The Plank-Eyed Girl: 144 Hours; My Internal Landscape; and The Gift of ...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: 144 Hours; My Internal Landscape; and The Gift of ...: Darkness envelopes this tiny piece of land that I have landed on.  Stepping across the rear threshold of this Alaska 737 jet, my feet feel t...

144 Hours; My Internal Landscape; and The Gift of a Sabbath

Darkness envelopes this tiny piece of land that I have landed on.  Stepping across the rear threshold of this Alaska 737 jet, my feet feel the familiar path down the steps and onto the tarmac of the Kona airport.  The day's Winter heat is still radiating up from the volcanic pavement.  Even in the darkness, everything here is vibrant, more alive.  I feel as if I have just woken up from a long, drug induced sleep. 

Morning arrives quickly, but I am in no hurry to greet her.  The scrumptious, high thread count sheets are cocooning my body and they beckon me to stay awhile longer.  The lanai door is open allowing the fragrance of plumeria to gently float into our room.  The sun is playing peek-a-boo through the slated louvers.  The sweetness of these moments do not escape me. 

I have approximately 144 hours in front of me for this sweet, much needed reprieve.  I lay here imagining that these coming hours are like a big fat catalog and I get to pick, at will, what they will hold.  My selfishness pokes it's ugly head out and makes case for only water activities; beach and pool lounging; heavy doses of HGTV; and delicious island food. We will see what happens.

Two hours have passed and I find myself comfortably reclining in the fine white sand.  A cornucopia of humanity blends together in front of me.  Languages from around the globe, dance and swirl their way into my ears.  Verigated shades of brown stroll by.  Over the years, I've developed a deep appreciation for my own healthy nut brown body.  I lay here and am suddenly aware that I am in a bubble and this is truly not how most of the world lives.  There is a whisper that floats across my consciousness and I hear that this time has an expiration date, but for now...I will savor it and hold it as my Sabbath.  

Realizing that this Sabbath is a gift, I whisper of my surrender of it and consciously decide that I will choose to embrace each moment and allow Him to orchestrate what each hour holds.  (Stay tuned for another post in a few days.) 

A Sabbath is meant as a gift from our Creator.  It is designed, by God, to provide much needed rest.  Even God took a Sabbath on the seventh day of creation. (Genesis 2:3) A sabbath can be ten minutes; two hours; an entire day, or even a week.  I think I will try to build more Sabbaths into 2016, would you consider joining me?  

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Plank-Eyed Girl: Naked Feet!

The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Plank-Eyed Girl: Naked Feet!: The Plank-Eyed Girl: Naked Feet! : Naked Feet! Some of you have contacted me and asked if I speak at events.  The answer to that is a re...

Risky Affair; Confession; and Soul-Tending

Eyes so probing and deep, I can't look away.  So, I declare my innocence a second time in a voice as firm as a block of tofu.  Practicing quiet restraint, she faintly whispers, "Are you sure?" Audibly inhaling with the faint sound of a swirling impending storm, I slowly bring my eyes to meet hers.  In the flicker of time that it takes for a snake's tongue to taste the air, she persists with the question, "Are you sure?"  (Sometimes it just plain sucks to have a Bestie that knows your story and hears the longing of your heart.) A nudge from my unconscious, as well as, my internal hunger for my insides to match my outsides, cause me to go momentarily as silent as a rock.  (Old habits are difficult to break.)  

Truth is, I don't want ANYONE to put words to my hurt; my bitterness; or my anger.  I prefer to leave them in the dark closet of my heart.  

I can feel a BIG, dark tremor rising up from the bottom of my feet, like what animals feel before an earthquake.  It is telling me to run.  Escape.  Get away.  But, there is no place to escape to.  So, we continue to sit on the stools facing each other in awkward silence.  

I am desperately wanting to suppress all the confusing thoughts that are flying at my heart.

Finally, I resort to my superhero deflection mode of making it into a joke.  She does not budge.  Her loving, penetrating gaze is so powerful, I know she does not want to harm me, so I continue to sit.  

8:30 pm arrives and I am relieved.  Exiting, like a squirrel on steroids, I bounce out of her house and disappear into my little black thing.  Zipping out of the driveway,  a rawness crawls up my throat, like an unwanted guest.  My mind is screaming at me as I become aware that this is causing a "folding-in" of my soul.

