Poem In The Night Watches

You are the beloved.

Hide in me.

Shelter in me.

For this is the season of healing favor.

And I will help you like a father.~Poem I heard in my dream, December 10, 2021

Perhaps my dream manifested when I opened a Christmas card that contained the image you see in the post. The photograph is described as "A shelterbelt in Aurora County, South Dakota." The inscription on the card said, "You hide them safely away."~Psalm 31:20. 

I ponder my dream now too. In the dream, I sat at a desk in a room with a high ceiling. Light streamed in through long-paned windows that created dappled patterns on a wooden floor. A few high-backed dining chairs were positioned around the room. There was no other furniture or décor. I heard a knock on the door outside the room and called out, "Come in." A young man, maybe 25, entered the room and stood before me. His dark hair was short, shaved closely on the sides, his eyes deeply blue, cobalt. He wore jeans, slashed at the knees and a gray long-sleeved shirt. He didn't speak, but he didn't really need to. His expression was profoundly sad, like his face was about to melt. For a split second, I almost told him to go away. But I could tell he was friendly, just very, very sad. Then I said to him, "You can stay, because you've helped me to process some of my own sadness and disappointment, especially during this god-awful Pandemic. But you have to promise me one thing, if I let you stay, you'll have to agree to sit down and take care of yourself, drink some hot tea. We need to invite some joy and laughter into this big room, fill it up with some other things besides sadness. Will you do that?" I asked. He nodded his head, a smile beginning to bloom on his handsome face and sat down. I poured him some tea. It might have been peppermint.

Join with those who sing, tell stories, take pleasure in life, and have joy in their eyes, because joy is contagious and can prevent others from becoming paralyzed by depression, loneliness, and difficulties. ~Paulo Coelho (From The Archer)

I almost surrendered to the negativity of my own inner critic this week. My inner critic has a name, Professor Zizzle. He is a nasty little man with a rotund belly and thinning hair. Filled with hubris and contempt for any enthusiasm I might exhibit, especially when it comes to writing. "You aren't literary enough." "Your writing is too simple, your vocabulary under-developed." "Your current novel that you're writing is entirely a mess. Why do you even bother continuing to write?" I almost caved. Yet I continued to view the email in my box regarding a writing contest for submission of an "in-progress" novel excerpt. Over the last months, I'd written about 35,000 words on the novel. I knew it was truly a rough draft, but there was a child-like voice inside me that transcended Professor Z's unending negative yammering. That vulnerable voice whispered, "What do you have to lose? You've written some good prose. You love your characters. They have voices too. Maybe they need to be heard. Give it a go. It's all about the 'not giving up, the moving forward.' Damn the outcome. That's not the main point. The priority is to keep taking risks." 

Part of the reason Professor Zizzle lost is because of my cadre of "believing mirrors." Julia Cameron, author, and who is described as "the queen of change," defines the concept of "believing mirrors" as "persons who reflect back to you your possibility and your strength." I have a circle of safe people who believe in me. They are a group who encourage me to keep writing. I've had some experience with those who believe they have good intentions with their negative and pessimistic judgments regarding my creative efforts. It's always hurtful, like someone knocking the hope and light right out of my grasp. Believing mirrors do not lie. They don't tell you only what you want to hear. They say things like, "You've spent a lot of time on this project. I love 'x' about it. I wonder if you could tell me a little bit more about 'y.' Whatever you do, keep on going." These joyful ones help me hold on to hope and light.

Silience: The brilliant artistry hidden all around you.~John Koenig (From The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)

More than a few people have told me, "Priscilla, you're all about 'the feels.'" I guess it's true. I love emotions. I love to feel. I love to hear how others are feeling. I believe God created us to feel. He feels, so why wouldn't we be attracted to our emotions? 

I know it's popular to provide the caveat: "Not that we're to be led by emotions, mind you." Sometimes I think that kind of thinking may be too limiting. Overly practical on days. 

Frequently I'm overcome by what beauty the sky brings to me. And each day it's different. New colors. Gliding clouds. You probably get tired of me writing about the sky. Yet sometimes I get teary when I look up and see what it offers to me. Glad tears.

And music. I listen to music while I write, and sometimes the melodies seem to penetrate my heart. The amalgamation of the words and the strains of music blend together to allow peace and clarity to emerge. I feel such joy when I'm creating. I guess we all do. Perhaps creating things is one of the healthiest ways to express emotion.

It had come down to the simple fact that life was harder than anyone had told him it would be.~Elizabeth Brundage (From The Vanishing Point)

The movie was a cinematic tributary I seldom navigate. Science Fiction. The premise was so intriguing that I couldn't resist. The movie, Nine Days, follows a man who spends his days in a remote outpost watching live Point of View on TVs of people going about their lives until one subject perishes, leaving a vacancy for a new life on Earth. The man then gathers several unborn souls to consider for providing them an opportunity to live. For nine days, each candidate is exposed to a multitude of experiences, both positive and negative, so they can get an idea of what they might expect if chosen to live. Eventually, the interviewer begins to rule out the candidates, one by one. However, before they are let go into oblivion, he asks each of them to write down one pleasurable, memorable event that he will re-create for them before they depart. 

One candidate chooses a day at the beach where he experiences the tide breaking in and the low soothing rushing sound of the ocean--the feel of sand sifting through his fingers, a warm breeze. Another chooses riding a bicycle on a pathway that takes her through tree-covered hills and a wide blue sky overhead. All of the candidates beg for a chance to live. The interviewer is empathic toward their craving to keep living as he has once lived on earth. He knows it will take extreme resilience. No one can tell them how difficult it will be, nor how wonderful.

Polite inclusion is the gateway drug to Mercy.~Anne Lamott (From Hallelujah Anyway)

I stood at the edge of the playground, its vast blacktop like another continent. I was eight years old and had started a new school. I had no friends. No familiarity. That first week of school, I wistfully looked out across the expanse at girls jump roping or hopscotching on numbered rectangles. Boys running and laughing amidst a game of dodge ball. I ached to belong.

This week a good friend told me his spouse had let him down. Excluded him. There is almost nothing more emotionally painful.