Poem--

Lovely Shelves 

Endless rows of shelves, some empty, some filled; each book a memory, a file on store, a million different stories held there. Each person their own library of experience, each person with halls of depth, valuable expression. Who visits these places, who lingers there? Which rows are locked tight, forbidden authors of moments not shared? Who is free to roam unguarded, who walks these blocked off halls? Why do we feel the need to hide the ragged, un-kept, un-mended? Buried, to the back, dusty and unvisited. When was the last time you bared a black book, opened it, read from its pages? What does such vulnerability bring, rejection, judgments unseen? No, most likely not. Is there not something we are all hiding? And what does the hidden bring, but more binding? What treasures will I find when you unlock the dark, what light will it shed for the shelves of my heart?

Copyright © 2010 Danielle K. Griner

How I miss you

I sure miss my nieces!!! I would have been totally content to share a house with them forever…sigh.

Evie

Evie, the night before my sister and fam moved for Springfield IL. She was getting hungry as I'm sure you can tell! Love and miss her!

Temporary

Wouldn't sprinting in a long distance race be a poor strategy? I often assume temporary means, well, a few years, a few months, but not a lifetime. I was thinking of the word temporal and its meaning, pertaining to life, and what if--and not always of course--temporary suffering, means a lifetime of suffering? Granted there will always be suffering at some level, and there are type of suffering that are short lived, but that's not so much what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the painful seasons of life that seem to endlessly lay forth. Struggles that may possibly be with you lifelong. Pain is temporary but the fruit is long-lasting. Will it take a temporal lifetime of pain for an eternity of fruit? I think realistically yes.  Don't get me wrong, I totally believe we will and do see much fruit in this life. I'm not saying things are all bleak or there is no joy or hope or life or that God withholds good things from us for only the sake of suffering. I don't think it's so black and white--no, I'm not always black and white--but I don't think I will ever reach some magic place where I am done growing. And well duh, it takes pain to plow the way for growth. Growth is painful, and I sometimes don't want to do it. Pain is good...um yeah. Ok it is, if it is the pain that produces growth, but ugh, it hurts! There is always some new level of growth, I don't want to stay stagnant, stuck where I am. I just didn't know it would be so hard, did you? In a strange way though, knowing that life is seasons of growth, takes the pressure off of believing I have to reach some magic place where everything is perfect and pain free. It's ok, at whatever speed, guiltless and fearless, growth, it's good.  Life hurts, life is hard, life has joy, life is rewarding, life is complicated. Relationships are precious and growth is treasure. I want to learn how to run the distance, not sprint and hit a wall of discouragement--though of course it happens--I don't want to give up. I often feel like it. It won't always be like this, it's just temporary.

A Day...

wake up- what's going on, where am I?

clock- 12:34pm.

laying on my back, looking at the ceiling.

I don't want to get up, my day is gone already.

hopeless...tired.

nearly step on the dog.

stagger to the bathroom, look in mirror. yuck.

wipe dried drool off cheek, and mascara from under eye.

contemplate brushing teeth, maybe, maybe not.

coffee...yes. breakfast, no point.

wonder around, poor memory,

so much time wasted trying to figure out where I've been,

where I'm going. directionless day...again.

what I fill my day with, who knows, I don't- do you?

one productive thing accomplished in a day,

is an accomplishment for me. so sad.

I never do what it is I really want to do,

guilt tells me I should be a certain way.

normal, like everyone else- job: check. family: check. 
whatever the hell normal people do: check.

it's not me. no.

strange. slow? something's missing upstairs...a screw lose.

when the day is over, when most people are sleeping, I feel calm.

I can't remember my day, as if it mattered anyway.

now, without the days guilt driving me to accomplish, I relax.  

pressure never pushed me anywhere, but against the flow.

why can't the days be like nights? free, safe.

no ridicule, no blame. freedom. to sit, to read, to write.

in the stillness I am free. 
imagination wildly dancing in the silent night,

clear mind, energetically I dream. creativity sparks.

sleep? I am tired, but oh the freedom,

while you are sleeping.

and to think of starting another day,

if only I could stop it.

but no, I'll sleep before the sun comes up,

but not until then.

I'll ride the night til death comes.

For I die every day I wake up.