Honestly, the thought of "Me" as a "bitter" person crushes me, 

like a blooming flower in an unexpected Spring hailstorm.  When I think of "bitter" people, I think of someone who is sour; snarky all the time; and overall mad.  THAT does NOT describe me.  My head screams, "She is wrong!"  My heart whispers, "Let's go slower and look closer.  Could it be that she has a clearer view of me, than I do?"

Arriving home, immediately I search the definition of "bitter" and  instantly become frozen. The synonym, "resentment" is right next to it. Rising from the floor, I close my ipad.

Using my braille skills, I locate the bathroom.  Dropping my clothes to the floor, I step into a hot stream of liquid.  I think I am hoping that this hot shower will wash away all the truthful thoughts and  raw feelings that are swirling. Internal words come at me like bullets from a sniper's rifle. 

In a moment's time, I am transported back to the day this

seed of "resentment" took root.  It was planted from an decision that I felt I had no choice in.   For 23 years it has grown and I see that it is now ready to push through the ground and bloom. Anxiety and panic hold me hostage.  The last thing I need is for this to give birth to other things that could even further cause my soul not to function as it should. Moments speed by.  I feel like I am on the autobahn.  Reaching deep within, I find the strength to shut the water off; dry off; and crawl into my bed.  

6:00 am With the stillness of a new day, I  slowly come to and realize there is ONLY one word in my head - "CONFESS."  It is in this moment, I realize that I must confess in order to be free. (Can I just be honest, I HATE confession!  Anyone with me on this?)  

5:00 pm  My day has been full, but the word has remained - "Confess!"  I settle down in front of my ipad and proceed to e-mail my confession to my Bestie. She responds in graciousness and kindness.  

My words of confession have brought light to the hidden closet where my "resentment" has lived and grown.  Tonight, in the light, the resentment/bitterness is gone and sleep is sweet.

The truth is that my self-deception over this long, lingering "bitterness/resentment" has been a "risky affair".  It has caused my mind, body, and will to be dis-integrated (not integrated).  Yikes!  

Today, He whispered, "I saw you, BEFORE you were born.  EVERY day of your life was recorded in my book and EVERY moment was laid out, by me, BEFORE a SINGLE day had passed!" (Psalms 139:16).  "I CHOSE your path!  I directed you towards the place that you have secretly resented all these years (I know that you don't fit there, but there were things you needed to learn in that place) and I have developed your skills and talents, as well as, your connections and opportunities." 

Tonight, I am grateful for an integrated soul that is free.  I am also grateful for a clear path ahead of me and that this path I have been on has not been wasted and I can trust Him for the next steps.  

Maybe you are like me and your soul needs some tending?  Can I ask you, what is causing you bitterness, resentment, anger, anxiety, or just plain hurt?  Who can you confess to?  Confession is like the best "key" you could ever be given.  It will lead to your freedom and soul reintegration.  

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Naked Feet!

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Naked Feet!: Naked Feet! Some of you have contacted me and asked if I speak at events.  The answer to that is a resounding - YES!  I absolutely ...

Naked Feet!

Naked Feet!

Some of you have contacted me and asked if I speak at events.  The answer to that is a resounding - YES!  I absolutely love to share my stories (the good, the bad, and even the outright hilarious), as well as my life's adventure.  

I am attaching a link from a conference I recently spoke at.  I LOVE the team that I spoke with!  These are all amazing ladies that I am blessed to do life with.   Feel free to listen in: http://www.newlife.tv/breakaway-2/audio/  

To assist you with your visualizing, I have embedded some of the visuals I used.  Here are the the things I spoke of: 

The gift of hand-knitted socks!

How a tapestry is constructed.

The tangled back of the tapestry.  This is often our view of our lives and the four types of threads that our lives are made up of:  people, places, passions, and pain.  

God has an untangled view of our lives and this is what He says to us.

Each person received a water-colored book mark that read, "Becoming" and over the word was blue painter's tape.  This is the back side of the tapestry you see when you remove the tape.  It is difficult to make sense out of all these threads.  This is often the side we see when we look at our lives.

