Authenticly Transformed

July 4, 2008

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Just D on Thursday

Let me ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up…

I am married. I have kids. I love my husband.
I am a Christian, I go to church, I love God.
I am a mom, a caregiver, a nurturer.
I am a doula, an educator, a giver.

Somewhere in there, the enemy has been silently laying down a trap and I fell hook line and sinker (bible, concordance, and highlighter?) into it.

he laid down a stepping stone pathway in places so soft and tender that I was misled. Where I stepped was not the place of love, obedience, authenticity, light, truth, or created by my Saviour.
Where I stepped was greed, selfishness, self desire, pity, fear, pride, self righteousness, self reliance, faux truth, justification, and worldly treasure.

God is so good though, so faithful, so present. He found a crack and shone in His light. And as the saying goes, “and even darkness flees from him…” And once the darkness receeded I was actually able to see the places I’d misstepped. It wasn’t pretty.

I was straddling the line… I fell off and tried to stay the course… and I went from D to Just D to Anonymous, Anonymous D, FC anonymous D… and I’m tired of trying to be someone other than me.

I need to focus on some big important stuff in my life. I hope you’ll stick around…


Compost Pile

June 30, 2008

Every good garden has it’s own compost.

Mine has one too.

Ingredients:  desire to be the perfect example of the perfect gardener,  wearing the right gloves bought on discount but still costing more than the cheapo ones, the failed startings of plants I “borrowed” from other gardeners before I knew that I can’t grow the same things in MY garden as others… My compost is full of low self esteem, 110% effort at all costs, guilt, generous generous helpings of expectation and unwritten rules.  It’s also full of unspoken anger, hidden irritations, feelings stuffed too deep.  And topped off with a broken car top carrier, twice tinted windows, twice installed stereo and speakers, lost ear plugs and car chargers, misplaced flashdrives and prescription sports eyewear… and prescription sunglasses… stirred up vigorously with “you statements” and unexamined expectations, with self righteousness and inbred conceit.

My Compost pile stinks.

But every garden needs one.  The secret is in how you allow your compost pile time to decompose, or if you hurry it along leaving half rotting unfinished bits of business laying around to attract bugs.


The View From Outside

June 29, 2008

What do they see when they look at my garden?  Rich black soil pebbled with iron, light fluffy loam atop the soil, rich and fragrant, a tender blanket of straw to protect against winter frost…  raked over to reveal sturdy green shoots in a blanket of growth…

What does he see when he looks at my garden?  Patches of untended soil, dry and crumbly, powdered in it’s neglect, bordering up to deep black sopping wet soil turned by long worms that consume and fertilize in the same motion, empty landscape of contrasting soils, withering lonely bushes scattered through out.

What do I see?  Weeds.  Mixed in with glorious fragrant peonies.  I see tall yellow dandilions hidden amongst the powerful bright happy sunflowers. I see trailing twining choking vines wrapping round my carefully tended flowering trees… and a scattering of brown dead things left behind by my pruning and plucking and pinching.  I see tall flowering vegetable plants, wildly growing herbs, and basic marigolds amongst the variegated grasses and the lavendar mixed with the Asiatic Lillies mixed with sexy Gladioli.  I see both the tipping top heavy flowers uprooted by those sneaky moles, I see the green buds on the tree limbs above the scattered dirt of a chipmunks rummaging.  I see the lacy beauty in a leaf partially consumed by a caterpillar awaiting his turn to become a cocoon.

What is real?  Which view is truth?  Which view is most practical? Do we have to vote? Why can’t they all be just the same garden?

If you don’t like it… you can leave.  But you cannot change my garden.  Only I can do that.  The thing is, I don’t think, really, that I want to change it. 

I think… really… that I like my garden.  Or at least, I like the way the roots are coming out.  The pulling of them is horrid but the absence of them is mighty… and I don’t want to stop now.  I like this thing I’m creating out of nothing but rot and trash.  I like this thing I’m creating out of your fertilizer, out of your water, out of your sunshine.  See what you started? Now watch me finish it…

Watch my garden grow, and then come in and see the beauty in the mix of things I’ve grown… I’ll prepare a special place just for you to sit.


