A Fork in the Road

Hello world. It's been too long since I've updated this blog. I'm not going to lie and say it was because I didn't have time. I'm not even going to give you the poor excuse of being uninspired. The truth is, I've had plenty of ideas of things to put on here, but I've pushed it off because I've found myself laying in the gutter.

My life has been nothing short of stressful lately. My thoughts have been plagued by the future and how the path before me is lacking illumination. I don't know what's going to happen, and I keep having dreams that I'm going to screw it up. With my anxiety and stress levels high, it's hard to keep a positive outlook on life. I must brag a bit though, I have managed to keep my cool. My temper is not something I've lost due to this stress. Of that, I'm proud.

I have to say though, it's been tough. There's been a lot of changes taking place in my family this summer and a lot more lurking around the corner. Dealing with change has never been easy on me. It's always been...difficult, to say the least.

In these stressful times, I've often found myself craving another life. I've actually put down a few books I started reading because I wished I was really going on those adventures instead of laying in bed waiting for the future to hit me.

Two weeks left until school starts...and I don't even know if I want to go back. Sure, my friends are there. My job is there (though I do have another one here, at home). My degree is only a year away. But tuition is high. The stress is high. My doubts are high.

I haven't even started packing yet because every time I think of doing so I get nauseous. What are you supposed to do when you no longer feel like you belong somewhere but you know that if you don't go back you'll never get your degree? And you really want that degree.

I made a promise to myself years ago that I wouldn't be like some other people I know. That I would go to college, no mater how long it took, get my degree and do my best to change the world. I wouldn't settle. Settling for okay wasn't (Read isn't) my thing. But, right now -in this very moment -I want nothing more than to stay in this small town, get a full time position at my summer job, get an apartment, and continue to lead the children's Wednesday/Sunday morning programs at my church.

Why continue? That's what I've been asking myself.

Why go back and try to get the degree I've always wanted when I'm pretty sure my old nemesis Math is most likely going to prevent me from reaching it? Why put myself through an endless cycle of class, work, study when the result might not be the positive one I want? Why take that step when there's an illuminated path sitting right here? There's open doors here that could take me exactly to a life that I wouldn't' mind living.

Problem is, taking that path would be settling. And I don't settle. To quote Catwoman, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself," if I settled. I'd always wonder if I could have passed those two worthless math classes. If that degree could have made a difference. What it would feel like to walk across the stage to get that all so important piece of paper. It'd make me feel weak. Like I was a coward. But at least I'd have my own place, and I wouldn't lose the connections I've made over this summer, and maybe people would stop comparing me to a certain someone. Maybe they'd stop forgetting my name if I was a permanent figure. I could make a life here. I could make it work...but, ultimately, would I be happy?

Probably not.

So what choice am I going to make? Am I going to step onto the dark path or the well lit one? As crazy as it may sound, I'm still leaning towards that dark path...as wonderful and in reach the bright one is. One step. One choice.

You know, someone smart once said that the first step was always the hardest. They were speaking nothing but the truth. As I stare at the two roads in front of me, I'm left to ponder Frost's question. Do I take the well worn one or the one less traveled by? Like Frost -knowing myself as well as I do -I have a feeling that I'm going to take the road less traveled. The road that I'm not sure is safe. The road that scares the living daylights out of me.

If anyone is reading this, anyone at all, I just want to ask for one thing. Could you pray for me? I could really use some guidance right now. And some courage. And a little more self-assurance.

The Flower Man

It was a small town –a small, plain, town that no one would spare a second glance at. There was really nothing special about the place. The streets were cracked, the buildings old, and the downtown was home to the only stoplight in town, which never turned green and guarded a mostly vacant intersection. Regardless of the weather, the stores down town always had business. Though you wouldn’t think it by looking at the mostly empty parking spots that sat before them.

                In the winter, down town was bustling with life. Cars were parked along the roads. People honked in frustration, looking for a place to rest their vehicle. Tempers flew, people cursed, and then smiles were given. No matter how mad you were at another, you always made sure to bring a bit of holiday cheer with you.

                Yet, in the summer, when the days are long and the sun too hot, very few cars could be seen. With shorts and tank tops the townspeople wandered around on foot. Their skin getting gloriously sun kissed. Shop owners loved those days. Their doors would be propped open, box fans would be blowing beside them, and people would wander in for the sake of getting out of the heat or for a friendly chat. It wasn’t about business on those days. It was about community.

                On one such day, near the middle of the hottest season, a couple of kids ran out of the local coffee shop. Their hands held freshly made smoothies in clear cups with large neon straws. Their sneakers thumped as they raced after each other, giggling.