However, when you pull the blue painter's tape off the other side of this itty, bit of tapestry you can CLEARLY see the picture.  THIS is the picture God has of our lives  It is His view from 30,000+ feet.  His view is completely untangled.  Can you trust His untangled view?  If you would like to know more about this, or you would like a bookmark, reminder.  Please e-mail me and I will send you one.

Remember, YOU are not alone.   We are journeying together.

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl
(A.K.A.  Crystalolp@gmail.com)

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Beautiful Onion; Fish Envy; and a New Friend

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Beautiful Onion; Fish Envy; and a New Friend: Swayed by the heavy half of my job, I walk with stout determination into her office and promptly get to work on the "problem&...

Beautiful Onion; Fish Envy; and a New Friend

Swayed by the heavy half of my job, I walk with stout determination into her office and promptly get to work on the "problem".  She quietly stands observing my progress.  It is not her, but the problem I am attempting to resolve that is making me cranky.  She continues to stand and observe. Stopping, to reach for a tool, I become aware of her quiet, gentle "Small Giantish" gaze. Straightening myself up, I mumble something about being right back and head towards the door.  

In a nano-second, her intense calm manner, reaches me and my guard slips down.  Slowly pivoting to face her, she simply asks, "Can I help you?  You seem distraught?"  In a dissident moment, a swirl of colliding inner-thoughts take over.  I am both bothered that I did not hide my frustration as well as I thought I did, and oddly relieved that she noticed and even cared enough to offer to help.  I am speechless (which doesn't happen often).

This "Small Giant" has worked in my building for approximately the last eleven months.  She is delicately strong and boldly soft-spoken. Her ways are gentle, thoughtful, and steady. There is an impenetrable calmness that surrounds her uniqueness and I am drawn to it. 

"You are a beautiful onion," she softly vocalizes. I stand staring at her.  "Excuse me?" I mutter. She repeats herself, "You are a beautiful onion."  I giggle.  She states the phrase again, "You are a beautiful onion."  I am smirking. Smiling, she joins me at the door and we walk to my office. I'm not sure if I want to know what she means by this. So, I don't ask.  I just let it roll around in my head. She seems to have gathered snippets of noticings about me and my surroundings over these last eleven months and is choosing today to expose this insightful knowledge.  I am silent.  She continues on with an explanation about how she has observed me and that I have many, many layers to me just like an onion.  My facial dyslexia is surfacing and I find my eyes revealing my amusement with the humor of this remark.

Entering the library, she boldly exclaims, "I have fish envy!"  What? We repeat the onion scenario, only this time with the fish phrase.  Now I am downright laughing.  She stands gazing with amusement at me.  

In less than five minutes, I have found a kindred word-smithing soul!  I'm so glad she was brave enough to speak to my frustration.  I now have a new fabulous friend who sees the world in a wonderfully unique way.  Thank you "Small Giant" for being brave.

Who is it that God has put in your path that you haven't truly noticed before?  We are all wonderfully unique and bring our own perspectives to this life we have been given.  I bet He has someone waiting to be your new friend. Let's ask Him to open our eyes and really see those around us with His perspective.  I look forward to hearing about your new friends.

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

  

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Little Man, Button Jar, and a Pair of Carhartts

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Little Man, Button Jar, and a Pair of Carhartts: Monday 9:25 AM Eyes the color of melted milk chocolate peered over the counter and steered into the open door of my office.  Sile...

Little Man, Button Jar, and a Pair of Carhartts

Monday 9:25 AM Eyes the color of melted milk chocolate peered over the counter and stared into the open door of my office.  Silent as a dormant tree he stood, planted against the counter.  Slipping down off my double-seated, orange,  Asian bench, I approach the "Little Man".   Time seems suspended as his eyes search my face.    Moments are sliding by but he seems unaware. 

In a manner that surprises me, he simply states, "My teacher says you can fix anything."  I am amused.  He is serious.  Trying not to snicker, I ask, "What needs fixing?"  He gazes at me like I should have the mind reading abilities of a grandmother.  Slowly,  his dirt-filled fingernails  come to rest on the top of his hand-me down, Carhartt overalls.  Leaning across the counter, I take a closer look.  Dirt has embedded itself on the knees and grass has made its home on the backside.  I say nothing.  Silence hangs between us.  Honestly, words are escaping me at this moment.  He is a new kiddo and I don't know his story yet. 