Guest Gardener

June 28, 2008

Sometimes when you can’t quite figure out where to start, or maybe which particular plant is best for your zone, or if maybe you don’t even know if your soil is ready for gardening, you turn to someone who has done the work already, someone who has a little dirt under their nails, a little sweat on their brow and a blister or two to show for the work.  You look at their garden and see the things you like, and also the things that don’t quite fit your taste, and you ask them, “how do I do this?”

You must dig in your garden, deep, until you get to all the roots.  Sometimes you need to dig alone, for days.  Other times, you want help and company so you can fling the mud at someone or smush it until it’s dust and your frustrations, anger, fears, and pain are dissolved too.  I challenge you to dig deeper my friend.  We’re all here to support you as you do.  Don’t be afraid.  Be honest.  Be truthful.  Be YOU. Just begin with you.  The rest will come.

Those were the words my Guest Gardener had to say.  DigDon’t fearBe trueBegin at the beginning.  Have you ever heard better suggestions for redoing your garden?  I think not.

My dearest Guest Gardener, with you standing by to hand over your favorite tools for me to borrow, I’ll surely be able to plant something that blooms year round.

And for my kaba who feels connected to me through this gardening project? Yeah, it’s your strength that I carry in my heart…

Today weeds, tomorrow (or next year) tall strong sunflowers.


Daughter

June 26, 2008

Not too many more gardening cover ups here… just the facts.

I spilled my heart and soul to a church member the other night.  I happened to come across his comment here and panicked because I thought I’d been so careful to leave no trace of myself, my real self, anywhere.  As it turns out, yes, he had backtracked and found this blog, but had no idea it was me… so there was this interesting and awkward long pause after I hysterically confronted him, and then I just unloaded a whole delivery truck full of fertilizer onto him.  And let me say, this guy has his very own pile of fertlizer and one small shovel.  Poor guy – here I am sobbing and wailing and spilling out my whole entire garden worth of fertilizer and he was so calm and sweet.

He gave me some great biblical based premises and the one phrase that is in my heart over and over is this: “Jane, you are a daughter of God!”

How cool is that?  I mean, I knew that already, but to hear someone else proclaim it to me as a fact, a given, an undeniable truth, was so comforting.    He also told me how one of satans tools is to keep us individually isolated.  My determination to keep this issue private, to keep it only between myself and whoevers house I was staying at, was another form of destruction.  To share my pain and confusion with christians who can minister to me is a way to defeat satan… that was news to me.  But it makes sense. Especially since my heart is driven to authenticiy.

Today I am a daughter of God.  He is my father and to him I will go for guidance, love, tenderness, comfort. and even to recieve discipline.  Unlike my earthly father who told me to “suck it up, you’ve got an attitude and you need to fix it!” My true father will share my sorrow and will provide clear direction. Or should I say ‘planting instructions’?


Get Real

June 24, 2008

Well, it’s not like I was fooling anyone anyway.  If you have any clue at all, you’d guess that I wasn’t really talking about gardening. I didn’t really think I’d fool anyone, it just seemed easier to step back a little and recolor the truth so it didn’t hurt so much to look at.

You can recolor it all you want, it doesn’t change it’s foundation.

It’s 12:27 am … and I’m here writing because up until 30 minutes ago my husband was still awake and I couldn’t bear to go to bed when he was still there.  I waited and waited for him to go to sleep… but he kept coming down here and wandering around in a lost kind of way, in his BVDs and his messy bed head, like a little boy who needs his mommy.  I couldn’t help but notice the sweetness even as my stomach tightened and my breath shortened and my hands fisted up in my lap.

