Word Choice

                                                                I almost blurted out
                                                        over lingering goodbyes
                                        words tripping over each other
                                        those few little velvety words
                                            for a shot of effervescence to satisfy
                            the just-a-little-further yearn
                      but I know better by now, o yes
 then to just hastily, clumsily toss words up
                                                                       
          and.                                                           
                  let.                                                              
                        them.                                        
                                   fall.                                   
                                           where.                          
                                                        they.                
                                                                 may.

Once Upon a Time

once upon a time

 there was a princess

  and she dropped her golden ball

   into a pond

    isn't that how the story goes?

     once upon a time

      a manipulative amphibian

       an opportunistic frog

        offered help

       in exchange for a kiss

      once upon a time,

     so the story goes

    the princess agreed

   the frog fetched the ball

  a kiss was exchanged

 and the slimy creature

was transformed into

 a prince, a PRINCE

  that's how the story goes

   not one to believe in fairy tales

    i taught my daughters young

     not to trust in

      once upon a time

       don't kiss the creature

        jump into the pond

       and grab your own damn ball

      frogs, my dears,

     never ever never

    turn into princes,

   that's how my story goes

  and there have been lots and lots

 dozens of frogs i've met

i meet them all the time

 offering favors galore

  in exchange for kisses

   and i haven't given them away

    those precious kisses

     i've held them tight

      that's been how my story goes

       until i met a new one and 

        he's a prince, a PRINCE

       if i had a golden ball

      i'd throw it deep into

     the first lake i found

    and cry just like

   once upon a time

  i'd offer up all those kisses

 i've been saving up for years

trade them all for a

 little golden ball

  or a handful of wild daisies

   or a promise

    but this prince

     doesn't require kisses

      won't even trade in kisses

       not at all

        that's how this story goes

The List

Dear Just a Friend,
    I have a checklist
          Two pages longs
               Full of qualifications and qualities
                    That I've made a requirement
My list has just kept
     Getting longer and longer
          With each person who hasn't been
               What you already are
                    Too specific, too demanding
My list has only kept
     Me from second dates
          From dreaming of Hap'ly
               From saying yes
                    From entertaining maybes
I have been told
     To trash the list
          To reshape my expectation
               To lower my standards
                    Or to accept just being          alone
Without trying, you
     Keep checking off my boxes.
          Frightened I've started
               Looking for flaws
                    Searching for gaps 
I tried to cross you off
     Scratch out the possibility
          Erase the maybe
               But my list wouldn't let me
                    Mark out your name
                 
                 
                 

Free Time

Free Time

This is the worst possible thing
A cancellation
Two hours free
Nowhere to be
Nothing to do
Can't go home
Nothing left 
But to sit in a parking lot
And dream of you
Already re-read our texts
And all the texts
To my girlfriends 
Bragging 'bout you
Already re-read your
Facebook feed
Re-read our emails
Sent you three texts
And dreamt of tomorrow
Nothing left to do
'Cept write about you

Undone

Undone

There are things I'm not allowed to say

Things that must be left unspoken

Want you, need you, love you, please, now

So many things I can't say

There are things I'm not allowed to do

Things that must be left undone

Rush you, pressure you, press you, kiss you

So many things I can't do

There are things I'm not allowed to dream

Things that must be left un-thought

Forever, hap'ly ever after

So many thoughts I can't stop

There are so many things I shouldn't write

Things that should be left unwritten

Poetry, words, metaphors, hope

Spilling out of my pen

Though I know they shouldn't

You've got me undone

Your Mercies are New Every Morning

As every fat girl knows, once she blows a diet, it’s all over. We’re either clinging to the edge of that cliff hanging on to our calorie counts, exercise plans, and meal-replacing milkshakes by our fingernails for dear life or free-falling of the edge of a food cliff. Diets can’t hold me, they can’t catch me once the falling starts, because they’re only as strong as I am. And I am never strong enough. Never. I can last a few weeks, a few months even if results motivate me, but sooner or later my own willpower fails me. Sometimes it’s just that my resolve peters out. More frequently, life wears me down. Circumstances get more and more difficult until I go running back to my old friend and comfort, food. That’s when the free-fall begins and, nine times out of ten, it doesn't end until I hit the rocky ground ten pounds heavier than when I began dieting in the first place and completely disheartened. I have come to be completely convinced that no diet can deliver me. Jenny Craig can’t save. Weight Watchers can’t rescue. Dr. Atkins cannot heal. No exercise plan can strengthen me enough to break the chains of slavery to food that I have forged. We were designed to have one and only one savior, Jesus.

Psalm 121

I lift my eyes up to the hills. From where does my help come?

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.

Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.

The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.

The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and

forevermore.

(English Standard Version)

Jesus is my weight loss plan. He is my exercise program. I’m looking to Him for my self-worth rather than the number on a scale. I’m turning to Him for comfort rather than the refrigerator. He is my miracle diet! Over the course of the last year I have been trying to live out my conviction that my “help comes from the Lord.” The real miracle? He’s doing it. The numbers on the scale are going down, I fit in those jeans again, and, the very best thing, I’m not enslaved to food like I once was.