Touching my hand gently, he whispers, "I can bring them tomorrow, cuz I have another pair of pants."  Tears are welling up from deep inside my soul.  All I can muster is, "Okay, but the button might be a little different from the other one."  Turning he runs out the recess door yelling, "The lady is going to fix my pants, teacher!" 

I tuck this interaction away and attempt to go on about my day with business as normal.  But, this one simple interaction has ignited a cocktail of emotions that I can not contain.  Options skim through my head like a flipbook. 

9:25 PM Crouching on the plush rug of my studio, I remove the button jar from the shelf.  Textures, shapes, and colors are  eye-candy for this girl.  Carefully, I am fingering each button as I dig, like a dog looking for a buried bone.  Time passes, yet I am unaware.  I am lost in the thought of this child's explicit trust in my ability.

Tuesday 10:30 AM  Little Man's sister brings me the Carhartts and tells me she needed to wash them first.  Wow!  This precious girl is only in fourth grade, yet she is taking care of her brother.  I thank her and tuck them away.

5:30 PM  Many hour have slid by.  Perched on a high chair in my studio, my fingers are working at making this Little Man's request become a reality.  There is more than just the button that I discover needs to be repaired.  As I work, I find myself chatting with my Father about this little guy and His sister.  He says nothing, but I feel His smile.

6:45 PM  I am finished. Carefully folding them, I place them in my car.  Morning can't arrive soon enough.

Wednesday 9:00 AM Sauntering down the pristinely waxed hallway, I arrive at the "Little Man's" room.  The teacher is teaching.  Crouching down, I ask him to go put them in his backpack.  He says nothing, but takes them onto his lap and places his grungy left hand on top of them.  His milk chocolate eyes dance and his mouth is turned up in a gigantic smile.  Standing up, I force myself to walk away.

Maybe I should be more like this "Little Man".  His explicit trust in my ability to fix his problem never wavered.  How often do I come to my Father and ask for help, only to walk away with it still in my hands.  Psalms 55:22 in the Message says, "Pile your troubles on God's shoulders - he'll carry your load, he'll help you out..."  Maybe it's time I handed over my "overalls" and ran out the door proclaiming, "He's going to fix _____!" (You fill in the blank.) 

What do you need to hand over? 

Until we Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl



The Plank-Eyed Girl: Revolts; Secret Places; and Whispers

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Revolts; Secret Places; and Whispers: This day, like all 17 school days before it, seems to be filled with issues that I don't have a quick remedy for.  They are multi-...

Revolts; Secret Places; and Whispers

This day, like all 17 school days before it, seems to be filled with issues that I don't have a quick remedy for.  They are multi-tiered, and certainly not my forte.  My heart is ready to revolt.  I have felt this revolt rising for the last 16 school days and now, I'm afraid it is about ready to explode with some very ugly outward signs.  

 My days used to be filled with books, children, and teaching.  Now days, they are filled with other things that create a heaviness inside of me.  A revolt is impending.  Hours creep by, as I continue attempting to gain answers by reading "How to's" and googling.  

Unexpectedly, a group of students saunter in to find new books and in an instant, I find myself out of my office and skipping toward them.  Like a young child being let out to recess, I approach a small one in front of the

Lego books in the middle of the aisle, he pats the floor and locks eyes with me.  Not being able to resist the invitation, I plop down onto the floor. He snugs up next to me, just like we are the only two in the library.  Before I know it, he makes his way onto my lap.  (I love first graders, they don't know that students aren't suppose to sit on teacher's laps.)  I am savoring the moments with him. 

I am blind and deaf to everything else around me. My heart is receiving much needed oxygen. Suddenly, another set of little arms wrap around my neck from behind, like a butterfly closing its wings around itself.   I feel a head close to my ear and another Little One whispers, "I LOVE the library.  When I am having a bad day or when I am sad, I come here and it makes my heart happy."  I lock eyes with him and wonder if he really understands how powerful this moment is for my heart.  His words are undiluted and authentic. Spoken from a place deep inside of him. In this instant, my heart is full and I am grateful for the opportunity to pour into these little ones.  

