comfort – Accepting This

Twelve Years

For twelve years the sun has risen
and the sun has set
there have been twelve hot green summers
turned into crisp and colorful autumns,
For twelve years we have gone forward
wanting to be where you have been

My fear, if left unattended
turns into a frigid tightness in my chest
I lay in bed pushing away thoughts of loss,
I can’t bring myself to believe in the false security
of his breath rising and falling next to me
I shut my eyes tight
but I can’t shake the feeling
that all good things are ending
that someday I might wake up
and later that day, have to fall asleep
with out him beside me

My dread, if not bolted down by hope
will come in the form of irritability
will settle in like a blanket of sorrow
an unwelcome uneasiness, lining the thought of tomorrow

My anxiety, turns from a raging ocean
into a steady bay
Sometimes the wind picks up,
but it won’t be long until I’m calm again

I have not been left in the casket of my fear, dread, or anxiety
Just like you have been given more life than I have ever known
the same God that has made you immortal,
removes the sting of death from me

I move through life with the thought of heaven
anchoring my heart and breathing peace into every part of me
If one believes that we don’t go on living,
then what would the purpose of these years, like mist, be?

My fear is not stamped out by worldly remedies,
it is healed by the design of a God who sent a savior to die for me
My dread and dissatisfaction only exist when I lose focus of His
grace and prominence
How humbled I become,
when I acknowledge my quickness to forget
that this world is only a shadow
and He has called me out of denial

I do not want to lose any more of the people that I love,
but how wonderful to rest in the assurance that those who have gone
are not actually lost
The world might label this faith as the loss of freedom
but I would argue to say that this is freedom at the core
to no longer be controlled by my fear of death,
to no longer rot in the depth of my selfishness,
to no longer allow sadness to consume my joy
to live in the liberty of a redeemed existence
followed by life eternal,
where there is no more death
or mourning, crying, or pain

There is no time to be wasted,
no time to hold onto bitterness or self-righteousness,
no time to ignore the way that rust eats and bodies age
There is beauty in everything if we submit,
but there is only pain if we reject
This life is just the in between
the race preparing us for the next

Twelve years are like a fleeting memory in comparison to eternity
twelve years, half of my lifetime at this moment
and I am not guaranteed one more day
Let the fragility of this life lead us to cling to the author of salvation,
let it guide us to love like there is no act of greater importance

The loss of you, revealed the greatest truth:
What is seen is temporary
What is unseen is eternal

Warm

He woke up before me,
and I laid in bed with my eyes still closed
listening to the shower turn on
and the autumn wind rustling the trees
the bed still warm from where he slept

I woke up early this morning,
and when I climbed out of bed it was like a small celebration,
a little success, because I so often fail instead
He was already putting his socks on
but he smiled at me when I claimed my accomplishment

I made him breakfast,
as he shuffled around our apartment
still dim from the night before,
I thought of how many times I’ve missed this moment
because of my commitment to sleep and the warmth
of the covers, keeping me safe

Safety is false,
there is always room for fear
yet I still feel safe
and sad for those who fall asleep with out,
and wake up with out,
the feeling of safety

I walked him to his car,
carrying a bowl of eggs and potatoes
and a small bit of coffee, because he left the rest for me
the air is cold all of the sudden,
the leaves are turning orange and red
another summer has faded
and the familiarity of October sets in

The light in our apartment
turned from dull to a bright contrast
the sun shining on the wall,
shadows broken up by our plants

Warm is the feeling of missing him when he is gone,
but trusting that he will be back
Warm is the joy that rests deep within me,
the absence of the depression that once consumed me
Warm is the thought of my family,
the simplicity of loving selflessly

Our apartment is still and
quiet this morning
chairs and bookshelves grounded,
frames secured to the walls
but as the wind drifts in through our open sliding door
chaos exists outside and in the rest of the world,
the warmth within me is what I will hold on to,
to have the capacity to persist in the cold

My prayers are steady and specific,
I begin with thankfulness and move on to repentance
I proclaim my pleas and then I yield to you
I long for the chance to give the warmth I have
to someone who has never felt it,
or to someone who has lost it

The comfort you have given me
is not mine to keep
I trust that you will provide
the warmth that they, too, need
and if you would,
let me be your hands and your feet

Old Has Gone

It is in the sweet moments of peace,
the swift glances of understanding,
the comfortable silence

