Stop Shopping

            It’s hard to stop hunting for couches.

            Daily visits to the Skagit Valley, Seattle, and Bellingham Craigslist pages have been part of my routine for so long that I’m adrift without any furniture to look for.  I dreamed of and searched for reclining loveseats and small sectionals with a chaise lounge.   But in the end, I ended up with a floral couch from Habitat.

            Had my budget been unlimited, I would have gone microfiber.  But practicality won, and I finally saw a couch I could live with at a price I could afford. 

            I do not like the word “covetous,” and, naturally, do not wish to consider myself in that light.  Yet the months of searches tell me how easy it is to derive meaning from wanting.  All along you think that if you can just find the perfect item, you will be satisfied.  And then, finally, you find it (or a reasonable substitute) . . . and then there is a blank space where the endless searching or shopping used to be. 

            Instead of browsing Craigslist, I want to delve deeper into what truly satisfies:  relationship with God through Christ.  But it is harder to lay aside the looking and the coveting than I thought.  There are more idols and more cover-ups, more ways of escape than I had realized.  The only way in is through discipline, not nearly so appealing as soul-numbing-shopping but infinitely more rewarding.

Quake

The beauty of a blog . . . or maybe it is the beauty of getting older . . . is feeling free to post what I write and taking the chance of it being really awful when I hope it is really wonderful.  My solace lies in the fact that my writing--whether awful or wonderful or simply mediocre--is, at least, honest.  

Earlier this month an earthquake metaphor came to mind.  I began writing a poem which started rhyming all by itself, so I continued to rhyme it, and this was the result.

 

Shame shakes,

Rattles and breaks

Sin-sick self to very core.

Supports shift,

Slide and drift,

Move to rifts from molten ore.

Broken self—

The former shelf—

Cracks until it cries no more.

After-quakes

Make bloody lakes

That rise within, a silent roar.

Bitterness builds

Foments and melds

A killing brew, a bubbling gore.

Who can take

All our mistakes,

The evil oozing from every pore?

Jesus died,

Was crucified,

And rose to defeat old Satan’s lore.

Now sin’s quakes

And old self breaks

Can, redeemed, to Heaven soar.

Transformation

            For over 75 years it served its purpose well.  It saw its share of spills and heard its share of mealtime laughter.  Its scarred and scratched surface endured many changes, including an application of windmill-studded contact paper thirty years ago.  The orange paint job dates back to 1970.

            We could invest in its restoration, and perhaps someday we will.  Underneath the contact paper and layers of different-colored paint is pine, not particle board.  It would be wonderful to see the grain of the wood that Grandpa saw as he assembled the kitchen table kit from Sears.

            However, despite its convenient drawers, the piece is definitely an eyesore in its current state.  My brother had the best idea:  put it—both sides folded down--at the end of the counter and cover it with something. 

            I found that something in the china cabinet yesterday—actually, two somethings.  A dark cinnamon-brown linen tablecloth provides the bottom layer.  A white starched square with finely crocheted concentric borders, likely crafted by my great-grandmother, provides the top layer.  Topping the center is a lovely ceramic tile with a leaf imprint.  The end result is a breathtaking bit of beauty at the entrance to the kitchen.

            What I did not know until I was finished was that our battered old kitchen table would now present itself as an altar. 

My Muse is Gone

            Brushing my teeth just before ten p.m., I suddenly know why I have written so little over the past two weeks.  My muse is gone.

            For close to four years, I have written about Mom.  My whole life has centered around her:  anticipating her needs, regulating my schedule around hers, taking care of her, and simply being around.  Now, instead of spending most waking hours in her presence, I spend most waking hours in her absence.

            It is snowing now (after ten p.m. on March 5):  big fluffy flakes that stick.  I see the white on the back porch.  I sit at the computer, purring cat on my lap.  I’ve clomped down the hallway several times, not worrying about the racket my clogs make on the laminate floors.  Mom’s empty, dark room sits across the hall waiting for me to fill it with furniture. 

            Today was the best visit yet.  She wanted to sit out in the commons area on the sofa right next to me.  There we sat, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the courtyard and carrying on our conversation.  I talked about flute choir.  She wondered if it would bother anyone if she played the piano.  I reminisced about stray childhood incidents:  my sister scolding me for telling a classmate how old Mom was, how we confidently spent an afternoon digging a hole in the hopes of making our own swimming pool, the time Penny Perry and I planned to be like Mary Poppins and float down from the second-story roof down to the ground.  (Fortunately, we first tried jumping off the porch, umbrellas in hand.  It was a big surprise how hard we hit the ground.)

            For a good thirty minutes, Mom and I sat and talked.  She asked how long it had been since she had a “furlough” at home.  She said that the other “inmates” are brainless, but the food is good.  She asked what month it was.  She remarked that she wishes she knew what to do about her memory.  She was pleasantly surprised when I told her that John had taken her to lunch yesterday and that I had been by later that afternoon.

            I think it is safe to say that Mom wishes that each day’s events would stick in her memory just like the snow is sticking to the porch.  However, snow eventually melts, and Mom’s memory melts almost before it accumulates.  I guess it is the absence of accumulation that I have been writing about.

February's Miscellaneous Verse

No Couches

No couches and white blouses today

but a satisfying search in Senior Thrift

yielding pink bucket, pink basket, soft cotton,

 light pine shelf with two drawers.

Glory sun over blue Sound waters greets my exit,

Cold riffling breeze . . . contentment.

 Firstborn

The Anne-before-she-died would be gratified to know

that Mom’s last week at home included

questions about how she died,

the two-years-later statement from our befuddled mother:

“I still miss her.”

 Evergreen

Majestic firs rise mute

against clear blue sky sparkled with sun.

Silent beauty:  branches lift by breeze.

I sense the spiritual frequency of worship,

glory shouted by tipped Northwest Pines,

all evergreen joined in everlasting praise to Creator-God, the Three-In-One.