I LOVE that the library is this Little One's secret place.  I also have secret places where my heart finds peace and re-inflation.  Sometimes it is behind the lens of a camera.  Other times it is in the air swirling and circling my body as I run barefooted on my

secret sandy beach.  Yet, in other moments, it is when I am carefully cocooned inside my velvety sunflower yellow throw in my overstuffed purple

studio chair.  In all these "secret" places, the one consistent, calming factor is His presence that whispers to my soul, "Be still, I've got this and I've got you!"  

May your secret place be filled with His presence and my your heart hear your creator whisper, "Be still my child.  I've got this and I've got you."

Enjoy the gift of this day!

Until we Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Hooker Shoes; Sequined Slinky Dress; and an Unforg...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Hooker Shoes; Sequined Slinky Dress; and an Unforg...: As silent as a feather falling from the sky, my feet slid into my beautiful hooker shoes.  My body screams, "YOU are a fool!  It has...

Hooker Shoes; Sequined Slinky Dress; and an Unforgettable Night

As silent as a feather falling from the sky, my feet slide into my beautiful hooker shoes.  My body screams, "YOU are a fool!  It has been to many years since you walked in these."  My heart is set and there is no going back.  

Approaching the closet, my hand probes the dark enclosure.  With the silence of a butterfly landing on a flower,  my fingers gingerly alight on the chosen garment for the evening.  I remove the hanger and slide into it.  Like a free falling waterfall,  the slinky, black sequined material falls over my softly aged body.  

Vowing not to look in the mirror, I turn my head away as I pass.  I am aware that my mind has one
"better than life" picture of what I probably look like, and TONIGHT, I want to savor that. 

Moments pass, and my escort for the evening is straightening his attire in the loo.  The mild enticing aroma of his cologne arrives before my eyes rest on him. I hear a pregnant pause in his footsteps as he enters the room.  Arising from the edge of the bed, our eyes meet.   Oddly, it feels like our own wedding day, but I am reminded that that was over thirty years ago.  His arms slides around me and he whispers, "You look beautiful!"

I slid my hand through his arm and we stroll to our vehicle.  A warm breeze gently enters through the open car windows and gently wraps itself around me.  Peace and excitement are my companions on this drive.  

Arriving at the stunning lakeside venue, I am greeted by my soon-to-be new daughter.  Her kind heart; gentle mannerisms; and love for my son is evident is each action and word.  She is simply beautiful inside and out. My heart is overwhelmed and I can feel the hot tears sneaking out already.

Two hours have slipped through my fingers.  My mind is searching for a way to stop time.   I want to fully savor every detail of this evening. However, the grains of sand keep sliding through the eternal hourglass and I know that my search is futile, so I will do the best I can to allow each moment to be etched into my heart with indelible ink.

Giving us the final instructions, the Rabbi strolls to the front of the lakeside deck and the ceremony proceeds. Pristine beauty and raw emotion twirl through the next thirty-three minutes as the traditional Jewish ceremony

brings these two precious humans together as man and wife and the ketubah is penned.  My heart is full of gratefulness.  My feet are still enjoying my shoes.

In true jewish custom, the fabulous celebrating starts and, us who are new to the family, attempt to join in.  My feet do not know the dances, but my heart is determined to fully

celebrate with them. Laughter and joy are a delectable mix as they the room is filled with movement, song, and joy.   New people   (family and friends) to love; Dancing; Sentimental and funny toasts; Hilarious photo booth opts; Cuban cigar rolling; Warm, fresh, donuts to die for; A beautiful honoring memorial table; Scrumptious food; and wonderful new family is all embraced.  Truly this is an unforgettable evening!

1:10 am I am horizontal in a splendid hotel room, but my mind is reliving each precious moment. 3:10 arrives and I become aware that my feet are tremendously swollen. It is in this moment that I realize they are throbbing and this is why sleep is evading me.  Maybe I missed the lesson, but for this stubborn, Plank-Eyed Girl, I still think the shoes were perfect!  

May you savor the moments that make your heart breath and your soul thank the one who created you.

Until we Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

Gluts, Subway Trains, and Eight Minutes of Life

I feel it, long before I see it.  Suddenly, out of the dark hole, it arrives.  Like a silver bullet being shot out of a gun, it hurls itself forward toward the loading platform.  

