He is..

He is more than the image of a man. He is who he appears to be. His product matches his bill of sales.

He is whole. He is real. He is more than male. He measures his value in more than the size of his penis.

He is active brain. He thinks and ponders before he speaks. He is more than a high IQ to inflate his ego. He is more than his ability to amass feverish jumbles of words, thrown together in tremendous wave after wave to overtake the listener.

He completely uncovers himself as he speaks. He bears himself naked before you. He desires you know his mind and see within his heart.

He is sure enough within himself that he need not prove his strength. He is strong enough to be vulnerable. He is curious and discovers like a child. He is excited and exciting. He is interested and interesting. He is willing to commune and communicate.

He is growing, changing, transforming, and evolving. He is stretching himself into the full breadth and depth of who he is created to be. He searches within himself and marvels at what he finds. He has peace as he grows into his own greatness. His plans for the future contain no thoughts of “average”, “mediocre” or “just okay”.

He believes he was formed in the image of God, co-creates with God, loves like God, and manifests God. His life is bigger than his appetites. He believes in a “We” enhanced by, not at the cost of “me”.

He lives with honesty and integrity even when no one is looking. He believes his word is an extension of who he is and it holds weight to him. He is accountable to himself to demonstrate dignity and respect. His goal is to be a man of great honor. He strives to be a man of great peace.

He has pride in everything he touches. He has pride in how he works. He has pride in how he cares for those he loves and those who love him. He weighs his actions on how they affect everything connected to him.

He is passionately contagious. He is an inspiration. He is physical. He is spiritual. He is all that he is and unashamed. He has feelings, but his feelings don’t have him.

He sees us as one spirit in two bodies. He believes an injury to me is a wound to his own heart. He takes no victory in winning at my expense. He delights in me. He is passionate about me. He wants me but does not need me. He is affected by me. He is moved by me. He is excited by me. He is inspired by me. He is proud of me. He is honored to walk with me. He is strength to me. He is in love with me. He is love to me.

He is generous. He is kind. He is wise. He is mine.

He is worth waiting to find…

What is Sexy?

It is “head up, shoulders back.”

It is the perfect arch of an interested eyebrow.

It is soft lips parting to reveal sparkling white teeth.

It is the instant you catch eyes and your lips curl into an inviting smile.

It is the skin tight “freak ‘em” dress and matching stilettos.

It is a clean white t-shirt, bare feet and your best fitting pair of jeans.

It is a chromed out motorcycle complete with loud pipes.

It is the rhythm of bass in your favorite love song.

It is in the rest between the notes.

It is in the space between the inhale and the exhale.

It is watching your man cut the grass on a hot day, all sweaty and stuff.

It is installing my own washer and dryer while my baby girl hands me the tools.

It is short puffs of warm breath at the nape of your neck sculpting air into “I love you.”

It is when your nose draws in the scent of your lover as you nuzzle your face into his chest.

It is in your core, in your belly, in your hair follicles.

It is universal and it is cellular.

It is fragrant and pleasing.

It is delicious and satisfying.

It is both cool and warm to the touch.

It is more than I could ever identify, but in short, it is amazing!

Prometheus

“God uses a spoon made of sparkling silver to slowly dig out the deepest part within my guts. Then He feeds them to me as a noxious mix laced with bile. Digging and feeding. Digging and feeding. Digging and feeding, over and over.

“The taste lingers at the back of my throat. It coats the whole of my tongue. Between burping up the taste of it, I cry out unto God. ‘What have I done? Why do You hate me so much? Tell me what I can do to make You forgive me and I will do it in a instant. Please! Please! Please!’ And then I wake up, feeling the presence of the hole in the pit of my stomach and tasting bile on my tongue.”

Normally, my therapist’s office is filled with the sound of her pencil busying itself across her yellow legal pad. It takes a minute to realize I am not hearing the familiar sound. As I glance to her hand, I see it suspended in midair, hovering over the pad. Lifting my gaze to her face, I find her mouth is open, her glasses low on the bridge of her nose, eyes opened in terror, and both her eyebrows raised in fright.

“Prometheus?”

“Sorry?”

“Ummm,” she begins, followed by a loud exhale. “I can honestly say no one has ever told me they dream they are Prometheus. I am not sure if you are familiar with Greek Mythology, but in this particular fable, Prometheus steals fire from Zeus to give to mortals. As his punishment, he is chained to a rock. Each day for eternity, a buzzard eats out his liver, causing him excruciating pain, only to have the liver grow back each night and the cycle repeat itself the next day.”

She waits for my reaction.

“Do you know the worst part of it? It is not the fact I have been having this dream every single night for as long as I can remember. It is not the pain of having my insides pulled out with a spoon. You get use to the pain after awhile, it becomes normal. It gives you something to focus on once you submit to the fact that God does indeed hear you, but He’s choosing not to respond.

“The worst part of the dream is the stillness, the time when my insides grow back. I sit in that space and pray for mercy. I pray they will not grow back so I can just die and get it over with. I pray God will tell me what I could have possibly done to piss Him off enough to warrant this as punishment.”

“It’s not often I find myself speechless,” she begins. “But, I can honestly say I don’t know where to begin. Do you believe there is symbolism in dreams or do you feel they are stories your mind creates as you sleep?”

“I was once told by a friend that dreams are your spirit and your mind having a conversation. She said we are each of the figures in the dream. So in this case, I am God and I am the tortured prisoner as well. But, if I am God, why don’t I show mercy on myself?” I fix her with a hard gaze letting her know I am ready for her to tell me the truth I am not able to speak to myself.

