~ 10pm ~

 

Source

For my cheerleader, my confidant and the only person who keeps me sane some days.

This is a old poem, and still just as relevant today.

Cigars and cider help the words flow

Easy from my mouth to his

We draw in fast, let out slow –

Drink the smoke to breathe the fire

And we’ll ask the gods what they require.

I lean back and grasp the air

Watch it passing though my hand

As fleeting as a teenage care

We are no Romeo and Juliet –

Yet it feels like us against each threat.

He talks of travel, I of pain

We both want to run away

“Would you ever try cocaine?”

Then he relights, puffs into the flame

The ash at our feet like our family name.

Our child rests and so do we

Awake, sleeping on our own

Wishing for times always this carefree

“I can’t stand any people, except you –

Because you are me, through and through.”

He leans in close to tell another’s joke –

Knowing we are the punch line –

I laugh, like a dragon puffing smoke.

“Don’t be bitter darling, they don’t know what they say –

‘Live quiet, do well’, and now, pass me the ashtray.”

Swan Song

 

Source

One woman tried to cut her wrists -

She hid it from the gossips and they said 

Goodbye - there's not been enough dinners 

for us to stay -

You must pay for our friendship with your bread.

One man camps at night in the pouring rain

He wants to save a few more dollars today 

But when he gets home, he hears how they

told his wife how he -

Spends all his time away on drink and play.

Look at the swan, gliding there

Every graceful, ever fair

She sits serene on a sea of glass -

But underneath, the feet are paddling fast.

One woman had a friend, dark and disturbed 

And the darkness could not bear to gaze upon the light 

So she told her she was ugly, broken and unformed, tore

her down until -

That once shining beauty disappeared into the night.

One man has a wife who dies a little every day

He carries the weight of both their worlds forever 

And others watch and wait and say that he's too sombre

for them to ever agree -

Never knowing he's given up praying for her to be set free.

Look at the swan, gliding there

Every graceful, ever fair

She sits serene on a sea of glass -

But underneath, the feet are paddling fast.

'But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.' 

James 3:8

Dried Bean Christianity (and why I am not a fan)

 

Source

Invariably, as we enter the Christmas season, a specimen of holy sanctification will loam mightily upon the horizon. Karen, resplendent in her ankle length denim skirt and thrice-year-washed hair stands triumphant before us, a warm and ever-so-slightly condescending smile appearing upon her face as she, beholding the tree in the lounge room and (horror!) the wrapped presents underneath (bonus 12 victory points to the devil if you've used holly or mistletoe to decorate), unloads a barrage of reasons why she, (as someone who only exists to please God and who has studied His word extensively) does not celebrate Christmas, but instead, chooses to spend the day on quiet contemplation and private prayer. We listen, smile and nod, and feel guilty that we, carnal sinners that we are, were so very eager to taste the eggnog and pop crackers around the table with family, when God would be clearly more honoured by this more sparce take on holiness. Perhaps we remove a few presents from under the tree and then tell Aunt Mary that no, we won't be bringing a dessert to Christmas lunch after all. Karen is mollified by this, and so we feel better. Then we see the empty places where our gifts have been, and the (less) empty stomachs where our dessert was meant to go and we feel guilty again. Year after year, this cycle continues, until we are just about ready to throw the towel in and refuse to celebrate anything, ever again. "Come to church!" we petition strangers on street corners. "We eat dry beans in the corners of empty rooms and God makes us like it! It's a blast - you don't know what you're missing out on!" Unfortunately for us, the unrengerate pagan is not as big a fool as we would require, and with a belly full of fornication, fat and feasting, it would be a mighty fool indeed who trades such immediate pleasures for the promise of 'perfect heavenly happiness and utter earthly misery.' 