I glance at my phone, 11:30 pm. We are part of a larger crowd, standing along the edge of the loading platform. As the subway screeches to a halt, the train opens it's sliding doors.  Glancing at the human sardine can in front of me and then at my friend, she gives me a reassuring smile, grabs my arm, and we are moving toward the door.  With only seconds left, she slides in under several taller people, attempting to pull me with her.  The only problem is that I am MUCH taller and bigger than she is.  My foot barely makes it over the threshold and a tall, strong gentleman reaches out, places his hand on my lower back, and pulls me forward into the contorted mangle of bodies.  I reach up for a hand grip, and realize there is a smallish lady with her face directly in my armpit, oh yikes! (I can only imagine what she must be thinking.)  Not wanting to stand out as a "visitor", I decide not to make eye-contact.  My unreasonable mind decides to have fun with this. Suddenly, thoughts of "the train crashing and the aid workers finding an odd assortment of body parts in places that they shouldn't be" are swirling and attempting to hijack the hilarity of this situation.  

Seconds tick by and the doors start to slide shut but bounce back open.  My body is touching so many others, I am working hard to remain calm. Obviously, people around here don't seem to have a problem with this.  Maybe it is just my "West Coastness" and my desire to keep a personal bubble around me.  Anyway, I just keep telling myself that this will just be for eight minutes as we go under the Hudson River.   I can do anything for eight minutes.  

Suddenly, the gentleman who just pulled me in by my back, simultaneously gives me a sympathetic glance, whispers "Sorry, lady" and scoops my bum up and into the car.  Yes, you guessed it, the door couldn't close because my bottom was in the way.  Realizing this is an awkward situation for both of us, I attempt to stand still and think of other things.  BUT....I can't, this is just too hilarious and I fear it is about to get even funnier.  This stranger now has his hand on my bum and won't be moving it for the next eight minutes because he can't!  It is stuck between the pressure of my well developed gluts and the steel door.  Truly, it is like a can of sardines, with five too many crammed in.   To top it off, there is a deafening silence in the train car and all I can think of is, "The pizza I ate after the poetry slam, really isn't sitting well in my tummy.  I hope the rumblings don't decide to exit before the eight minute ride to Hoboken is over." 

The train finally pulls into the station and the doors open.  We have arrived and I am beyond grateful.  

Taking care to keep my joy contained and my eyes diverted, I exit with the masses up the steep stairs to freedom.  Suddenly I am stifling the giggles.  I can't even tell my sweet friend what has taken place because I am undone with laughter.  

It is 12:10 am.  Strolling through the dark streets of Hoboken, we chat about the evenings events; poetry and short story readings; deliciousful tapas with Adrian Pasdar and the two others; the "Snakeman";  and the fact that I am so "West Coast".  It has been an amazing day.   

Arriving back at her 500 square foot residence, we quickly dress for bed and turn the lights off.  I lay here pondering the gift of this day.  My heart is full;  my mind is entertained;  my body is exhausted; and I am grateful that the air-biscuit did not escape on the train.  Joy and contentment for the gift of this day flood my heart and I smile as I drift off to sleep.  Maybe this is what all days are intended to be like?

I never knew that eight minutes of life could be so full of wild experiences; random thoughts, and such a vast variety of feelings.  Maybe this is how life really is - just eight minutes.  When I am old, and my body is worn, will my life feel like just one long eight minute adventure?  May we not be so plank-eyed and self-absorbed as to waste the days that our Creator has gifted to us for His purposes. 

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your S...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your S...: Tonight, effortlessly,  I  draw my pen across the paper.  The smooth, colorful, purple ink magically adhering to the paper. Something...

Which Instrument and Which Author Will Tell Your Story?

Tonight, effortlessly, I draw my pen across the paper.  The smooth, colorful, purple ink magically adhering to the paper. Something about this is inexplicably enticing, mesmerizing, and familiar to me. The pen seems to dance across the page like a ballerina on pointe. A stream of beautiful, powerful words appear as the pen moves. These words are permanent and indelible.  