I keep trying to remember all the adoration and respect, all the sensual passion and deep seated love I have always felt for him… and I do remember it, but I remember it as then, and not at all as now.  It sounds so trite doesn’t it? That I’ve maybe “fallen out of love” with him.  How ridiculous, because any married person with any integrity will tell you that the passions of love come, and go, but it’s the care and love and respect that hold it together during crying infants, meetings with the principal, and arguements over the Visa bill.  And so, I think, that it’s not so much I’ve fallen out of love, as that I’ve lost the vital parts of respect, care, concern.  That is so painful to say. 

It’s entirely possible, with all due respect, that all this shit is my problem to begin with.  I’m the one who is mostly unhappy, I’m the one who is mostly wanting out, I’m the one who actually left.  I’m the one sitting up waiting until the other is asleep.  Maybe it is all me. 

And even if it is, there is a time for realizing that as shameful and degrading as it may feel, my truth is my truth and if I can’t be honest, then I can’t be at all.

All of which is fine and dandy to set my thoughts upon until I imagine the anger and betrayal my boy12 will feel. I see his cheeks flushed, the skin around his eyes tight and pale. I see that he won’t look me in the eye, nor will he release the well of tears pooling in his lashes.  He won’t bend, soften, give mercy, or forgiveness.  He is my son, my man, my buddy.  I don’t know if I could stand that distance, and the knowledge that I built it by myself.  I imagine my girl10 and her bewilderment.  I wonder at the conflicted turmoil in her heart because she really doesn’t quite comprehend why mommy left.  I think about how she needs me to physically tuck her in, to smooth her hair back from her brow, to kiss the fleshy peachy cheek of hers with it’s galaxy of freckles.  How she needs to touch me, whisper to me, hold on tighter and longer every night.  And my girl18… she barely got this far with me along, what will happen if I’m gone?  She’d never forgive me either, although she’d pretend. 

I can ruin one life, my own, but I can’t ruin three lives of helpless bystanders. 

Or can I?

I pray.  I pray.  God, take this feeling from me.  I refuse this satan driven selfish emotion…

… and it only grows stronger.  I know that God does NOT want this thing for my family, but I also truly trust in Him to mold me and shape me, and to do the same for my children, in the way that He sees fit. 

I wish we saw eye to eye.


Who buys this stuff?

June 22, 2008

I’m not a professional gardener.  I have been playacting at it for so long that I thought I was top notch.  I’d pull a weed and feel satisfied.  I’d plant a new flower, stand in awe of it’s beauty while it bloomed, but forgot about it when it faded.

The one true thing I knew for certain about gardening was that I needed “amend” my soil.  I needed to fill it with nutrients and moistured holding elements.  I knew that I wanted it to be an organic garden, nothing artificial or fake, just pureness and the simplicity of natural growth.

The problem is that I think I got a bad load of fertilizer.  I just used whatever I had on hand to mix into what was already there, and then I threw on a bunch of stuff I’d read about or heard about.  I figured I couldn’t add too much “good” stuff.  But it turned out all wrong.  My garden smells to high heaven and I can’t even hardly bear to get out there into it. 

This is not your everyday smelly fertilizer.  This is not the scent wafting on the wind from the fields that makes you hold your nose and grimace.  This is no simple spreadable manure.  This is bad shit.

Something is rotten and putrified in there.  Something is half alive feeding on itself, eating up my efforts and destroying my will.  Something stomach churning, fume producing, wet, sticky, toxic.

Is this it? Is it just that I handled it so badly and messed it up so hugely that even I don’t want to go step around in it for fear it will suck me down and consume me?  Do I put on my gas mask, my HEPA suit, and go out there with a rake and stir it up until it dries out or do I seal it off and walk away to let it consume itself?

It’s not like I was the only one.  He pulled a weed or two, and even planted many pretties.  And when it came time to unload and fling the fertilizer to all the corners, I didn’t see him hesitate.  We both did it.  And as much as I want to leave it now, he wants to cover it up with something else and pretend it didn’t happen. 

I can’t see that working out very well.


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