Sorry, have to pause, out to eat, ttys.

10:27 - Me: Paris and I can wait for you.

11:35/11:37/11:42 - Him: Closing time, a special treat to witness in itself, giving us an excuse to walk the streets, holding each other close as the cold nips at the heels, making our / way back to the streets still alive with action, though late now, the world is still open for anything, yet the call of the quieter park bench calls out more /than anything else, a bench at the end of the stair fountains, or close to the Triumph Arch, next to something that offers beauty with ambient street lights.

11:38 - Me: Let’s go.

11:54 - Me: Now, she says, hoping that the word picture being drawn will be an eventual reality.

Beloit

I have fallen head over heels, totally completely, sparkly eyed in love with this city. When I moved here in January it was just a tiny infatuation, like the one with the man with dancing eyes that you see behind the counter at B and P's. Recognition, a smile that reaches through the eyes, and causes you to pause and catch your breath for just a moment at the possibilities. You look forward to the daily intersection of your worlds, but accept the briefness of its passing with grace. What I feel now that spring is here is indefinitely more complex, deeper, messier, complicated, and oh so refreshing.

Beauty resides here, tucked amongst the tall Victorians, sturdy Italian villas, and run-down mansions, reminiscent of houses painted by your imagination from the pages of a Nancy Drew novel, the old hardback green editions with the illustrations on the front that cause a longing for strawberry-blonde hair and a predilection for fighting crime. It isn't a hidden beauty but rather an overlooked one. Hopelessness has clouded over it for many years and tried to blot out the bits of light pinpricking the darkness.

Hope has returned. It is here to stay. It's the twisted loveliness of the leafless branches reaching towards God right next to the clean creaminess of the First Congregational Church, which isn't actually the FIRST since the original burnt down. The sculpture of the iron birds taking flight off the pedestal tucked away next to a non-descript house on Harrison beckon, "There is truth here. Life."

The pale spring sunset fading over the eaves of an rather ungracefully aging grey shingled house, the window propped open brings surprise delight to passer-by (namely me) as the thick juicy sounds of jazz, a well-played saxophone pours out. I want to stand on that corner and listen for hours. To sit down, cross-legged in the middle of the cracked sidewalk that leads directly to Beloit College and drink it in. It feeds my soul as I press pause on the iPod and bounce. Left foot , right foot. Waiting for the cars to pass, so I can cross the street. I want to press pause on this moment. I want the rest of the world, the people in their cars, the ones with the sad-eyes, the broken, the restless, the bored, the just plain tired to experience this moment. To feel what I feel.

Welcome to Beloit. God lives here. So do I.

Picasso's

Picasso's is what every indie coffee shop aspires to be....exposed brick and hardwood floors are the natural canvas for the latest showcased artwork and pithy sayings that cover the walls. Huge burlap coffee bags have been sliced, hemmed, and painted, then hung as curtains to shade the massive floor to ceiling windows. Sandwiches are full of healthy goodness and toasted to absolute perfection and served to me with a dill pickle and banana, as opposed to Sun chips. The essential mix of coffeehouse music plays over the speakers...Colbie, John, Norah, and even that song that AT&T has procured for their commercials...that one about "I think that possibly, maybe, I'm falling for you..." that makes you want to change your phone service in hopes that a beautiful man traveling across Europe will be thinking of you and realize that he is falling crazy desperately in love with you. I'm curled up with my laptop in the back top tier in a tall chair with a real porcelain cup and saucer full of soy chai and Norah singing "Come away with me...." when I feel the stress twisted up in my neck and shoulders relax and I find that I'm taking deep slow breaths, and the little tiny cappuccino spoon sitting sweetly on the saucer turns out to be an ingenious way to scoop the fluffy clouds of foam that rest in the bottom of the mug into my mouth....a most excellent day. Can't help but think of you as I take my rest from the craziness ensuing about me....

Musings

Ever step out of the house into the silvery light of the moon when its just a shadow of its former whole self? Cool almost damp air presses in on your skin refreshing you even as it leaves a misty trail along your neck. And the stars, polished to sparkling points, brilliantly arranged in their exhibition of celestial artwork, stand out starkly against a perfectly clear velvet darkness. You breathe in deeply, absorbing the magnificence of it all, until it becomes a part of your soul...along with a profound feeling of being at rest in the midst of the spinning chaos called the 'verse. Recognition dawns...your voice, albeit a small one, is a necessary part of the cosmic Love Story playing out all around. You have a role to fill that against the beauty of this incredible night seems so irrelevant...but is the exact antithesis...in Truth you are an intricately created being whose actions affect all those within your orbit. You take in the moon, the air, the stars, and wild untame-able joy is unleashed in the inner most part of you as the decision is made to....pursue with passion the Big Dream. After all, you remind yourself, life is too short and the days are to long for you to be ordinary....