Pausing to read what has been penned, I realize that these words silhouette my heart's plans, desires, and thoughts. Both ink and words flow effortlessly.  There is more begging to flow out.

I continue. More ink. More words.  More sentences.

Finally my fingers pause, the pen drops and my eyes focus in on the penned purple words. Oddly though, after one casual reading, I find my thoughts centering in on the permanency  of the ink.   It feels like the writing is calling out to me. It is telling me that I have a say in my life, trying to convince me that it means I have control over my journey because I have used ink.

I pull the soft yellow blanket over me and ponder the "Writing" which is precariously resting on the arm of the overstuffed purple chair.  

It reminds me of a new chickadee ready to take flight for the first time.  Snuggling deeper into the coziness of the cushions, my mind races back to a similar piece of writing done with the same type of ink ten years ago.  Suddenly, I am propelled up and out of the chair.  Like a human cannonball being shot out of a rocket, I fly with abandon into my bedroom, drop on all fours with my bottom in the air and dig in the tub under my bed.  Surfacing with the paper, I return to the safe coziness of my purple chair.

Gingerly I unfold it.   It reads like this:

  1.  Quit teaching at 20 years

  2.  Design clothing

  3.   Have grandchildren

  4.  Live on the beach in a tropical climate

Closing my eyes, the realization whacks me in the head that NONE of these things have come true, even though they were written passionately in purple ink.  Hum.....

I like ink.

It is smooth.

It flows freely and almost effortlessly.

It comes in pretty colors.

It is continual.

It is permanent.

Why had I been thinking that if I wrote in ink, it was supposed to happen?  I even discovered additional notes with "steps" to ensure I reached these goals. However, here I sit with NONE of them accomplished. My mind is vacillating between amusement and disappointment.  Honestly, at the moment, it is giving me whiplash.  What kind of "False Beliefs" have I had about who is really in charge of my life?

How plank-eyed of me to think that I would or could "plan" the trajectory of my days, let alone my life by putting it in "ink".  Very little of my life has turned out as I planned or even thought it would. God has orchestrated my days for His purposes and it has been one unpredictable, marvelous, painful, and wild adventure that I wouldn't trade a moment of for accomplishing any one of those goals.   

Maybe this plank-eyed girl will try writing in pencil.  

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

Shades of Gray, Dumbo the Elephant, and The Power of the Pen

Contagious laughter bounces off the inside of sun-warmed car windows.  Shades of gray slowly pull themselves up around this part of the planet as dusk gives way to twilight. We inch our way towards the evening Beth Moore event with 5,000 other women. Four, freshly woven together friends, sharing space on this adventure.  

Lively, authentic conversation bounces between us like a bouncy ball being thrown by an orangutan. Laughter is easy and a wide range of topics seem to be on the table.

Unexpectedly, one innocent comment about India gently glides out and an avalanche of well-intentioned conversation takes place. Questions about my intended trip this summer.  Questions about my health. Statements of fact are laid bare for all the ears in the vehicle to hear and absorb.  I do not like what I hear them say!  

Unbeknownst to the others, my heart is now buried under the pile of innocent words; probing words; and words that invisibly wrap themselves in knots around my last thread of hope. Frantically, I attempt to

brush these words off, like crumbs off a table top, but they do not budge. They have attached themselves like stinging nettles and no amount of shaking will loosen their grip.

Arriving at the event, we shuffle inside with the masses.  Oversized sacred satchels; fragrant floral aromas; and Starbucks in hand seem to be the norm for this crowd of females.  Following the others to our perch, I open the door in my mind and ask these intrusive thoughts to please leave, but they keep circling like a catchy commercial jingle that I can't get out of my mind.  

Three hours lapse by and once again we are encapsulated in a moving vehicle returning to our temporary nest for the night.  I am silent.  I feel a headache bloom.  My chest feels like

Dumbo the elephant has just taken a seat on it and has no intention of moving any time soon.  My hope silently smothered.  The friendly chatter in the car continues oblivious to where I am emotionally at. Hurt finding fertile soil in my head and heart.

Silently my feet find their way to our room - #556.

I slide into the bathroom where I can wear my worried face all alone. Glancing in the mirror, I realize the roots of my hair are the color of a dusty squirrel.  My almond shaped, brown eyes are brimming  with iridescent liquid that wants to create its own stream on my smooth cheek. Slipping out of my attire and into my comfy night clothing, I find my way back to the generous bed that is awaiting me.   

