Portion

By 8:49 this morning, I felt the day was destined to fail. I rushed into work, dodging the Glisan St. traffic. My french press was shattered by an inclusion kids basketball. And my wonderful scheme of jeans and watching a movie, instead of taking the kids to the swimming pool, backfired when the sunshine decided not only to shine, but to sparkle and dance like diamonds. We were short staffed, and I was filling in more roles than even a control freak like myself wished to fill. 

It was as I sat at that coffee and crayon stained table that I decided something. I decided that this fail destined day was quickly going to turn into literal Hell unless I chose an alternative. I have been writing the same verse on my hand the past few mornings, and meditating on it until the mid-morning plaster washed it away. This morning, my rush to work dis-allowed me time to write it ... but the memorization goal of the week kicked in and I visualized it. "The Lord is my portion' says my soul. 'Therefore I will hope in Him." Lamentations 3:24. And that was it. My alternative to Hell was allowing the Lord to be my portion. And I decided that I really wanted the Lord to be my portion, and that he was one heck of an alternative. Actually, He was not an alternative at all, but my go to, my foundation, my sparkle like diamonds. 

And I allowed the Lord to be my portion. And I placed my hope in him. And the kids, even the bad attitude kids, had great attitudes, despite promises to the opposite. And my helpless helpers, were helpful. And games that normally don't work, worked. And I didn't miss my french press. 

I taught some campers to play Yatzee. I helped them with math. (HA! I know, I helped with MATH?!) We sat still through a movie. We followed the rules. We were kind to one another. We even pulled off a surprise party for one of the other counselors. 

The day that was destined to fail, became a giant of success. It was my most fun, and most favorite day of camp yet. So, I raise this now french-press-free-glass to say "Here's to the last to days of Camp, come and get it me, for the Lord is MY Portion."

A lakeside poem

The breeze brushes the reeds
     gently untangling
The dragonflies pat the water
     rapidly tapping
The sun stares at the world
     constantly boasting
And I sit in it all
     greatly reflecting

Goodbye

It was the last day of school after my 4th grade year. We stood on the sidewalk in the yellow zone reserved to keep a space between us and the school buses. Today though, the teachers seemed not to notice, or pretended not to care that we were breaking the rules. I'll never know for sure, but I know they said nothing.

I was saying goodbye to Alan. I remember giving him a hug, and having an odd rush of emotions. He just told me that he was moving away, to live with his dad. I didn't know how to say goodbye, I had never had a friend move away before. I felt odd when I pulled away, sitting in the backseat of my moms green Ford Windstar. I was going to miss that skinny, black jeans wearing, obsessed with trains, boy. And I left, and I never saw him again.

Fourteen years later... I drove to Canada with on of my dear friends. We were saying goodbye to a friend, a possible, but hopefully not, forever goodbye. The two of them were much closer that I, and watching their final wave, as our cars headed in different directions, it cut into my heart. I was suddenly a girl of nine all over again, re-discovering goodbyes. Goodbyes are hard, forever's are brutal.

I don't think we were created to say goodbye. In the garden, god walked with Adam and Eve, he never wanted them to say goodbye to those walks, or goodbye to the garden... but man sinned, and and goodbyes came to be.

Canada was hard, thinking about the painful reality of life, but it was harder for my friend, who I know now is experiencing a grieving loss such as I have never known. My forth grade train boy friend doesn't compare to this, but it is the closest I have to understanding outside of simply imagining.

I am reminded of a favorite verse in Psalms: "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning..."

Soundtrack

My life is a movie, or a musical if only that. I walk along picking and changing songs in my ears as a guitarist picks strings with his eyes shut. Creating the soundtrack that will one day boost my memory, something like the concept of Pavlov and his dogs. I try to make the music match my mood, but I fond more often that not that my mood changes to the music. I say I listen only to the beat, but as I walk, farther in this heat, I see I pick the music for the words. Jumping through the artists lips, off their sheet music and into the silicone buds pressed deeply into my lobes.

My life is like a movie. And I am writing it right now. I don't know if you will want to watch this movie, or even listen to its soundtrack, but here I am, live, living without delay.

My picture-free instagram

My London Fog is thick and foamy. I would take a picture and post it on instagram, but I don't do that. It does seem as though we are truly the third grade mantra, "you are what you eat." Today though, I am not a pig, or a crabby patty. Today I am a poached egg, a citrus fruit and a London Fog. I wonder if we just did a journal of our life through pictures of what we ate... how interesting a journal it would be. Where and how we choose to eat determines a lot about who we are. It is the same concept of Forest Gump, and how you can understand people through their shoes.

We all have shoes we long to own and food we desire to eat. But when it comes down to it, it is about the shoes we are wearing right now, and the food we ate today.

Maybe that is why Portland Hipsters instagram all the time. You know the picture: a three photo box in sepia tone, dirty TOMS, a steamy cup of Stumptown and a gluten free Lox bagel. Perhaps they instagram to prove to the world that they really are wearing and eating who they are. And perhaps I don't instagram because I don't want to show the world what I am wearing and eating, because I don't like how it portrays who I am.

A transparency judged on appearance of shoes and food. Today, my instagram would be: Stretched out Birks, citrus fruit, and a cup of London Fog.

Hurrying Slow

Being alone, I am rushed. To write out my words. To think out my thoughts. To catch up on rest. Hours ticking into minutes only left. Hurry. Process. Move.

And though that second hand chases me at a steady pace, reminding me of time ticking away, I am unable to move. Unable to process. Unable to hurry.