Last week I was listening to my favorite song from the musical, “Rent” (read here for info on the musical http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rent_(musical)) — “Will I.” The song is sung in the round, and the lyrics are very simple:
Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow from this nightmare?
I get stuck on “Will someone care?” How many of us ask that in our day-to-day lives? Will someone care that I’m hurting? Will someone care about me, in spite of my broken state? It seems like the answer is “no,” that so many people want other people to be easy, pulled together, and ready to serve them. Don’t get me wrong — the greatest fulfillment in life comes from using one’s God-given talents and gifts to help others. However. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if that’s all I am — no, all I’m allowed to be — to other people.
I’m quite certain you can relate. We all have those moments of feeling drained of all we are with no one pouring back into us. When this happens, I start resenting both people and my talents. I become depressed over how empty I feel, wondering when it will be my turn to be taken care of, to be fulfilled, to have what others have that I want.
I had a “moment” last night when I poured out what I was feeling — what I didn’t even know I was feeling until the eruption was triggered — to God. I let it all out, surprised that this torrent had gone unnoticed within me. I realized as soon as it was over that while the emotion was very real, the thoughts behind it were wrong. Some day my visions and dreams will be realized, but in the meantime, I am still blessed. I have AMAZING friends who love, support, and encourage me. I have a God who cares about the tiniest of my concerns and who reaches out to me in the most loving ways. I have a good job, hobbies, passions, and purpose. I’m going to be alright.
Whether or not “someone cares” in the particular way I want them to at that moment, I’m going to be alright!
A sickening crunch came from behind me. I turned around and saw a BMW had just sideswiped another sedan. One of the car’s alarms went off.
I stared a while at the wreckage, as if staring long enough would recreate the accident and I could understand what happened. I could feel my heart beating faster and the stress-induced hormone cortisone racing through my veins. This accident had nothing to do with me, and I didn’t know the people involved. Yet I felt a deep nausea that somehow wasn’t in my stomach. An uneasiness washed over me.
After a moment or two, I was able to put my finger on what it was that bothered me — it was the feeling of something being wrong, of how quickly our everyday world can change. These people were just on their daily commute, no doubt making the same maneuvers they did each day. And in an instant, their days changed.
I was especially unnerved by the sound of the impact. It was unnatural, foreign among the normal sounds of the early morning, an eerie reminder of how quickly things can change.
Last week I had a few periods of waiting, so I took out my notebook and pen and began to write. Knowing that starting out with a lofty goal after such a long hiatus would only generate writer’s block, I allowed myself to just describe whatever flitted across my mind.
I found myself sketching out with words a woman who was anxiously waiting. I saw her adrenaline-fueled movements and listened in on her erratic, bipolar thoughts. The waiting period made her imagination go wild, to her own detriment. She could no longer decipher truth from paranoia, and it didn’t much matter anyways since it was all conjecture.
Ironically, I found myself in the same situation today. Waiting. Agonizingly, with all sorts of monsters racing around my brain unbridled. The trouble is, any of them could have truth to them, but I must wait to find out which one will be reality.
I hate waiting, but I hate uncertainty even more than waiting. I’m forced to contend with both, driven to uncharacteristic distraction. Please, God, I pray. Please, just let the waiting end.
Yet I wait, the control completely out of my hands and the call to trust, trust, trust ringing in my ears.
I know these depths
I’ve plumbed them over and over
seeping into my pores
Toxic, but comfortable there
Sometimes I’ll find buoyancy, start to rise to the top
It’s warmer there
But slinky tendrils from the depths entwine my ankles
Toes squish in mud
Black tendrils squeeze harder
And I’m stuck
Wrote a poem yesterday…it wasn’t any good, but I’ve had a maddening itch to write the past few weeks, the kind of itch that can’t be willed away but must be scratched.
It felt good to put pen to paper again, even if I didn’t like the dirty water spitting from the rusty faucet. But no matter. You can’t get to the clear water without getting out the dirty water first!
Here’s hoping 2013 will be year gushing with writing!
Writer’s Digest poetry prompt: For today’s prompt, write a memory poem. The poem could be about a personal memory, someone else’s memory, or even play with the fact that some people lose memories. Just remember to write a poem.
Blurred around the edges
Hazy, detached at first
Something sharp brings everything into focus
The knife finds the same wound,
but plunges a bit deeper with the recall
Over and over
Twisting the blade
“Let it go”
Cleanse the wound, rinse out the infection
Bandage it up
The scar tissue will be thick, resilient
Just another lesson learned, another tortured memory repaired
Poem prompt from Writer’s Digest: Write an appointment poem. It could be an doctor, dentist, literary agent, etc appointment.
A little early
Flip through a magazine, restless leg syndrome
Glance at the clock for the tenth time this minute
Waiting is the hardest part
I have an appointment with Hopes and Dreams
They seem to be running behind
But I came all this way — there’s too much traffic to wade through if I turn around now
Hand me another magazine