Honesty

It hurts to breathe
The viper’s pit has returned
And I feel the venom slowly release through my veins.
I’m tired of the pity parties, the self doubt, the self incrimination...
The pain.
Yet, there they sit, like fodder off which the wild beast living inside me feeds.
Or a child’s favorite toy, which my brain latches onto and won’t release.
To melt inside your warmth...
To truly know your warmth, for that matter
Is a place of longing where my aching heart resides.
This emptiness, slowly sucking the marrow from my bones.
Too weak to walk among the broken shells of our honesty;
Honesty - ripping the life out of me.

Flames

How do we put out a house we’ve set on fire,
When we’re standing in the middle of the flames?
Sometimes guilty of holding the propellant?
Many would say the rational would flee to safety, never looking back...
But here we lie, intoxicated by the fumes, going into depth about the horror we see around us.
How do you feel about that shade of violet?
I think I saw it in a Bunsen burner, during my childhood.
Is the heat beginning to burn your skin?
It feels like the sunburn I got when I was 10. I cried then.
The smoke is beginning to fill my lungs.
You should have stayed lower to the ground, like me.
Observation, Contemplation, Deliberation, Theorization, and finally...
What color should we paint the living room next?
Avoidance.
The flames are encompassing us.
The weight of the house is falling around us, turning to ash.
It’s funny. Never once did we think to reach for a pail of water.

Stent

Skin on skin
Breath on skin
Your words like porcelain,
Fell
Instantly creating a chasm.
Slow motion
I saw you fumble to catch your last syllable
But it was too late.
They hit my ears like a tidal wave
ROARING
burning, careening
Until they found their rightful place
In the middle of my chest.
Resuscitation.
I pushed each ah, ee, and ew
Deeper and deeper inside until I could no longer feel the pain
And my breath returned to me.
Time after time, again and again
Simple words.
Nothing more, nothing less,
Began to clog my insides.
Your voice - once my sanctuary
Now ran like shards of glass down a blackboard.
In guilt and love, you came to me.
And I grasped each affirmation, a tiny stent, to replace the damage
Hoping blood might flow and my heart might beat again.
I looked to you, oh my surgeon, for bandaid-sized repair.
When, perhaps what I needed, was transplantation.

Finding My Destiny and the Stone

So, I attended Destiny Project, a Christian retreat for women a couple of years ago, where most of us there were trying to figure out why on Earth we were on this planet, and what are destinies were to be. I was sure God was going to talk with me about my journey as a creative artist in the world. A bit of naive narcissism crept in as I thought about moving from theatre arts and entering a full time career in film.

Toward the beginning of the first night we were all given a gift bag with a stone with a single word etched in it to help in this weekend-on this journey toward self discovery. We were told that the bags had been prayed over and they felt that the bag and stone we received was meant exactly for us. No pressure there : / It seemed like most of the ladies were excited about the stone they received, believing it was meant for them. Quite honestly it was as if some of these women were having major epiphanies in the moment over a simple word inscribed on their rock. I looked down at my stone and saw the word "Welcome". "Welcome"? What the heck was that supposed to mean? I could find that word on my door mat in front of my house. Seriously?! I looked over to my friend's stone, who had the word "Creative" etched into it, and had a short, indignant thought of striking the "Creative" stone that was so rightfully mine out of her hand with my "Welcome" stone. That would set God straight. "Creative"! That's the stone I should have gotten. It suited me. Not that my friend wasn't creative, but God and I had talked about this. It was why I was here, right? To find my purpose in the field of creative arts! I was pretty sure I got the wrong stone.

