It’s taken me years to buy a frame for my latest academic certificate. It’s taken two house moves for me to put it all together onto the wall. Today I finally bought a frame, only to return home to find that it does not fit. … Continue reading Modified Prayer
I was a very serious teenager. Journals were my favourite books because of the potential they held, to house my most personal intimacies on life, love and my desires. They were akin to sacramental vessels. I loved them. I can remember too, when I was 16, I dreamt of being a designer. My bedroom was furnished in black and white with pops of colour. Black and white Audrey Hepburn postcards adorned the wall, as did other black and white photos and art pieces. My cupboard that was home to my op-shop wardrobe I wore to school – was a white stand-alone, and on the top, I displayed (as if a shop display) my personal items – books, scrapbooks, sketchbooks, a blue Sub-zero bottle with a yellow gerbera in it and my quotable journals, of which I had a few. My student desk was also my drafting table to help with my orthogonal and isometric drawings I had to produce for my graphics class. I even had my own orthogonal ruler (thanks Mum). Minimalism meets Mondrian was my style guide, if you can imagine it. I even had black bed sheets because any other colour or pattern would wreck the flow.
Finding this journal for sale today at Vinnies op shop was a delight. Buying it at its $2 price was easy. But having it now in my possession is priceless, for it has brought back memories of the person (and dreamer) I was, which I am sure will undoubtedly influence and shape my near and unveiling future.
Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.
-Thoreau
Sure thing, journal! Slowly, slowly!
I am filled with so much gratitude that I cannot help but share it. Tonight my daughter surprised and amazed me with her performances, but above all, with the beautiful person that she is.
At times I wonder if she floats through life, blowing with the wind whichever way it goes, but tonight I saw something firmly planted, taking root and reaching out, simultaneously.
I cannot take the credit, nor do I claim to contribute largely to her gifts, but I am so very privileged to be her mother.
The more I replay her opening act in my mind, the more I seem to utter, “Thank you.” For her part, and this is why I am so proud of her, she told me that she is grateful to have had the opportunity to play ‘Matilda’, even if it was only for one song, on one night, in an ordinary school.
I am clearing out the front room, a daunting task, since it has been home to mess of my making/belonging, for months now. I find paper bits, scribbled on or annotated. Some bits I wonder why I kept at all, and some I continue to file away for another day.
One piece I found was something I wrote at café one winter’s day. It was cold and raining but I sought the outdoors anyway. I wanted to capture the crisp cold air and if I was lucky in working out how to, the rain.
Interesting is this note I made on self-care:
I’m shaking with hunger in an effort to eat less; to save more money. I’m sure it’s not how it’s done, this self-care thing, but don’t worry, I am waiting for lunch to arrive. [This time out] is a little respite, a retreat for me.
I’m learning lots – and perhaps it’s true, that I hide from myself, from silence, the silence and solitude that gives rise to unheard voices from deep within. – Journal, 2013
Could this be why it’s taken me so long to swim my depths and to write about what’s there, once again? Fear of what’s there, fear of what I might learn?
The task of clearing out stuff that’s been sitting and collecting for months is largely emotional. I’ve wanted to take it on, but it’s only now – dispersed with blogging/noticing – that I’ve managed to really start.
Thank God for paper bits. Carriers of the past, of memory and of insight; insight into the humourous, the bizarre and the wisdom of listening and holding.
The cold of the stone was a contrast to the unexpected wounding. Shards of memory pierced though as heat escaped my slightly curled up hand. The sensation of blood rush, a high, only to be brought back down again to mortality with the sting. It starts to itch a little, bothering me, a trace of something broken, like a speck in my eye.
And to think that this happened tonight because I went in search of stone. You remember these stones, don’t you? The shiny black ones I gave you one year. There are none like them anywhere else that I know of, their specialness made all the more so because of their purpose as prayer stones. I made them for you and for all who might happen upon them.
Carefully, I selected a few from the pile, choosing them for their shape and facade. Unhurriedly, I worked, taking my time with each stone, gazing upon them as God gazes on me.
You know the gaze – the kind that a mother makes to her child in amazement, the kind that a lover makes to his wife – a gaze, not of cursory glance, but of recognition, praise and presence. Depth and intimacy, vulnerability and strength. Lingering and held.
The next step I recall, was the inscription. Again my choosing was intentional. For me at least, the words had to be particular enough to resonate with you and others in your circle, but also broad enough, so that they could speak to any one, at any given moment, however the Spirit called. These stones would be both vessels and launchpads for prayer.
Mission. Be. Earth. Heart. God.
And in a moment of grace, I’m transported back to the present with the realisation that these were the words I have been looking for, in a mantra for myself tonight.
The prayer that was expressed as I made them for your prayer, in turn became mine. Special stones, indeed. The cut doesn’t matter, it’ll heal.
Edited: 20 Oct 2023
Geralyn 