                “Run, run, as fast as you can!” chanted the little boy with a mop of dirty curls. His orange colored smoothie was held tightly in his hands.

                Chasing after him was a girl a bit older than he, with pigtails of the same dirty curls. She had been entrusted with his safety for the hour, while their parents socialized with the coffee shop goers…and the lumberman…and the sheriff…and any other person they happened upon on their way to the town barbeque that was taking place at the town square.

                “Maxie! Slow down!” The girl huffed as the distance between her and her brother grew.

                “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” The little boy did a twirl in the street.

                “Watch out!” the girl screamed just as her brother tumbled back. Baby blues grew wide as he tripped on the cracked street, falling back into a man riding by in his motorized scooter.

                “Woah, careful there,” the man grinned down at the child who had fallen at the wheels of his transportation.

                The girl rushed to her brother’s side. She quickly picked him up, her eyes scanning him for any injuring. The man above them chuckled, and she looked up –knelt on one knee and still holding on to her brother –to see him grinning down at them.

                “Looks like you gave your sister a scare there, little man,” the skin around the man’s eyes crinkled with glee. His face was folded, as were his hands, from the years he had endured. There was nothing more than a small wisp of snowy hair atop his otherwise bald head. Freckles covered his face, and spread down his neck, like someone had splattered chocolate across his flesh. His brown eyes twinkled at the children.

                “Sorry, mister,” the girl apologized as she stood up and drew her brother closer to her.

                The elderly man was a common sight around town. Though neither of the children knew his name. They only knew what they saw daily, and daily he was seen driving around town in his scooter with a bag of groceries and a camera in his wire basket.

                The man chuckled again, his polo covered chest shaking from the force. “Now there, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

                “Sorry,” the little boy mumbled.

                “No blood, no foul,” the man assured again. His smile was so kind that both children found themselves lacking fright. In a town where everyone basically knew everyone, they were standing before a man they had never met. A man who everyone knew of, but didn’t know personally. At least, the children had never heard anyone call him by name. He’d always been referred to as the flower man.

                The man had a reputation in town. Everyone knew of his daily routine. He’d leave his small, one bedroom home early in the morning and spend the entire day riding around town. He’d never go home without a bag of groceries and a new picture on his camera. A new picture of a flower.

                His entire day was dedicated to finding the perfect flower to take a picture of. And it had to be a flower he had never taken a picture of before. He’d ride thought he parks, through down town, by the gas station, pass the police station, by churches and homes. He’d inspect every flower he’d see. But, it would take him hours to find one that he deemed photo worthy.

                No one knew why he did what he did. All they knew was that he seemed to enjoy doing it. There was a rumor that he was a retired nature photographer, and another that he collected photos of flowers. But the most wide spread rumor was that he was a veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That rumor said that he had fought in World War II and that, after seeing all the bloodshed and losing all his friends, that he had come home and started taking pictures of flowers as a reminder to himself that there was still beauty in the world.

                Despite there being rumors, and despite him being a frequent customer of the down town shops, no one had ever asked him of his past. It wasn’t because they didn’t care that they didn’t ask, but that they feared triggering painful memories. They knew not what the man had experienced in his life, and they didn’t wish to inflict pain upon him by inquiring of his experiences.

                “Say, do you two think your parents would mind if I borrowed you for a bit? There’s this flower, in the barrel sitting outside Jenkin’s Hardware, that I’d like to get a picture of,” the man asked. “Problem is, I can’t seem to work my camera today. My hands are old and sometimes my bones down’ want to bend right. But it’s important that I get this picture. Do you think you could help?”

                The brother looked up at his sister, who looked down at him before nodding. “Sure.”

                The man’s smile widened. “Oh good!”

                He lead the children across the street and to an old barrel that sat outside the hardware store. With shaky hands, he carefully handed his camera to the sister and instructed her as to how he wanted the picture taken. “That purple flower there, dear. Get down close, so you can see inside. Not too close now. Back up a little. That should be about right. Now, take the picture.”

                The girl pressed down on the camera’s button. A small click was heard as the shutter was snapped shut. She pulled the camera away from her eye to look at the image displayed upon its screen. “Is this okay, mister?”

                “Yes, dear,” the man praised. “That’s perfect!”

                The man took the camera from the girl and, for a moment he didn’t say anything. He stared down at the picture of the purple daisy. Its petals were soft. The lighting had been perfect.

                “Do you know,” the man spoke up with watery eyes. “Why I take these pictures?”

                The children shook their heads.

                “They say you’re a veteran,” the girl spoke, “that’s wants to see beauty.”