So, when we went around in a circle, describing what epiphany our stone had given us, I dug deep and came up with some plausible answer about fearing what other women in the group might think of me, and that maybe God was telling me I was welcome here. Meanwhile, I must admit, I had thoughts of sneaking into my friend's gift bag, late at night and stealing the "Creative" stone, but quickly realized, she was one of the one's who had a joyous epiphany over that word, and I could never steal that smile from her face. And besides, if I really wanted to, I'm sure I could have found out where they bought the darn things, and go purchase my own "Creative" rock if I wanted. Ok, so maybe this wasn't the healthiest way to start out a women's retreat. It's not that I didn't try to glean philosophical meaning from this 2" paper weight that I could easily skim across the water. But, everything that crossed my mind, didn't seem to quite make sense.

The weekend was amazing, and God did talk to me about my purpose in the creative art's field - that I was to help create stories that impacted the world in a positive light and connect people to the love of God. But what about this pesky rock? What about the unanswered question - why did this thing land in my hands? And why couldn't I just let it go?

Fast forward a couple of years, to today, where I'm in probably in one of the most broken places of my life. A place where the marriage, the things, and the patterns that I held so dear for the past 11 years were crumbling and slipping through my hands, and I didn't know how to fix any of it. I simply knew that I didn't want to live this way anymore. I wanted to become this new creation, so often mentioned throughout the Bible. I was exhausted with the way we had been living and the old patterns of avoidance we created to help numb the pain, but also kept us hidden from life. So, I set out on this adventure to find the phoenix hiding in my soul, hoping my husband would, at some point, join me in the fight for our marriage (which he since, has).

The first step in my journey was to create safe boundaries for myself and provide space for healing.

I had always prided myself on having a "healthy" marriage and didn't want anyone close to me or in my community to know it was an area in which I was now failing, for fear of judgment.

I cried out to God and He showed up in so many ways. First with a mutual friend - a place where I felt safe to air my current problems and ask for help. I felt completely welcome, without judgment or reservation. She asked if I was willing to reach out for help from people I knew at that time, and my pride got in the way, initially shooting down the idea. But God was gentle, and He blessed me with a couple, who I knew a little better than the mutual friend, but still felt distant enough to let them in; and, they walked beside me, welcoming me.

Then, I felt safe enough to share this area of my life with someone from Destiny Project who I trusted deeply and with whom I had shared very personal things in the past. In all honesty, she helped get me to this place of wanting more for my life and helped me to understand the role of boundaries in relationships. I was welcome there.

And then one morning, I heard God telling me I needed to share this with someone who was a little closer to home, someone who ran in the same circles, someone with whom I attended Destiny Project. I cried as the fear of rejection spilled from my veins. In this release, there was so much freedom - as I knew God was the only person I could hold onto now, and He would never reject me. When, I finally spoke with her about my current circumstance, she did nothing but welcome me with open arms.

And now, I'm sharing this with you - my Destiny Project sisters. Because relationships aren't easy, and marriage isn't easy. But we serve a God of new creations, of new covenants. A God we can look to for our value, instead of finding it in our partner, our friends, our work, or the rest of the world. A God who is willing to take us and love us right where we are at. A God who welcomes and deals remarkably with imperfections.

So, I'm still not perfect. My marriage is not perfect, though I can feel God's handprint in it, working and moving-healing the past and creating a future for us. It's painful to let the familiarity of the past go, even though it may not have served us in any way or been a part of the blessing God wanted to bestow on us.

I was listening to a Mumford and Sons song the other night, after the thought occurred to me that as hard as I had been trying to "fix" our marriage, I had no power to fix anything or any other person. Trying just left me resentful and exhausted. New creation could occur, but only if I surrendered myself and this marriage to God.

The song is entitled "Roll Away Your Stone". The whole songs speaks heavily to my heart right now. But the most poignant lyrics for me are:

"It seems that all my bridges have been burned,
But, you say that's exactly how this grace thing works
It’s not the long walk home
that will change this heart,
But the welcome I receive with the restart."

There it was...my epiphany, two years later. The stone was now screaming at me -- WELCOME! And my mind shot instantly back to Destiny Project. Set in a song called Roll Away Your Stone, were lyrics that welcomed me to an experience with the God of Grace, and beckoned me to an opportunity to start again.