Within moments, my BFF joins me and sparse words are exchanged.  As if a volcano was erupting, I blurt out, "Can we NOT talk about India?"  Silence.  More silence.  Even more silence.  Then she speaks.  "Sure".  That is it.  No other words are exchanged.  Soon her rhythmic breathing starts and I know she has drifted off.  I am alone with the blackness of this night and my strangled hope.  

The shadows dance across the wall, beckoning me to come with them. Enticing me to just "Get up and leave."  Hours slowly slither by.

I flop like a fish out of water, leaving the bed covers in a heap. My hurt turns to anger.




2:00 AM  Out of the velvety darkness, my swirling thoughts are suddenly silenced and a gentle whisper  states, "I ONLY asked you to send your books to India, NOTHING more."  Being the tenacious, strong-willed being that I am, my protesting instantly starts, "But they asked me to come." "But libraries are what I know."  "But it is easier than writing."  I lay here absorbing the power of that statement.  I hear it again, "I ONLY asked you to send your books to India, NOTHING more."    I lay here absorbing the immense power of that statement.  Hum.....

It is in this moment I realize that I have spent the last year asking my Father for clarification about these two amazing opportunities in front of me - putting in libraries in third world countries or writing and speaking.  Of course, I was plank-eyed enough to think that just maybe I could do both well.  

Now, I know that this evening through conversation amongst trusted friends; and His gentle whisper, I have received my answer.  

May you trust that when you ask Abba for an answer, HE is faithful to bring it you, even though it might not be how you had envisioned it happening.  He does use those that love us and know us best to prepare the soil of our hearts to hear Him.  Looking forward to how He plans to use the "power of my pen."

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: My Autobahn, My Studio, and the Gift of Personal...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: My Autobahn, My Studio, and the Gift of Personal...: This day has been lived on the Autobahn. There has been no time to consume any type of nourishment and thus, it  sounds like an angry lio...

My Autobahn, My Studio, and the Gift of Personal Postcards

This day has been lived on the Autobahn. There has been no time to consume any type of nourishment and thus, it  sounds like an angry lion is residing inside of my stomach.  Ugh!  What to do?  I am attending a dinner birthday party at seven, which means we easily won't eat till eight. Making a decision that could be regrettable later, I am heating up some tomato bisque.  Adding a tantalizing white cheddar grilled cheese sandwich will be scrumptious.  Tonight, I simply need comfort. 

Sliding into my

plum overstuffed chair in my studio, I feel it wrap itself around me, inviting me to breath deeply and find stillness.  The deliciousful food is rejuvenating my tired body. 

From my cocooned position, my eyes survey my studio.

It is my sanctuary. It is where I create, but it is also where my heart and mind find rest.   

I look at the table next to my chair.  My eyes are drawn to the pile of postcards.  These cards are comprised both of personal photos turned into postcards, and those glossy postcards bought at the store.

 Both types contain life-giving words delicately woven together, like a fine tapestry, from those who know me best.  Words that provide much needed nourishment for my soul.


As I sit cocooned in my favorite lemon yellow blanket, my thoughts turn into conversation between my Abba and me. I hear my voice audibly asking for an increased ability to see and hear whatever He finds important tonight.  My thoughts waltz around the room and my prayers spill out of me, like water falling over a waterfall. Moments turn into minutes and my heart is saturated with His peace and presence.

In the stillness of this moment I hear Him whisper, "Get off the autobahn and allow the written words from ME to bathe your soul."  Immediately, my heart protests, "But I do!"  

Where did THAT come from?  Ugh!  My flesh has a difficult time dying.  I glance at the book resting on my lap. It is in this moment that I understand.  His words written in this book are like one BIG postcard to me.  I have to wonder if I would read them differently if they arrived each day via snail mail in small sound bites on postcards?  Would I look forward to reading them, the way I do when these postcards arrive from the ones that know me best? Would I experience the nourishment that my soul longs for?  

Today when you take some moments to read His words to you, may you think of them as "Postcards" coming to you from the one who thought you up and longs to nourish your soul.

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl