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library

Sometimes the words don’t come. Other times there are too many.

I write three sentences,
skip a line,
start again.

Nothing sounds right.
What is it I’m trying to say?

I need to start over.
I need to clear my head.

I’m up to a thousand words
none of them right,
but I don’t want to toss any,
in case there’s something there.

I need to answer directly,
quickly even.
What’s my answer,
if I was asked in person,
in natural conversation,
over coffee?

In the library children’s department,
where the shelves are low,
where people can reach,
I am reminded:
Keep it simple.
Just say it.

Why do I forget this? I’m sure if it hadn’t been for the girl in Panera, I’d have it done by now. Yes, let’s find someone to blame. :-)

empty Panera
A peek at my dark side…

BETWEEN SEMESTERS at OSU, the Panera on High Street is empty early morning. Lucky day for me! I have my pick of tables.

I’ve dropped Wally to visit with a fellow CLL-er and come with my laptop to wrestle with a writing challenge. It’s a toughie.

I get myself set up – everything positioned just right on the table. You know what I mean.

In comes a college-age girl, alone, but talking her head off and wearing earphones, apparently carrying on a conversation with someone somewhere. She looks across the restaurant, then chooses the table CLOSEST to me and sits in the chair FACING me, talking virtually nonstop while eating a breakfast sandwich (which is not a pretty sight).

In this moment, I sense I am turning crabby. (This is the dark side I referred to.)

The BIG Question: WHY does it take a full 15 minutes of wondering why in the world she didn’t sit somewhere else before it dawns on me I can move? I mean, really people, sometimes it’s just that easy.

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A spontaneous date on Saturday! Very last-minute. No chance for me to list 2 dozen reasons I can’t go. :-)

On the Hidden Places, Secret Spaces tour
we follow the masking-tape arrows
and discover a 3rd-floor ballroom
in a 1902 building
with so many steps
you wonder how women
climbed up there in ball gowns.

There’s a mural in progress,
plenty of cracked plaster
and a postcard-worthy view.

3rd floor ball room

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mural in progress

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Down the block
we descend steps so rickety
only 2 people are allowed
at one time.
In the basement
a costumed tour guide
tells tales of the brick
as well as
the dress she made herself
from 8 yards of satin taffeta.

brick basement

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Way in the back of The Cook’s Shop,
beyond the kitchen classroom,
is a courtyard garden,
invisible from the alley
and buildings on either side.

Cook's Shop

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And from the penthouse patio
of the historic hotel
there’s view of charming view of downtown
and the river.

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tickets

Snippets

chives

THE CHIVES are holding forth.

I learned Donald Miller keeps pretty much the same schedule as me and, for some reason, I feel affirmed. A day’s writing begins the night before.

I’m feeling dramatic, like I could walk around all day talking like Katherine Hepburn.

I’m throwing out all my old nail polishes and using only Butter London Foundation and Hardwear top coat. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not throwing out all my old anything. :-)

Some items on my to-do list have been there over a year. Some, over two.

I might try to talk my friend who is coming over in half-an-hour for a bike ride OUT of the bike ride and into just sitting around with a couple of iced teas and chatting. But if she seems keen on the bike ride, I’ll go along.

The best exercise for the writing muscle is an ordinary letter.

Good leftovers rock.

I added some orange to the play garden, just to spice things up.

I added some orange to the play garden, just to spice things up.

AN UPDATE on the shade garden, a reminder that even in places where people say nothing will grow, things can happen. Never give up.

2010

2010

the shade garden in 2013

2013

Image

THERE’s A STORY BUSTING to be told, but I’m not exactly sure yet what it is. Maybe it’s what I’m already writing, daily, in 1,000-word installments. Not here of course, And maybe never here. Maybe this isn’t the venue at all. I don’t know yet.

But a number of you have asked where I’ve gone. You’ve caught glimpses of me in the comments section of others’ blogs, and ask, why am I never at home when you come calling? The same post has been hanging on my home page for over a month.

Thank you for noticing and for caring enough to ask. Am I not encircled by the coolest group of friends, scattered all around and yet very near? I am!

I’m here. Watching, waiting, writing. Keeping all my counseling appointments. And mining for gold, a box of Cheezits never too far out of reach. (Tsk, tsk.)

Keep blogging, friends. I’m reading. And thanks for the emails. I read every single one.

Marilyn

Forgiveness

HOW DO YOU KNOW when you’ve forgiven someone?” was the question that started it. An hour later we were still looking for the answer.

It was 1998. We sat at a high table at the back of the old Bridgewater Cafe, ate salads and discussed forgiveness.

Then we went our separate ways.

When we met again a year later, it was the same thing. And the year after that, too. No matter where our conversations began, they always wound around to the topic of forgiveness – what it looks like, how you know you’ve truly forgiven, stuff like that.

We kept hashing it out. Maybe it’s one of the reasons we’re friends. We like big, philosophical discussions. But it wasn’t all philosophical. We each had a forgiveness issue that was personal, one that, if we didn’t desperately and persistently pursue true forgiveness, to not only understand it but also appropriate it, it would swallow us alive . . . because unforgiveness will do just that.

So many questions: Must I pretend nothing ever happened? Where are the boundary lines? If I set boundaries, does that mean I haven’t forgiven the person?

Life kept providing new opportunities to test our theories, so each year we’d be back together, comparing notes.

* * *

I FIND MYSELF NOW in the mother of all forgiveness challenges.
The list is long.
Life is short.
And the old head sessions with my friend keep coming back.

I don’t plan to carry a bag of rocks around the rest of my life. I’m making progress, but this is no he-stole-my-pencil-oh-here’s-another situation.

Escape appeals to me, so I go looking to see when the next Writers Retreat is. It’s been too long since I fell in a river. :-) While scrolling, something else pops out at me:

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Count. Us. In. Here’s why:

  • Because, even after all these years, I’m still chasing this forgiveness thing down.
  • Because thinking there’s some other path out of pain is a myth too many of us believe.
  • Because calling yourself a Christian and choosing not to pursue forgiveness are two things that don’t go together.
  • Because, if I don’t, I’ll never be able to say again The Lord’s Prayer.

“…forgive us our debts,
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
-Matthew 6:12

Forgiveness is something worth pursuing, worth figuring out, even if it takes a lifetime, Even if I fail at it, I want at least to be known as someone who went after it.

- If you like this post, please share it somewhere.-

 

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Related posts:

How It Starts

Unsure I Can Make it Through Another Storm

We’re Talking about it, Just Not One Day a Week

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