                “They say you’re crazy,” the little boy added.

                “I am veteran,” the man’s smile was sad now, “and I am crazy, but neither of those rumors are right. I take these pictures because my beautiful bride loves flowers. When we were younger I would shower her with flowers. She use to keep the most beautiful garden. Children would flock to our home to gaze into the pond and dance among the rose bushes, but sadly they’ve all stopped coming now. Those children grew up, and had their own children, and made their own gardens, and never come to call. But my bride, she still loves those flowers. She still loves their smell and their beauty. She still loves the way the sun looks on them and the way they can make a person smile.”

                The man paused, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his wire basket. “My bride and I are frail now and gardening is not something we can do. She’s been very sick. Has been for many years. She can’t leave the house now. Can’t even leave the bed. So, I bring the flowers to her. Every day I take a picture of one of the pretty flowers those children that use to roam through our yard have grown, and I stop by the drug shop and have it printed out, and I give it to her. You should see her smile,” he beamed. “Ninety-four years old and she still looks as pretty as she did when we were sixteen. My Elma Mea. My lovely bride.”

                The children didn’t know what to say, so they stood silent until they saw their parents leaving the coffee shop. The adults caught sight of them right away and crossed the street to meet them.

                “Well you two didn’t get very far,” the mother announced.

                “I’m sorry, Sally,” the old man greeted the woman, “Your daughter was just taking a picture for me.”

                The mother’s eyes softened. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the man, who said, “I should be going now. I need to have this picture printed.”

                “You should come to the barbeque,” the father suggested.

                “Oh no,” the man laughed, “All that smoke. Not good for my old lungs. You and your family have fun though, John.”

        

        “Will do, sir,” the father smiled back as the old man began on his way.

                “Daddy, Mommy,” the little boy spoke up. “You know him?”

                “I thought no one knew him,” the daughter stated.

                “Of course we know him,” the mom smiled, her eyes watching the old man as he thanked a young lady for holding open the drug store door for him. “We use to play in his and his wife’s garden.”

                “Mommy?” the little boy asked.

                “Yes, baby?”

                “Could we go see him tomorrow?”

                The woman looked at her husband, who smiled down at their son. “You know what, Maxie, I think that’d be a great Idea.”

Night Storms: A collection of poems

Rain, Rain

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

Wash all the dirt away.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

I need you more than the mountains need snow.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

This little soul’s crumbling like clay.

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

I’ll do whatever you say.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

You fill my life with such a lovely glow.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

Keep these ugly thoughts at bay.

Rain, rain,

Come and play;

Please don’t ever stray away.

Rain, rain,

Please don’t go;

I’m begging you with a heart of woe.

Rain, rain,

Please just stay;

Hear these words I pray today.

Storm: A Haiku

Lightning breaks the sky.

Thunder roars through the hazy night.

All is basked in grey.

Night: A Haiku

Tiny little lights

Hang within a vacant sky

As the shadows dance.

Nocturne

Tranquil, pretty, void of light

It’s the path to the dreamer’s sight.

Quite, still, vicious little tide

In the shadows is where demons hide. 

(And another poem, which has absolutely nothing to do with the theme that's been carried through the others.)

Teen Girls: A Haiku

Giggles can be heard,

Drifting through locker lined halls,

As a boy smiles.

Life from a Death

It's Easter morning and I haven't slept a wink all night. My thoughts were too alive and I kept thinking about how wonderful it would be to see the sunrise. There's something magical about watching the sunrise on Easter Sunday. Maybe it's the symbolism...maybe it's the way the early morning rays kiss the earth. Either way, it's something glorious to behold.

When I was little my family would go to sunrise services. We'd get dressed up in pretty dresses and suits, pile into our two cars, and head for the lake where that year's sunrise service was to be held at. I have fond memories of those services.

I can remember that I always got cold. I'd stand there, under some park awning or near the waters, in a circle with all the rest of the congregation. My knees would be shaking and my arms would have goose bumps, and I'd watch the sunrise as the pastor reminded us of the importance of Easter...of what it was that took place on that day so many years before.

It's been too long since I've been to a sunrise service.

Last night I couldn't' sleep, but it wasn't because I was reading an enthralling story or watching movies, but because as I laid there -staring out at the city lights in the darkness of the night -I realized that I longed for a sunrise.

I got to thinking about Easter and about Good Friday, I got to thinking about how it's been so long since I last read the Easter story, and I was overcome with the need to experience a sunrise service. Sadly, I didn't know where one was being held, so I made do. I didn't get to gather with a congregation of humans, but I had my own personal service with nature's congregation.