This week I experienced a hiccup. On Sunday, after long consideration, I decided a man was worth it, and I would open up my heart for the first time in a long time to the possibility of happily-ever-after. On Tuesday, my mini-romance ended and I got told he just wanted to be friends. Yet, I walked the next three days in freedom. Hard days, ridiculous days, lonely days with a bruised heart, and a sob lingering in the back of my throat. Stunningly, I wasn’t even tempted to overeat! Even between crying bouts I was praising God for this unexpected liberty- the ability to mourn without overeating. I can assure you that that was the first time in my life I have ever managed that. I wasn’t even tempted to indulge. I scraped leftovers in the trash, brought food home from my lunch, didn’t eat seconds, and put the leftovers away without sneaking a bite or two or twelve before sealing the Tupperware.  On the best day, any one of those would be victory enough, but to eat like a skinny girl flawlessly with tears running down my face was akin to me to a little red sea parting. It was a full on Daddy miracle.

So what happened to me yesterday, on Friday? It was a long day, true. I was impatient and discouraged with my clients, they all seemed so slow and their goals impossible. My kids were driving me crazy; I kept chewing Kaya’s head off. And I ate. And ate. And ate. As usual, I was a dietary saint until dinner time; breakfast and lunch are generally no problem. I even made a fantastic gnocchi dish for lunch and didn’t take seconds, not even a nibble. So what dam broke at dinner that I went back for seconds, then thirds and finally, hours later, fourths. To top it all off, I broke down and made chocolate chip cookies at 10:30 at night and ate a handful of the hot delicious little heart soothers, fast and with my mind as blank as possible so that I didn’t have to think about what I was doing. Where did my freedom go? How did heartbreak not bring me down, yet an irritating day was enough to dissolve all my precious resolve, like one of my cookies in a glass of milk? I went to bed uncomfortably full, discouraged, bewildered, and, frankly, sick of my own crap.

I found the answer this morning as I sat down to enjoy a little extended time with my Daddy in the word. Right there in my journal, plain as day, was a record of the last few days. My entries from Monday and Tuesday morning show I was reveling in the word. There are pages there of scripture interspersed with me just chatting with the Lord, asking questions of the Word, and recording the answers I found there in scripture. There is a back and forth dialogue. Tuesday morning, I even took the time to copy out all 24 verses of Psalm 139. Wednesday and Thursday’s entries have an entirely different flavor. They are all crying out with none of the give and take of the days before. I poured my heart out to the Lord, yes, but I didn’t read any scripture. I didn’t give my Daddy a chance to answer back. I didn’t dig into the word to hear from Him. By Friday, the pages were blank; I wasn’t in the mood. I skipped my morning quiet time in favor of checking Facebook and playing Candy Crush, and putting on a full face of makeup (I was cute yesterday, let me tell you!). I even got an extra opportunity to journal mid-day when my second client canceled. I briefly considered it, then I cooked a feast for lunch and played a few more games of Candy Crush instead. By 7:30 pm, I was Word deprived, a nice little cavernous pit of need. Once again, just like old times, instead of going to Daddy, I walked right into the kitchen. Half a fritatta and 5 or 6 cookies later I had indigestion and a first rate case of shame induced self-loathing.

Before you lose heart, let me tell you the good news: I don’t have to free fall! This is not the end of my victory. His mercies are new every morning. I can be sure of that because Friday was not the first little slip-up on my journey. Over the last year, I’ve had more rebellious screw-up days than I care to count. Yet, never once did they lead to the utter abandon of giving up on a diet. Whenever I get into the word, God keeps graciously reminding me that He WILL deliver me. Over and over and over again He assures me. He doesn’t ever get sick of my crap. Quite the opposite of diets, my Daddy’s strength does not run out when mine does. Instead, if I run to Him and to His healing word, He can catch me and hold me. So, that’s where you’ll find me this morning. I’ve been curled up on the sofa for hours with a cup of coffee, my journal, and a well-worn bible and I’m not getting up until I’ve had a nice long chat with my Daddy.

But I call this to mind, and therefore I have hope:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness,

“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,

to the soul who seeks him.

It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

Lamentations 3:21-26

Eating My Words

There's nothing like a bruised heart to inspire poetry. 

Eating My Words

On Sunday night, over dinner with an old friend

the words, “my new man,”

                        danced off my lips

                                    with no foresight or hesitation

                                    like they belonged

                                    easy     as    you    please.

Surprised, I stopped

just to taste them, and, O!

                        they were rich, full, mellow

                                    ever so slightly sweet

                                    like coconut

                                    or a mouth full of autumn.

I’m sorry, dear, but don’t be surprised

if your Tuesday title doesn’t taste quite right

                        friend is delicious, but

                                    the artificial sweetness of “just a friend”

                                    after I have tasted something so real

                                    burns the back of my throat.

Cloying     chemical     saccharine

            synthetic, manufactured aftertaste;

                        like trying too hard,

                                    like letting me down easy,

                                                like eating my own foolishness.