Posted in God

You, Me and Everything That’s Already Been Said

Here I am again, on bended knee one more time. Here I am again, crouched in some corner–with a pen and pad, bleeding my heart to you. Here  I am again, crying the same tears from yesterday.

I don’t know what else to say, because we’ve been here so many times. I am trying so hard to understand your ways, I’m told they are so much higher than mine. I believe that–most of the time. But at times I still wonder

I wish I had the faith that moves mountains, but I don’t. I wish I had the kind of faith–the kind they teach you from pulpits. You know, those people..

Like the lady that didn’t have grocery money, so she went to the store, and loaded up her buggy, and stood in line. Then  the guy behind her bought all her food, with no clue she had nothing. Or the guy that gave away his rent money to the poor, and then a long forgotten check showed up in his mailbox. You know, that kind of faith, for those kinds of stories. That’s what they teach you in churches.

And sometimes, I think that’s what you are supposed to be. You are supposed to send me random checks in my mailbox, or give me divine appointments. Then, I don’t understand when your hand is more subtle. So subtle that I am not even sure if it’s your hand or mine.

I give you credit, all the same. But, still I feel a little hurt, and I wonder if you love me just a little less than others. And I know that’s silly, because you are…God. You love everyone just the same. So, I push away the doubt, because it’s not good to entertain such thoughts.

But I wish faith looked like that for me. For me, faith looks like Puritan work ethic. Try, try, try, and try again, and eventually, some day, you will probably get what you are after.  I wish I could catch a break here, God. Because it sure is exhausting this way. But we’ve been down this road, no need to traverse it one more time.

So, here I am again, sitting here in the pregnant silence–just you, me and everything that’s already been said.


Posted in Writing

The Little Bird

The little bird rode the wind, trapeze somersaults and mesmerizing ten point leaps gliding on the surface, like skaters glide on ice.

But once the gust died down, the little bird was earthbound–a tiny creature, vulnerable, bland, and ordinary. There was nothing left but faded memories, repeat playback tracks of days gone by.

Be free little bird, to once again ride the wind. This dead and dusty earth is not your home. You were meant to own the sky.



Posted in God


I hold a heart full of promises. They are lodged so deep I don’t know where they end and I begin. From time to time, I take them out, and admire them, beautiful, shiny, grandiose.

And I don’t doubt your wisdom, I know it all must be in your time. But today I sit here, it’s just you and me, and my hearts bleeds just one word, “When?” When, God, when?

I mean, you said it yourself, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” My heart aches tonight, with the weight of a thousand unfulfilled promises. And I know you’re not supposed to be “slow in keeping your promises,” so it must somehow be something wrong in me that I feel this way. But, it sure seems slow.

There is no lightning rod from heaven, no singing angel appearing at my door. There are no booming voices, sending me to my knees. But, in the silence there is a peace, a calm. It wasn’t really what I wanted. But I guess I’m alright.

A thousand promises I’ve got tucked away in my heart, and I sure you need you to hear me here tonight.

Posted in Life

We Are Surrounded By Gods–Yet We Remain Mortals

Today I was listening to some song. It was a love ballad from the 1990’s that achieved significant success. I like the song. It was a simple, guitar driven piece that rose and fell in in its proper time, and still remains a good solid song.

I started thinking about this song, and how it must have started. It likely began as scrawled lyrics penciled into an ordinary notebook. Then, the artist sat around his house, messing around with a few guitar chords, stop and start not even sure if this one was worth pursuing. Finally, after a number of tries, he realized he had something.

Then, one day, when he decided it was time, he unveiled this song to his bandmates and inner social circle. The song would have hit them as pure magic. And everyone talked about “the new one.”

Then “the new one,” got played in a few small shows–an as of yet unrecorded and unrealized hit. The song gained a cult following, –something only the super cool and initiated knew about.  Until one day, the time came to record an album. The “new one,” along about a dozen old “new ones,” was doctored, and tweaked, until it was finally produced, recorded, and mastered into a slickly marketed CD.

The song exploded onto radio, and then the whole world was singing “the new one,” (with the original cult followers having had their taste soured, were over it, and onto another “new one.”)

The artist made millions off that song, and now it is a veritable classic, relegated to grocery store ambiance, and easy listening Pandora playlists.

I think about that. Here is this song, ever at my disposal, that turned an ordinary man into a god. And the song wasn’t that complex. It was some heartfelt lines of love and devotion, ultimately against some simple guitar chords (with the complement of a full band). Really, anyone with some decent talent and training could have created that song. Yet, it turned him into a god, an immortal, with an entry, albeit small, in the annals of rock history.

I think about that, and how hard I work to make my mark upon the world. Yet, here I am,  here we all are, surrounded on every side by geniuses, and the gods of our time, all at our constant disposal. With the click of a trackpad, or the push of television remote, here are some of the most creative and innovative ideas the human race has concocted.

And we live amongst them day after day. We mindlessly consume them. We discuss them.  We critique them. We admire them. We put them in YouTube montages, and splash them across our desktop wallpaper. And yet, we continue to live our ordinary lives. We continue to wish, and hope for something extraordinary to happen to us, while the gods live at our fingertips.

How is it that we can live, surrounded by gods, and yet still remain mortals?

Posted in Life

Why Not Me?

Today I was out shopping, and I ran across this video ad. Blaring across every TV screen in the electronics department, was an ad from best-selling author Nicholas Sparks. He was promoting his new book, I forget the name of it. While a visual of his new book cover danced across the screen, his voice over said something like, “This is Nicholas Sparks, author of The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Message in a Bottle, and a number of others…”

My heart caught in my throat. This man has so many best selling books, he could only list them in a voice over equivalent of “et cetera.” Yes, it seemed a little bit of douche-y comment. But, he was right. He has written more books than can be listed in a 30 second promo spot. Then, he went on to explain how he was in North Carolina working on his next novel.

Of course, I did exactly what the PR people wanted me to do with that statement. I imagined him in this gorgeous beach house in North Carolina (it’s his second home, but it’s ten times bigger than my only home). On the weekends, he wears polos and khakis rolled up to his ankles, so that he can play tag football on the beach with his kid. During the day, he sits down at his computer, with a proven formula for producing bestsellers flying out of his fingers. He’s got a spacious office, with dry erase boards on top of dry erase boards where he has intricately planned out his new novel. He spends a few hours a day writing, and then has to take business calls where he plots out his career, and takes long phone calls where he talks of industry people, and what they are all up to.

In the evenings, he hosts snotty dinner parties, full of people that laugh at all of his jokes and mesemerizing stories about…I don’t know…mountain climbing in Spain or something. They all sit around his living room made of pristine white sectionals, and glass windows, with the moonlight coming, and the beach gently foaming in the background.

And I think about all of this. You know? I’m not jealous of his success per se. I don’t begrudge the man anything. Like every woman in America, I cried through the Notebook. I’ve also read a couple of his other books. He’s a good writer. Good for him. I’m glad he’s achieved success.

But damnit, what about me? He’s published so many novels. Why can’t I publish just one? I’ve done the work. I’ve planned, and plotted, and character sketched through whole notebooks. Then I’ve written and rewritten, and rewritten again. I’ve edited until I can edit no more. I’ve researched and queried and read all of the articles on what to do and what not to do. But I still can’t seem to get anywhere.

He’s got so many novels published. Why can’t I seem to get one?