 I am not arguing here about which festivals, celebrations or enjoyable occasions a Christian should or should not celebrate. That would be silly. God gives us each a conscience and the ability of exercise it. Some of us have a guilty conscience if we partake in anything enjoyable, and that is a stumbling block to which we much pay particular care, while others of us could blow a house deposit on deep fat fryers and firecrackers and then act indignant when the fun police choose to pass out a warning. Each of us has a temptation to fall off a narrow path with deep ditches either side. But I have observed a strange phenomena in my short years as a foolish, frail and female christian (this is a list of reasons why you, a superior Christian, can forgive my offensive opinions) - that those who refuse to celebrate anything not explicitly mentioned in the Bible (Jesus drinking wine doesn't count, He was just trying to show grace to those around Him *wink*) are by far the most bitter, joyless and un-spiritual religious monstrosities that I have ever come across. 

 When I look at my own life and the blessings that God has poured like whipping cream all across my history, I am struck by a dangerous truth - that a blessing only multiplies if I choose to use it. What kind of          Christian would I be, if when a gracious Father gives me eggs, I choose to hide them under a basket rather than making a cake to share with my friends and family? (Because a cake has sugar and sugar is evil, and ancient societies made cakes to offer up to their demon infested totem pole mayan statues. Make quiche. Quiche is acceptable Christian food.) When I look upon a celebration of light and grace being poured out upon an undeserving and uncaring world, and all I can do is mourn the fact that all this celebration takes away from the 'reason for the season' then that says far more about the fragile state of my own spiritual journey than anyone else's. Year after year, I hear the horror stories from those who grew up in an un-feasting, un-celebrating home. 'Trauma', they call it. Now they burn sage and recharge crystals to feel the warmth that God never showed them. They never felt the velvet slick of fresh rolled gingerbread under their skin, never cut down a fir tree like St Boniface, never stayed up late on Christmas Eve to finish a handmade gift, never set the table with gold and silver for a family feast, never felt the giddy rush of joy when another gave so that they could have. Their experience was a list of 'cannot's rather than a list of 'by the grace of God, we can.'  

 When God walked this earth in human form, He attended the weddings (heck, He dished out the wine!), He joined in all the traditional feasts and celebrations that were part of His cultural calendar - feasts and celebrations occurred so God's people could gather together and celebrate the wonderful things that He had done, and which probably were not celebrated on the exact day that they historically occurred.

 I think it's telling that in the garden of Eden, it was a world of 'yes' and a single tree of 'no'. And before someone objects, remember that God is a perfect Father. And by His Grace, and His covenant, He is ours! Why wouldn't we want to model Him, perfect in all abundance, overflowing with grace, goodness, warmth and gifts that we do not deserve? 

 So this is my request, this Christmas season. Regardless of whether you choose to celebrate or not (frankly, my dear, I don't give a - ), do not begrudge those who choose to give of themselves to bless others. Strange as it may seem, some of us like presents, candy canes and fairy lights. If you are the weaker brother who cannot touch the meat that you think may have been sacrificed to idols, that's fine. But for the love of God (and I mean this with all honesty and goodwill) take those dry little beans of miserly holiness, grind them up, run warm water through, add a dash of cream, and drink and be amazed at the abundance of a generous Father. Taste and see that the Lord is good.

To Flounder {an investigation}

Via Pinterest

 I sip long and hard from the stained coffee mug before me. I think I'm on my third cup now, but the tension between my eyebrows is only growing thicker, and I feel lightheaded whenever I stand. I'm tired. My eight month old doesn't believe in sleeping long stretches during the night and my body clock doesn't believe in falling asleep any time before 11pm (a completely trainable fault on my part), so I medicate with strong coffee and a myriad of pills from a side shelf in my kitchen. "It's a balanced diet," I tell myself and down a token silverbeet leaf. 