Little Deaths

"You told yourself you would accept the decision of fate. But you lost your nerve when you discovered what this would require of you. Then you realized how attached you still were to the world which had made you what you were, but which you would now have to leave behind. It felt like an amputation, a "little death," and you even listened to those voices which insinuated you were deceiving yourself out of ambition. You will have to give up EVERYTHING, why, then, weep at this little death? Take it to you - quickly - with a smile die this death, and become free to go further - one with your task, whole in your duty of the moment." - Markings, Dag Hammarskojld, 1957

Little deaths may not be ultimate death, but they are still crazy painful deaths. They often overwhelm us. They are the release of our favorite hiding places from life and turning toward THE Hiding Place. They are the dismissal of "less wild" lovers in favor of running to the One and Only who can console and fulfill our hearts.They are the reluctant surrender of our cherished dreams into the hands of the One who created us to realize them. And they hurt, they sting, the separation of these things that have so long boundaried our lives is difficult beyond words. However, if we are moving toward the Dream that God placed in us, we will have to give up everything at some point. The "little deaths" are just to teach us how to trust Him and to make us realize that when it comes to necessity, He is all we need.

God, show us how to "die the little deaths" without argument or complaint. Teach us to be willing to accept your instruction and shaping.

Starting Places

We all have many starting points on our journey. About two years ago, I began a prayer journal. Looking back over these entries, I see the continuity of the events that God is using to shape me and how each of them were a "starting place" for a specific time of shaping that God was beginning in me. If you find yourself at one of these starting places in your own journey, start with this prayer. "God, show me how to process this place that you have brought me to. I don't know where to begin. I don't even know what tools I need to ensure that I get to the end point that you desire for me. I don't know how to do this. I need you to show me the way. Please bring the resources and the understanding that I need in your impeccable timing. I'm embarking on this journey with you, the Love of my heart. I trust that whatever place you bring me too, you will give me the strength to stand there, regardless of those surrounding me who may not understand." At a pivotal moment in my life, I prayed a similar prayer. Mine went like this:

3/28/09
Show me how to process these events in my life in the correct way - through the lens of your eternal purpose not through the short sighted pain that overwhelms me. Give me peace in this time of turmoil and show me how to rest in your arms, rather than picking up the bricks and mortar to rebuild the walls that have been torn down. Your wisdom is infinite - mend, renew, and rebuild this broken, battered, and bloodied heart of mine in the way that you desire.

He did.

Yield Signs

Sometimes you have the perfect thing to say and then you say it and then your computer deletes it. So, you get angry for a few minutes and say things like "Well, it must not have been meant to be" and "Maybe, I was the only one who was supposed to learn something new from it" and then you think "Okay, so I'll start again and this time it will be more coherent and someone else may actually understand what I'm trying to say." Round II :)

God has brought me through a "wasteland" -- a time of being broken open and spilled out in order to clean out some of the mess that I had shoved down inside me for so long. It was brutal, full of moments when I was unsure I would even survive, and speaking plainly, hell. But, here I stand, on the other side of that desert place. I have been reveling in life for the past month -- so excited about the things God has spoken to me. Ready to pursue the Big Dream that He created me for. I've heard His voice, "Change is coming...better get ready." And, I've listened...walking by faith or rather acting by faith. And now here I stand, waiting for Him to open that door. And in the midst of all this excitement I wake up to find, I'm still broken. There are pieces of me hidden away in my darkest corners that are festering there...broken shards that have been pushed down so deep I forgot they were there. Bits that if left alone and never addressed will cause untold problems in accomplishing God's plan for me. So, I cry out from this new place of semi-wholeness, "Shine Your light on my darkness...use Your love to push it out, to heal and reshape, to show me how to let go and release myself from the prison of the past. I'm ready, ready to follow You wherever, ready to for whenever, whatever, whoever, but if You still have more to do in me, to change in me, to make me ready to fulfill Your will, then I'm ready for that too. Continue opening my eyes to the things that need changing in me. I will pursue You and Your heart and believe that in the process I will learn about my own."