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
  

Dormant Volcanos; Warm Maple Syrup, and the gift of the "M" Word

Laughter erupts from the depths of my soul.  Like a dormant volcano coming to life.  It is unexpected and deep. There is a long, awkward pause on the other end of the phone.   The nurse repeats her message but tries different words.   Now I am gasping for air. This is a joyous, uncontainable laughter from very deep inside my soul. The velocity and uncontainableness surprises even me.  It is spilling out all over the airwaves, like lava, it bubbles and spreads. 

More silence.....

The nurse haltingly tries again. The words quickly spilling from her throat like

warmed maple syrup. Unbeknownst to her, these words pour over my being and seem to coat it in an invisible sweetness that I have not known before. 

She tries again, this time with an explicit explanation using the "M" word. Finally, with slight exasperation she asks me if I have any questions.  Like a helium balloon that has almost run out of helium, I barely squeak out a, "no". 

The line goes dead and I realize the conversation is over.  I want to go outside and shout at the top of my lungs, "I MADE IT!"  but instead I text a couple friends and we have a good giggle.  One even offers to make me a warm

double fudge chocolate cake to celebrate.  I am absolutely sure this poor nurse has NEVER had any woman respond in this manner.  Poor thing! 

Now to be honest, some of my friends are simply dumbfounded at my joy!     Evidently, they have not brushed with the possibility of not making it to this moment and season in life.  I have and to be honest, those moments have pulled me up with the reality of my fragileness as a human being and the limited amount of moments I will get to live on this planet.  Therefore, I intend to "pause" and celebrate without the "men"!  (Sorry guys, it's a girl thing.)

So...tonight I celebrate that I have been given this gift and am being welcomed into this new season. I want to embrace it and enjoy all the richness of the moments. May you find joy in even the small milestones that mark your life with transitions and forward movement.

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl