when words are just words

There's not much to say.  I am incredibly lucky and I must figure out a way to enjoy it.

For some reason if one thing is amiss in a scene, I cannot help but focus on it, forgetting the other 98%.  But that is a horrible way to live.

The only exception is remembering home.  I have extreme homesickness but I choose to not divulge in those feelings.  I know to do so would be incapacitating.  We are here, not there.  I have to be where I am, there is no sense lusting after what's not.

That's how marriage goes too.  Remembering single-hood, being selfish and not noticed for it, the excitement of flirting with men,  the sweet silence--those are things that are best left forgotten, if only because there is an allure when remembering to recreate what I once knew as good.

So how do I live in the present here?  In Portland?  I didn't want to be in this city, but God told my husband it was time to go, so I tried to help.  And I knew, change is GOOD.  Stasis is death, right? Someone famous said that, a writer, I think.  Chekhov?  Chaucer? Updike? I don't remember.

So maybe
Until I have words of worth,
I will paint to marvel in colors.
Until I have words of worth,
I will take pictures or what is beautiful.
Until I have words of worth,
I will dance until i feel my blood flowing.
Until I have words of worth,
I will pray to God to find His voice.
Until I have words of worth,
I will play a tune that resonates.

For if I find those colors, the beauty, the blood, and God, then the song I sing will be worthy of sound.


Maybe it's time to have kids.