A bit before seven, I threw on some day clothes, grabbed a hoodie, and left my dorm building. The sun wasn't quite up yet but I couldn't wait any longer. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve night, eagerly waiting for their gifts. I just had to feel that sunrise.

There's a trail that runs by my university, part of it's blocked off right now but I walked some of it anyway. The world was so still. The air chilly. It had an aroma of fresh rain; of rebirth and renewal.

I was almost lead to an early grave by a pair of ducks on my way to the trail and, after that, birds were everywhere. The world may have been still but nature was buzzing.

I kid you not. Blue-jays, Cardinals, sparrows, ravens, and robins were scattered about the trail and lurking in the blooming branches of the trees. There were squirrels running all around and worms wiggling their way across the black trail top. Even the stream that runs along the trail was bubbling with life. It was as if nature herself was praising God on this Easter Sunday.

Even as I sat atop slightly damp grass after walking the trail -writing in my journal as I took in the world -nature did not stop singing. The birds were everywhere, and they were loud. It was glorious.

So long ago, a man -a god (thee God) -sacrificed Himself so that we could all have eternal life. So that we wouldn't have to spend our eternity in the absence of His presence. Think about that. Not only did Christ die for us, but He died so that He and us wouldn't be separated. He died because He didn't wand to live without us; because He wants us to be able to spend eternity with Him.

Romans 5: 6-8 says:

 "For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will hardly die for a righteous man, though perhaps for a good man someone would dare even to die. But God demonstrates His own love towards us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." 

Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Christ died for us. Do you get that? Do you feel that? How humbling is it to think that the Almighty God came to earth, placed himself in the form of a human, and died so that we may know eternal life. God -a deity (Thee all powerful deity. The one who knows it all. The one who spoke and the universe came into existence) -sacrificed himself so that we might live.

I don't know about you, but that makes me rejoice. Because of Him, my soul doesn't have to be condemned. Praise God for what he's done. He is truly a loving and caring God.

Tupperware Party

You’ve been invited to a Tupperware party

A Tupperware party?

My mom used to get invited to Tupperware parties.

I would always sit there bored, thinking about how stupid they were.

I didn’t understand why dishes could be so fascinating.

I didn’t understand why ladies would throw Tupperware parties;

Why to be a lady one had to sit and look at dishes.

I’m twenty-two now,

And I was just invited to a Tupperware party.

A Tupperware party?

Am I really old enough to be invited to a Tupperware party?

Am I really at that point where I can no longer sit on the side line;

Sit on the side line thinking about how stupid talking about dishes is?

I don’t know what’s worse.

That I was just invited to a Tupperware party,

Or that I actually kind of want to go. 

Perfect Little Lines

Perfect Little Lines

Dedicated to a little sister who's been going through a lot lately. 

Perfect little lines,

As straight as can be,

Decorating her skin

For eternity.

Faded from years,

But their red is still clear.

Her eyes can still see

What her heart use to feel.

Covered by bracelets,

Those lines use to be,

Yet now they are displayed

For all to see.

The battle was fought,

The battle was won,

And her badge of courage

Shows that it’s done.

Marred Innocence and Other Poems

Lately, the dreaded illness of writer's block has prevented me from working on any of my ongoing chapter stories. In an attempt to cure myself, I've been working one some other, smaller projects. My energy has been turned from those larger works to practicing my skills on short stories and poetry. Thus far, I've written two short stories and three poems. Well, three poems that I will be sharing with you. I've written two others, but I am not at all pleased with them. That's how writing goes sometimes. You write, and write, and write, and some times you end up with the most glorious diamond...yet other times you end up with a piece of writing that you just know isn't going to go anywhere. 

What I have for you this fine night are the three poems I've written lately. I may eventually post the short stories as well. But, for the moment, just enjoy these little writings. They aren't the best I've ever written, but they're decent...in my opinion. 

Marred Innocence

Such a beautiful sight,

An empty page.

White, clean, perfect,

It’s all innocence.

Then along comes an artist,

Pen in hand.

With ink and paint,

They steal the innocent land.

Such a dreadful sight,

The marred page.

Lines, letters, curves,

Gone is its essence.  

Yet what remains,

Shows only truth.

With words and sketches,

The artist speaks to the youth.

Black

Tastes like freshly brewed coffee.

Smells like moist earth.

Sounds like vinyl records.

Feels like ground charcoal.

Looks like an endless starry sky.

Yellow

Tastes like Lemonade on a hot afternoon.

Smells like a field of blooming tulips.

Sounds like a choir of canaries.

Feels like the sun’s warm rays.

Looks like summer.