It is in the slow mornings,
the continuous car rides,
the cups of hot coffee

It is in the smallness of this too large life
that I’m caught up in the awe of you
and the gratitude of knowing that you are for me always

It is in the change and complexity of this newness,
the melancholy movement of time,
the habits that are forming and the ones we’re trying to let go

It is in the subtle suggestions,
the casual reassurances,
the new notions and knowledge

It is in the consecutive days spent by your side
that I can dream of a whole life defined by goodness
and my past guilts and preconceptions slip into oblivion
and all of who I am is known by you, loved by you

This is a new kind of freedom, one that I thought impossible
this is a different kind of being, one that is aware but not condemned
and as the days go on in mundanity, or the years pass through us like a mist
my soul is solidified in the symbolism of this affection
The old has gone, the new is here

Wading

Listen to this while reading

My words are like honey,
they stick to my teeth, to my fingertips
They sink to the bottom of a glass,
get gulped up in the quickness of drinking
the speed of everything

I don’t want to wait to do something better,
don’t want to hang in time and comfort like
I am unaware of reality

I’m getting to know winter in a new kind of way,
not so sorrowful anymore, not so heavy
My depression has become nostalgic in a way,
hints of it rise up when something reminds me of it
I told him the other day that I feel guilty for being content,
and then I remember when contentment was my most frequent emotion to envy

Constantly peeling off my human tendencies, my tendency to feel unworthy
to feel anxious, to feel unwanted, to be self-destructive, to be abrasive
My tendency to slink into fear, to become irritable, to distrust and to complain

I’ve made a sincere attempt to maintain happiness, but I can promise you any bit of joy I know is divine intervention

I’m developing a theory surrounding hardship,
one that is often spoken of but hardly acknowledged
Something like each moment of pain makes you more relatable, if you let it
each broken up circumstance makes you more glad in the whole parts
but only if you hand them all over, the pains and the breaks, and the inexplicable times

I wish that we would speak of our imperfections more often,
but not in the effort to receive pity
not in that self-deprecating kind of way,
no… maybe we could just speak of the ways we are lacking
to realize that we truly are
and to be open to the possibility that we will never be perfected
despite our trials and triumphs
And in this imperfection I rest,
because there You are in my weakness

I want to no longer want
I want my desires to vanish and reappear as selflessness
For my longings to dissolve and to be aware of
real, true needs
To be aware of each person as a soul, a body and a mind
to allow my convictions to settle like dust on my organs
brushing against me so I do not forget

Do not forget that these days are fading
that these times are fleeting
that these thoughts are washing and wading back
into an ocean of your being

Drenched Again

There are remnants of you
in everything I do
like moisture in a bathtub
dried up only to get drenched again

and you, there are small cracks in my mind
and you pry at them until they become gaping,
welcoming yourself into what was once stable
and satisfied, and before I know it I’m bent out of shape again

curved where there was a right angle,
I had that thought perfectly squared away
but the surrounding of chaotic commitment is like
a siren, warning that all the safe places I’ve
built up will soon become unoccupied
_

Terrible is a word that I think of often,
I like the way it sounds for some odd reason
when I hear that something Terrible is going on
I will say it to myself: “Tare-eh-bul”
and I will bow down at its heftiness
because although I like the way it sounds
I know its weight has unbearable consequence
_

I can claim a grander peace,
and an overwhelming freedom
but what I’m still working on is getting
you, and you, and that and this
gone from my head and replaced with silence

I crave the quiet, the way it melts into a tangible
presence in between the bones in my head
Not the quiet that lets my thoughts ring louder
but the quiet that gently crawls right underneath your
cheekbones and beneath the bridge of your nose
To let a stillness raise a calm cure to the anxious
_

So, tell me of the house you grew up in
so I know that I won’t forget mine
Read the last words someone sent to you aloud
so I know that we’re not all wandering in a mirage of people
Write to me the way the scent of the morning smelled
so I can remember what it was like
to wake early and live forwardly

Caught in motion, solely to realize I’ve never stopped,
times of ultimate surrender happen on a daily basis
so can I claim that I have surrendered at all?
Continually letting go of claims that I swore
I dismissed and one day I will sit in the quiet
and I will remember the noise, and maybe I’ll think
fondly of the times that you, and you
And this and that were on my mind and
my soul stretches across thin paper and
sopping bathtubs,
only to be dried up and then drenched again