This time with Him in the driver's seat.

Perhaps God didn't give me the stone I wanted, but the stone I needed. I knew God designed me to be creative. I didn't need some affirmation on a rock to prove this. I did however, need the word "welcome", planted in my heart at the precise moment, sitting there, germinating until the one day when God would decide to use it at a turning point in my life.

Through a simple word, he humbly reminded me that there is an amazing group of women who have been a part of this experience who will lovingly step up and welcome those in need. I don't need to fear condemnation. And if I do happen to come across that, I pray that God will use it as a tool to allow me to find my value in Him.

In this new journey God has welcomed me to rise out of the ashes of a self destructive past, into the light of brilliant future. Out of the ashes of a stale and sometimes destructive marriage, and into what I pray, will be a new covenant.

Both my husband and I have a long way to go toward healing, but here's to another step in letting people in, and letting the fear of what others may think, go.

Lacerations

God. . .
Give me wings to fly to the sun
Without incineration.
Incineration got me to this place
So entangled in you
I was no longer myself
Only fragments remained.
Now I'm busy picking up pieces
Of brittle bones and loose skin.
Your healing breath - once a salve to my imperfections
Holds a bitter odor, today.
And I can't help but to want more than broken-
Being loved because I was broken.
There is so much more here than your fragile thing
With arms tightly woven into every affirmation or condemnation
You lavished on me.
I am no longer that woman.
My shoulders start to ache, an unfamiliar searing
A new anticipation sets in and I instinctively keep your tired arms at a distance
Where they cannot save me.
Knowing this is my journey.
Alone.
Muscles and tendons stretch and flesh begins to rip.
A gift emerges through these two quickly healing lacerations.
I feel their span, as they beat rhythmically in new found strength and freedom.
Perhaps God has been listening all along.

A New Year Eulogy

Have you ever considered writing your own eulogy? Not from a place of depression, more from frustration. Tired of the person you have been in the past, the bullshit you were willing to put up with. Wanting so much to change, that you realize the old person within you must die, to start again.

Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, my old self will be gone, and in my place will be Hope, Joy, Strength, Peace, Contentment, Determination, Self-Assuredness, Independence, Beauty, Value...and above all, the knowledge that I possess these things.

Throughout the Bible, it talks about dying to find new life. Perhaps I must do the same to find freedom. In order to break old patterns, I must completely let go of my old self, my former identity.

Does one simply change her name for this to occur? Or should you write a eulogy, saying farewell, for this to take place? Does one throw a mock funeral - where pictures of you chained to your former patterns or things you hated most about yourself burn in effigy?

Or do you simply try to start again, and hope for the best?

And all these questions are rhetorical.

I personally don't know that I have the strength to start again, to break free of my chains... without all the ceremonial symbolism.

I know there is life, and I intend to find it. The clock stikes midnight for a new year. And in order for me to take that new and sacred journey to the sun, I sit near my pyre of cinnamon and myrrh, readying myself to exhale.

Salvage (fictional piece)

I tried to sing for him but the melody stuck in my throat like an annoying popcorn kernel that knows to lodge itself in your esophagus at the precise climax of a movie. I slightly choked on the uncomfortableness of it all. Unafraid of singing before large crowds the adrenaline surging through my veins like a double espresso. I fed on their energy, on their life. But sitting here before an 80 year old man, my stomach churned with fear. He requested the old hymn a second time, and I simply coughed and fidgeted like a 4 year old trapped in a church pew.

“I don’t think I know that one pops,” I lied, swallowing back the swelling of tears starting to burn my throat. Hell, I didn’t owe him anything. Especially not this. He wasn’t a paying fan; in fact, I couldn’t recall him ever making it to one childhood voice recital or the high school musical where I probably set the record for chunkiest Sandra Dee in Grease - one of my proudest moments, actually. I was always the school nerd, you see, but at curtain call, every person in that auditorium rose to their feet, including the kids who taunted me. It was then, I knew this was my little piece of heaven and I was going to spend the rest of my life holding onto that. I looked for his face in the crowd that night. I waited until everyone passed by with their hugs and congratulations. I waited for two hours after the performance, sitting in the dark, spandex coated barrel legs dangling over the edge of the stage. I waited until the principal locked up, forcing me out. I waited. I waited, because he promised.