 Outside, the ground is damp and cloying, the earth sticking to my boots like a persistent lover whenever I head across the yard. Clumps of grass seem to slip away from its surface, creating unsightly divots, and, quickly forgetting the sweat-ridden mowing that seemed to last all day, I longingly remember the smooth, green surfaces of Spring and Summer. The sun seems as reluctant as I myself to venture into this sleepy, cold world. Day after day he barely peaks over the hill, often shrouded in mist and more often than not, extremely lacklustre in warmth. Thanks to him, my seasonal depression is in full swing, and I swallow four times the recommended dose of vitamin D in the hope that this might provide a mental bandaid until the days begin to lengthen. I'm not sure it it helps or not, but I google 'Aztec sun worship' and 'solar powered t-shirt' to make myself feel better.

 It's tough to deal with exhaustion when your burnout is the birth child of blessing. I sit in the seat of incredible opportunity, but I also feel responsible for the most mundane and stupid of tasks. I take each scarred divot in my lawn as a mental neck twitch, each dirty paw print on the carpet as an itching scab - how much more do I feel that I sink under the weight of goats, beehives, horses, large vegetable gardens and two persistent, small children? And yet, through it all, I know that I am blessed. Maybe that blessing sends me deep under the bedsheets at 4pm, damp and salty while my three year old brings himself and his sandpit toys to join me, but that blessing, which feels like it dives under the covers for a moment's respite through the dark months of winter, will surely emerge - like me - hopeful after a floundering respite. 

~ Futile ~ Poem

 

Why do I still stand before this mirror
And strive thus to cleanse my soul 
My eye, impatient, shall not see it clearer 
For all my fret and weary toil.

Inward, I cower and faint in heart
Yet somehow appear as valient as indeed,
I so surely shall shake apart 
As with my wounded mind I plead.

Inward still, I must seek to find
Some virtue hidden in mortal mire
An unmined gem burried deep in mind
Yet all is but coal for my pyre.

-S.K. Downes

~ Chrysalis ~

Too small the cocoon for space -

Too tight the web eternal

Was held across the face

This frame the husk, soon to fall -

This blighted soul the kernel.

Felt as I have the wings beating 

Incessantly from the inside

And broken, have I been entreating -

To see in the mirror, face to face,

To see the likeness amplified.

Let this stunted soul be swallowed

With all that is good and wise

My earthly body spent and hollowed -

Let a pair of soaring Monarch wings

Be this caterpillar’s prize.

1 Corinthians 13:12

2 Corinthians 5:17

~ Infertile Ground ~

Source

This world is like a murky wood

Its men all tall, tenacious trees

While women flower into fragrant buds

Flocked in virtues like a cloud of bees.

But once clear paths are overgrown

By many a rooting root

Once bright meadows slumber dull -

The song and sun now cold and mute.

The trees that spring twist and stoop

No more to stand for a thousand years

And at their side, no flowers bloom -

Only tawdry thistles flourish here.

Tightrope

Feet treading mute on thin will

I fell, and hit the net below –

To dance that dance, my ledger nill

For my pain – no gain to show.

They told me the ropes constrained me

They said it was Lucifer who fell

Called blind so as not see –

Fear as running blood within their shell.

Weighty their yoke upon my head

To tread that tightrope of time

Equal parts both joy and dead –

A marionette of the strings of mime.

Let your feet still limp on single strands

I will traverse the sky on a net of stars

My feet will tread through promised lands

My freedom bound in a rope burn’s scars.

Lucifer fell because he was proud

Too proud to tread the firmament below

And you – too cowed, you follow the crowd

Too proud – their threads your status quo.

I fell so that the noose slipped away

Tightropes – they turn us to prey

But heaven forbid I speak words true –
Lucifer is holding the strings that bind you.

SK Downes 

The Returning of a Child

Source

The Returning of a Child

The old man sat alone by hearth, hunched toward the ground,

While his voice softly rumbled and his forehead deep and frowned

"Where are all the children? Why don't they come and see?

I've been all alone for years- what has become of me?"

