Originally published Wednesday, 13 March 2013.
So many days I just don't know where to begin. And I look for answers to beginning in all sorts of crazy places. I can read all sorts of advice that strives to straighten me out: 10 steps to freedom, a checklist to joy, a guide to a surrendered life. Oh, how I get distracted by my attempts to get myself in order.
I am all discombobulated, a little girl-grown women whose heart is scattered to a million places and she can't find right where she is. I care about words here . . . and right now, I am just going to close my eyes and not look at the screen . . .'Cause I can get tired of caring about them so much, too.
Girl, let it go.
I am tired of thinking and worrying about what the most productive thing is to do with my time this day, this moment. I want to just sit here and feel okay about just sitting. I want to not feel guilty about it or that I am throwing a fit by slowing.
I want to watch how the light shines in through white shutters in my girl's bedroom window in March, the way late afternoon rays illuminate painted yellow on a Sunday. I want to sit on the floor of her messy room and not ask her to clean it. I want to smile at Valentine heart balloons in her doll cradle and admire her peach dance recital tutu draped over the railing of her old, white wooden bed.
Maybe I don't have to figure out what the next moment holds. Maybe I can just curl up next to my daughter, her warm shoulder pressed into my side and inhale the sweet smell of her hair. Maybe I can sit curled up next to her, ensconced within purple gingham fabric walls atop floor pillows and a not-so-comfortable stuffed dog. I want to lean my head back and look up at the tissue paper poufs she's got hanging up high and agree: yes, I do believe I belong here.
I want to write without worrying about the words so much and talk without second guessing my expressions. I want to move into space where time doesn't feel pressed too close. That space where He always is but I forget--and then remember--and I breath easy again and smile.
Yesterday I went out to the side yard and made mud pies. Cold dirt slipped through my hands and my daughter and I knelt close and made a cake that we scooped up onto plastic plates and served up as a weekend snack for her daddy and the boys. She asks me to tell her stories of what life was like for me as a little girl--moments playing King-of-the-Mountain in the huge compost pile and running barefoot through almond orchard and yes, making mud pies when the sprinklers soaked the ground and the dirt squished between our toes.
Yes, I need to snuggle in close. I am here, letting my Father soften this hard ground.
Jennifer writes over at You are My Girls.com and would love to connect with you. If you don't want to miss her daily posts, click here to subscribe. She would also love to have you join in the fun at You Are My Girls Community on Facebook and Twitter. Come on over!