I heard a slight groan escape his lips. By impulse I moved closer to him reverting to that mothering role I had been forced to assume as a child. At this distance, I could see the pain in his face. I hadn’t noticed across the room how yellow his skin actually was. I just stood there for a couple of awkward minutes, not quite sure what to do. There was no vomit to clean, no rubbing alcohol or mouthwash to hide. What was my place here?

Another groan. “Hey, pops, there is a button for morphine here. Do you want me to hit it?” No response. But the pain etched into his face and running through his body was palpable, and I did what any humane person would do. I hit the button.

They say a person has to hit rock bottom before they realize they need to change. Well, if sitting in a puddle of your father’s piss and vomit isn’t rock bottom, I don’t know how much further I would have to go to hit it. New York was my ticket out. So, I lost the weight, asked for extra lessons from my voice teacher, and took two jobs so I could move as soon as graduation rolled around. I had been living my dream ever since. Until I got the phone call.

The truth is, I’ve been waiting 30 years for him to die. 30 years expecting it. Every time he passed out, as a child, I was there checking his pulse, putting my hand in front of his face to make sure he was still breathing. When everyone else had left, I chose to stay...until I couldn’t. I never expected him to live this long and honestly always thought he would suffocate in his own vomit before his liver would take him. But he proved me wrong.

He made a garbled sound. “What did you say, pops?”

“I said, ‘sing’. You always had such a pretty voice.”

How the hell would he know?

“Remember when you played Sandy in Grease Lighting?”

Fighting to keep my tone even tempered. “Yeah, but you weren’t there, pops.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“No you weren’t.” Contending with his feeble mind would likely be a never ending battle, but I wasn’t willing to back down. Not with this much at stake.

“I was too!” he insisted.

“No, you weren’t. I think I would know dad, I waited all night for you to show up. But you couldn’t give up the fucking booze for one night, could you?” Even temper, fail.

It seemed like forever, standing in that malodorous hybrid of feces and aerosol disinfectant. The silence was too much for me bare and I started out the door. That’s when I heard his voice clearer than I ever had before.

“No, I couldn’t give it up. That’s why I sat in the back of the theatre the entire time. Where you wouldn’t have to worry about me. You sang like an angel.” He chuckled slightly as he sang the words “ ‘Look at me I’m Sandy’. As soon as you bowed, I was the first one on my feet, clapping and whistling. But, I figured I was probably getting too loud. So I left.”

My stomach hit the floor, as I tried to make sense of a man who, most days, couldn't make it out of the house because he was so roaring drunk, somehow traveling two miles to my high school to see a musical.

I began to ask why he had never said anything, but I knew better than to spoil this sacred moment. All the anger and bitterness, I had worn like a glove began to quiet for a moment, as I made my way toward my father’s hospital bed.

Not knowing what else to say in that moment, I simply sat beside him and whispered, “ If you left early that means you missed the encore. I think I owe you a song”.

My life flows on in endless song;

Above earth's lamentation,

I hear the sweet, though far-off hymn

That hails a new creation;

Through all the tumult and the strife

I hear the music ringing;

It finds an echo in my soul--

How can I keep from singing?

I always thought Sandra Dee would live on to be my most prized performance, the performance that inspired an award winning Broadway career. But it was sitting in that hospital bed singing to my father that the role of Sandra Dee seemed laughable. As sobs of forgiveness garbled my voice, I sang a stuffed up, tear-stained solo just for my dad that was not anywhere close to perfection. But it was easily the most prized performance I would ever give and the best audience I could ever hope for.