"For I know I am a simple man, but still I would have thought

That an old man is a father, and a father's love is wrought

Through years and tears of guidance, and is not turned away

By an easily made decision - 'Oh, we'll go another day.' "

"I know I love this country and they have moved far on

The city, it has called them, and now I am forlorn

They've traded in their bushman's blood and it has served them well

But still I wish they'd ride these tracks and help me trees to fell."

But on the fire crackled, and no one did reply

Only the old sheepdog raised its head and gave a sigh

And the wind, it howled harshly and rattled through the pane

While the old man kept on sitting and the clouds began to rain.

The hours ticked by slowly, and hope began to fade

So the old man rose up slowly and on the pillow his head laid

"Lord, if you be listening, please send one home tonight

I've never asked you much - I beg, look upon my plight."

It wasn't till the morning when the cock began to crow

That hoof prints quickly thudded and packed the falling snow

And through the morning glow, a horse came into sight

Carrying a man, crouched in the morning light.

Bleary-eyed and weary, the man now struggled down

Dressed in garb and grime of a man about the town,

And as he thudded on the door, hope showed on his face

And when the father opened it, the son began his piece.

"Father, please don't spurn me, I know I don't deserve

You to help me out, I know I've got a nerve,

But you see, I've lost the business and I've nowhere else to go

You are my last hope; help me though my woe.

I don't wish for charity, I know you've none to give,

But I ask to live with you, the way we used to live

I know it's been a long time since I've worked this land,

But heart to heart I'm like you - I bear the bushman's brand.

But the old man did not listen, to the speech so carefully planned,

He pulled the boy toward him in his strong and gnarled hands, 

And as his son stood hesitant, unsure to stay or fly,

His father pulled him closer, and then began to cry.

"My boy, how long I've waited to hear you say those words!

Wishing, praying, hoping as I rode among my herds.

'I do not ask for charity'! I am your father, son!

You know I'll always care for you, no matter what you've done.

Your mother is not here but this is your childhood home,

And always will remain so, though the city you did rome.

It was my greatest dream, that we be reconciled

I have always wished to see the returning of a child."

And so they stood together, locked in an embrace

As tears of joy and happiness washed the toil from each face

Two bushmen reunited, a father and a son,

A child returned home, and a new beginning won.

Sarah Downes

5/10/16

I have learnt

Source

I have learnt so much this year. Now I know the why and what and when of what I never needed to know, as well as the deepest hidden secrets of the world that every human being should have to chance to understand. 

How the colours of the wind are written in the sound of silent words as people hold deep conversations without even saying a word.

Why eyes really are the windows to the souls.

What it means to be finally complete after years of unawareness as to who you really were, who you really could be when you thought yourself complete.

How a whisper to the ear can be the lifeblood of a thousand humming heart-beats.

What it means to read for pain and not for pleasure except the pleasure of saying that you know what you never needed to know.

Why people think that they really matter when we all know they are only kidding themselves into a sense having to belong, somewhere, somehow.

That often life catches you in the middle of a epic plot twist and throws you in the air and then catches you, giddy and breathless on the way down, while you try to understand how and why and where.

I have learnt what it means to take control of what you decide with your life, while still remaining within the boundaries of commitment.

That to be a lover of people does not mean that you have to love people themselves, do not have to condone the wilful stupidity that they drown themselves in. You only have to understand why, or at least try to.

Why children make a house dirty and a home sing.

How it is possible to have a thousand memories carried on the single scent of a long reaching dream that has come true on your doorstep.

How to cry in silence when your feet are ripped out from under you and you still have to go on, press onward on your bleeding stumps of self doubt, while the smile plasters onto your face until it becomes your true expression.

I have seen the fire, held the hands, cried the tears and beamed the smiles.

I have lived this year.

The Man on the Bus

Source

I can't help but stare. As I wait in line for my bus, he shuffled past and asks the lady first in line if she minds if he cuts in. She nods ok, and he gratefully positions himself in front, his vivid blue hair peeping out from under his greasy cap. Like ancient leather, his face tells the tale of a harsh life tainted by constant drug use, while self-neglect and anger are written in the hollows of his cheeks and a scraggly beard tufting out from his chin is a sharp contrast to the Bahamas blue on his head. He looks like the kind of man who wanders the streets, muttering to himself while greedily burning tax payer's wages into cigarette smoke. I quickly turn my eyes away, as feelings of pity and slight horror rush over me, but mostly because I remember that day when I was a tender child on the way home from church. Out of my car window, I watched two policemen struggle to pull a man across the hot tarmac towards the station, his wiry arms shackled behind his back. A child never forgets their first brush with the cruelness of the real world, and the drug-torn figure in front of me is an uncomfortable reminder of a memory I thought long crushed into silence.

We board the bus, and I resolve to try and hide myself in a deep corner of carpeted chair, safe in my biases and ink free skin - but fate has other ideas and he is sitting diagonally in front of me. Perfectly in my line of sight. Now, with nothing left but music to play and quiet contemplation, I find my eyes wandering over his strange, dark clothing choices. He really is the epitome of the man that our parents would tell us never to talk to. His skin is tattooed in random places, with the blurred pen of the inexperienced, and his right lower arm is completely encased in a studded leather cuff, while grease and grime seem to be slowly glossing over his pores. If cruelty could be expressed in clothing choices, it would be screaming it's heart out through the leather clad rags he is dressed in and the dark glasses covering his eyes.

The bus pulls off and rumbles down the highway. And every now and then I get a mutter of the complaining rumble of his voice cracking over the volume of my light pop ballades that sing of a world so very different to the earthy reality around me. He's half talking to the bus driver and half talking to himself. At one point, his phone is called by an insurance company trying to market a policy to him, and he spends the next five minutes abusing them to the indiferent  bus driver.

We reach the next town and pull into the stop. Standing at the front of the line is Lucy*, who I see riding the buses all the time. She's obviously stuck with the boundaries of her assumed social class, but always has a smile on her face. Her teeth are narrow yet wide and point slightly out above her lower lip, while her dark blonde blonde hair is unimaginatively styled in its' regular long wispy cut. She drags her comfortable body up the coach stairs and greets the driver cheerfully, before easing her flannel shirted frame into the seat in front of me, right across from the ocean-haired man.

They obviously know one another. He greets her by name and she returns likewise, and I am strangely sorry that I missed his name. Conversation springs up easily between them all, flowing, comfortable. They know how to talk and be friends and care. I switch off my music but keep the headphones in as I absorb every word.

He shows her his new electric guitar which he has been clasping to himself ever since he boarded the bus. It's a surprising shade of red, and they both exclaim over the price, even though he proudly states he was able to find it second hand. He's clearly excited to take it home and place it with his other instruments, and spends a long time elaborating on how it feels to play it, while Lucy listens and admires patiently.

 They ask after one another's health. Like they mean it, but like it is an important everyday factor, making up the small pieces of their lives. There is no point in asking about work, family or holidays, no point in asking about things that they don't have. There's an invisible social compass, constraint, that keeps their questions simply and general. Lucy knows it well. But the ocean haired man begins to stray.

"You never married, did you?" he asks. It's an innocent enough comment, something that has simply arisen in their conversation, a piece of thought debris caught in this section of his mind's river. They were talking about his child and this was the next logical step. But she uncomfortably shakes her head 'no' and does not venture any comment. "Never interested, eh?" he follows up, jumping to conclusions that I as another woman, can immediately tell are wrong by simply looking at the back of her head. Lucy mutters something in agreement, but still doesn't make any effort to start a conversation about this topic. There's a sense of bitterness, longing for something that never happened that is evident through her demeanour, yet he still continues.

"I'm afraid of men."

This jerks me out of my seat and has me on the edge, listening intensely to what he has to add. A man like this? Stained and tattooed and dark and studded and worn? Afraid of other men?

"I've told you what they did to me, didn't I?" he asks Lucy. If she was uncomfortable before, it's nothing compared to now. She almost squirms and looks away.

He clarifies, "...when I was young."

"That's why I dress like this. I dress and act all big and tough so that they leave me alone, but I'm not really like that. I'm like a big, squishy marshmallow inside."

And my heart breaks. A window's opened onto something that I'll never be able to see and understand. His tone is so even, measured, calm. It could have been the most mundane of everyday comments by his tone, and yet those words hold a lifetime of fear, a lost childhood. And my heart breaks that I could judge him.

How could I shrink from him in distain? How could I ever begin to understand what this man has been through, what has brought him to this place. My Saviour ate and talked and laughed with the whores and the tax collectors and the poor. But I could not see past one man's appearance to see beyond, into the soul behind, scarred and broken and harshened by the years.

H and Lucy are talking again. They are on safer ground now, safe within the comfortable, constraining dimensions of what they've always talked about. But when the bus pulls over for me to descend the stairs and open my gate, I resolve never to forget. Never to forget that I learnt about myself and most of humanity that day. Never forget by writing it out, even if it would trickle out as distant memories over the course of several weeks while I juggled life and study. Never forget that I will fail, and fail again. But most of all, never forget what an un-knowing man on a bus taught me that day.

*Names have been changed to protect identity 

Passenger - a poem

Passenger

Rhythmic clicks of wheels on tracks

Beat against a heart of painted black

Un-aware of what it lacks,

Numb in silence, unable to turn back.

Days and worlds flash by them,

A passenger alone in an empty car

No meaning left to condemn,

Their identity lost in a journey far.

A dirty window displays the world,

Locked above in a realm of blazing stars,

Bound away like a sail furled

Far from this hell scented of old cigars.

The journey holds no joy

When the destination is but a nowhere

Now devoid of youthful ploy,

The harsh and bitter end to a brief affair.

So they sit in acceptance,

Silent and sure in their hidden pain,

A passenger in penance,

For there is nothing to lose, nothing to gain.

Written by me very quickly on 16/6/15, as the result of too much Coldplay and half an hour of free time.

Image source: http://farm9.staticflickr.com

Dear one-week Sarah

Source: http://www.hdwallpapersinn.com 

  Congratulations! You made it. Yes, this is university, that paragon of excellence which society has always told you to strive for, and that you thought you would never achieve due to your different education. But that doesn’t matter any more. You are here! And you’re going to be awesome. At least, you think so.

  Truth is, I am a little sorry for you right now. You really don’t know what is coming up in the next three months and it’s going to be a completely different experience for you. Learning in a University environment is going to be almost as far removed from your previous educational experience as it could be, but after a week or so you are going to find it strangely comfortable. It really won’t take you long to feel at home and safe amongst the like-minded individuals surrounding you. But of course that first week will be slightly terrifying, as you navigate a completely new world that includes a large campus, numerous bus trips, and that bewildering sense of simply have no idea of where to go.

  You will learn so much in your quest for knowledge and shared wisdom, but at the same time you will learn plenty that you never needed to know in the first place. You’ll learn that just because someone has a few degrees up their sleeve doesn’t mean that they know how to successfully teach, and that those whom society might pass over for lack of education are actually extremely intelligent and caring. The average level of humanity’s intelligence will unpleasantly surprise you, and you’ll feel slightly betrayed by the amount of those who simply give up after the first couple of weeks. Most painfully, unlike your world of vibrant ideas that still has solid absolutes, you will learn that the masses of humanity around you, for the most part, float in a sea of fluid reality.

  But there’s going to be so much that you will learn practically! Your writing will undergo a major over-hall. You’re going to find out that the colourful, descriptive style you have favoured all your life is not academically suitable, and that will initially make you feel robbed, before you learn to rejoice in the sharing of researched opinions. You’ve always been a highly organized person, but that will have to rise to a whole new level as you enter university life and consequently juggle the demands of family, work and social life. Your understanding of time management will become invaluable as you learn to fit in university study by all kinds of creative means, such as studying in the slow periods at your work, or reviewing literature on the bus. Uni will give you a variety of useful skills that transpose into your everyday life, for example the use of critical thinking. You have always been a judgemental person who likes to weigh every option, but a certain lecture will open your eyes to the underlying currents around you. You’ll learn how to pick apart arguments and chose academic sources to give an informed opinion. I promise you, you will be in your element.

  You’ll never forget the feeling you had when you received your first assignment back. That poor, precious assignment of yours that you stayed up late the night before submission desperately adding finishing touches to, terrified that it wouldn’t be good enough and that you’d be branded a failure. You will never forget the smile in your tutor’s eyes as it passed between you. And when your shaking hands will have calmed enough to text your family the good news of how you have passed – indeed, done far better then simply passing – you will know, for the first time, a deep security and faith in your own ability.

  If I could say one thing to you, it would be to remember that feeling. Realize that yes, you can do it! University is going to feel so right for you. Your initial worries will soon be eased, and the depth of information you will have access to will make every experience worth it. This is a crazy carnival ride of words, opinions and literature, but hang in there. You will enjoy the ride.

 A summary/personal letter I was required to write in the final weeks of the semester. By the way, I made it. :) Ready for the next semester - after I have some time off.

Study

  

Source: http://badassbookreviews.com

  I'm sitting tucked away in the University library. If you were to walk around the three rows of morbid philosophy that separate me from the the rest of the world, then you could probably find me on my laptop, guiltily eating a packet of peanuts. It's a sunny warm nook and perhaps the only armchair on this floor, so I'm guarding it fiercely. My claim has been well staked.

  If I look out in front of me, I can gaze over the city and the river flowing through like a ribbon round a cake, the tiny boats adding subdued character to an otherwise silver gleam. Autumn is painting the trees around us all shades of the sunset, while on the horizon a church tower juts out majestically from the low-dwelling appearance of mere humanity that surrounds it. If I could only move the hideous pipe towers and 1960's brick of the faculty on front that interfere with my contemplation of the scenery, then I would be guaranteed to complete no study. But then I'm sure they serve their purpose, somehow. It's just that man's infrastructure, even be it to instruct in nature, is always an eyesore compared to God's handiwork.

  The shelves around me form a comforting barrier of aged words. To my right lie books of advice to young men and women, essays on the polite world, and appropriate etiquette over the years. By contrast, on my left are row upon row of dismal philosophy as everyday human try their best to navigate this roaring sea of a world without even bothering to work a basic moral compass. The titles themselves are grey enough. Interested, I pick up and flip through a 1954 work that attracts my eye simply due to it's relatively diminutive size and apparent age. It's called "Morals without Religion", and it makes me giggle laugh silently, for I know that there is no such thing. Nobody is born good. Then the sadness creeps over, that someone could feel so little of the magic that I see around me every day, know so little of the wonder that makes a young soul wise through no deed of it's own. Some of my peers are paying thousands in dollars and precious years in their lives to be told this is all they are, a blob of senseless matter in a Humanistic world, that they must fight against the basic principles of Christianity, such as the divinity of Christ. It's more than painful, it's heartbreaking.

  As the light streams in and floods my chilled winter-weary bones with warmth, the ring on my left hand shines like a brilliant beacon. The new year came in like a flood, filled with promise and tantalising adventures. December brought the man in the white ute knocking on my door, and April brought him to his knees in front of a glowing sunset and my eager heart. Now we plan our life together and delight in our shared wanderlust that will carry us all over the world, yet always return us to the paradise we will call home.

  Life is good. People are flawed, home is not always a peaceful place, and true knowledge is ignored, but as I sit here trying to study, I know my role in the story of this life is something I would never trade. I'm all up for the plot twists that God will bring.

The One

Source:www.gettyimages.com.au

I thought about you again tonight. Your face wasn't clear, your image simply a blur on my mind's horizon. Your words were distant and not in any tongue that I could understand or grasp the meaning of.

And I thought about how, one day, that will be so different. I'll see you driving toward me in a battered white ute replacing the prince's horse, churning dust from under your wheels as you drop the window and ask, "Do you want to go get lunch?" And I'll laugh, toss my loose mane and jump in beside you on the journey that can be only taken by two. We'll sing along to the radio, laughing at our squeaking notes while the engine hums a lover's lullaby and the trees flash by in a haze of green and gold mingled with dappled shade. You'll open all the doors for me and try to buy everything, but I'll appreciate the gentleman and mock the would-be millionaire. We'll share hopes and dreams, love one another's families for who they are, debate politics and pretend that we actually know what we're talking about, share jokes with a split-second glance, get dirty while working our hearts out and glorify God in everything together. We'll understand each other to the core, get sick on French pastries and black coffee, comfort each other in pain and grief, pretend to be lost in our own backyards, mock and judge films in comfort, and - maybe - even ride into the sunset together. In short, we'll be perfect.

At least that's what the image in the horizon whispers to me. It entices me with candy-coloured dreams and Jane Austen worthy story lines whilst demanding that I proclaim loudly that I deserve to be loved.

But I'm a realist. I know that one day, we will fight over the fact that someone doesn't want to get sushi for dinner, you'll forget my birthday, and when yours comes around I'll have no idea what to get for you. I know that one day I'll weight more then the beautiful princess you thought you married and that your eyes will wander unconsciously. I know that we will hurt one another more than we could ever know, because only when you understand a person's heart fully can you kill it. I know that there will be harsh words from me about little things and annoying indifference from you over petty matters. I hate my heart and brain for being so different, but the truth is that my brain is stronger and always wins in the end.

But the figure on the horizon and in my mind says differently. It tells me "all you need is love", it mocks my brain for "having no faith", and dares me to never stop searching until I find 'The One.' It tells me love is amazing and I am incomplete until I am with my soulmate.
I admit, ashamed, that over the years my schoolgirl's wins and wishes have tried to decipher the face of this figure, pin-point it to only one wandering soul. And I admit, bruised, that I am too young to know or even need to care so much about something so small.

And now I think that I understand. The One that I think of, imagine dancing the night away with is not my prince, come to 'save me from from my singleness' and bring meaning to my life. He is not my personal Mr Darcy who is going to come to stir my wits and living mind into full flirtatious bloom. Sometimes, I do know, he is but a harmless stick figure, the sketching of an idle hand.

But more often then not, he is my worst enemy.

I build my castle-in-the-clouds at his hazy feet and expect it to last. I centre my hopes and dreams on something that I now believe can never truly satisfy, never quench a thirst for endless sentimentality. Idle hands aren't the devil's playground, it's the lonely aching hearts.

My heart and my brain are both wrong. Sure, maybe one day some fellow will drive up to my front door in a Toyota ute and we'll get lunch together, but that will happen when I'm not expecting and planning for it. Yes, it would be amazing but there are two sides to everything - we will laugh and cry, we will promise and then break those promises, we will look terrible after only three hour's sleep and we will enjoy peaceful sunlit evenings together.
But I don't need these things.
There is never any figure on the horizon in real life, just blood, sweat, tears and love. I was born complete, as I am, as I was meant to be. I will always be growing, changing, maturing into the person that God made me and maybe one day with the spouse that He chose me. But if not, who cares? There can only be something different for me in life, some purpose that I will serve better alone. This figure that all young women sometimes think and dream of is simply another blister on the road of singleness. Thank God He has the bandaids.