“The way I see it, you believe this is who you are, unworthy of love, kindness, or compassion. You put yourself into a torturous scene in your dreams each and every night, and dole out this merciless punishment because you feel you deserve it.”

I know she’s right because the storm of clouds that was inside my chest as I was speaking suddenly become still. I still make the required face of disagreement and wave my hand in protest. “What could I have done to feel I deserve that kind of treatment?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know.” I am not exactly lying, but the truth is too much to say, even to myself.

“This is not about God at all. You are using Him as the scapegoat. For you, if God is torturing you than number one, it MUST BE what you deserve and number two, you don’t have any hope of getting out, therefore no responsibility to try. So what is it? What have you done that makes you deserve to be punished without mercy for all of eternity? What could you have possibly done to deserve that?”

I raise my face and lock eyes with her before I can speak. In almost a whisper I say, “The thing I did that deserves to be punished? Well, it’s because I was born.”

Our Finest Impulses

This week a young man I know tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned and was surprised to see him because I don’t think we have ever spoken before.  He said, “Here, Dee.  This is for you.”

I looked down at the piece of plain white folded copy paper and wondered what would be written inside.  Okay, honestly, I thought it was an obituary.  I mean, perhaps I am pessimistic, but I could not imagine what information he needed to pass me in the form of a “note”.

I sat in my chair with my back to him and gave a few minutes contemplation as to if I should open it now or wait until later.  My curiosity got the best of me and I opened the paper on the spot.  This is what the words on the paper said to me:

“When I heard you speak yesterday it reminded me of this quote. Just thought I would pass it along.”

“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” – Henry Miller

I choked back the tears that I found suddenly stinging my eyes.  I turned around and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”  He blushed and shook off the gratitude with a shake of his head.  I spent the rest of my day being amazed that God showed up through this young man to tell me to stay on the path.

The next day, before I saw him again, I wrote this note to him.

I Just Wanted to Say…

How grateful I am that you did not “slaughter” your fine impulse and gave that quote to me.  It is a powerful quote.  It is powerful enough to make me clutch the paper for the rest of the afternoon, reading it over and over a hundred times.  It is powerful enough to now be pinned to the wall of my cubicle where my eyes are trained to seek out rest.  It is powerful enough to make me contemplate tattooing it in a full body mural so I don’t ever forget it.  (A writer with tattoos… per chance too cliché?)

What is even more powerful is that you thought enough of me to take the time to give it to me.  You were kind to a “random-crazy-crying-lady”.  Your simple thoughtful deed leaves my heart in near hysterics… laughing and crying, all at the same time.  Kindness like yours always rocks me to my very core.

It reminds me that when I feel invisible, I am seen.  It reminds me that when I feel mute, I am heard.  It reminds me that God cares enough to show up through you and let me know I am seen, I am heard, and I am not alone.

Your thoughtfulness is enough to send me rambling on, filling page after page.  Rest in knowing your kindness is carried within my heart all the days of my life.  “Thank you” is not large enough to express what my heart really wants to say, but as it is all I possess, I offer it now to you.  Thank you, My Friend.  Thank you.

Love

Quietly, I sit flowing freely between this world and the next, lost in thought, bathing in the afternoon sun. I am here, but not quite present. My mind drifts to a gentler place. I afford myself the luxury of easing into a space where all things are probable and anything is possible. I allow myself refuge in the place called “enough”. Enough hope. Enough grace. Enough peace. Enough of all things.

To the untrained eye, my gaze may appear far beyond the place where my body reclines. In reality, my gaze is trained upon me. I am curiously searching myself, eager to see what it is I will find. What do I feel? What do I want? What do I believe? What am I becoming? What blooms inside of me? What dream still lies hidden there, covered by promises of “tomorrow”?

As I reach the stillest place within myself, a silly summer breeze dances across my hands, eases sweetly up my arms and wraps me within itself like a lover’s embrace. Easily, effortlessly, and gently my mind awakens to what my heart already knows.

I am created in love. I am designed to love. I am the image and essence of love. Like love, I am endless. Like love, I am universal. Like love, I am eternal. I AM LOVE.

Boiling Pot

Today, I feel as if I could climb outside my own skin.  I caught myself doing a clawing motion with my fingers on my neck as I spoke.  Something within me wants to open and express what I am feeling without first translating it into thought. 

I am a boiling pot of water with the lid taped on.  I am alien.  I am foreign.  Both the human and the Being in conflict for control of me.  I am far past wondering if what I feel is “normal”.  Now, I only gauge if I am “feeling” my feelings or being consumed.  To stave off total consumption, I began to write and this is what came to mind…

I would lay hold of myself and rip apart my chest like Clark Kent rips off his shirt to reveal Superman underneath.  I would strip myself of all flesh, all pretense – class, age, weight, gender, race.  I would peel off this body and let the light, the heat, the energy and power pour out of me.  I would stand as I am in my true form with all the radiance of the sun.  I would stand in a form that time and time again proves to be too large for this little body that stifles it. 

I would do it with the full knowledge that only a chosen few would understand, quietly praying they would be inspired by this courageous act and do the same.  I would do it with the full knowledge that those people cloaked in fear would be forced to cower and run and hide.  I would do it with the full knowledge that it would breed envy and hate from others without the courage to do the same.  And I would unleash a roar of fearless, boisterous laughter that would cover both the heavens and the earth. 

Crying out unto God my voice would bellow, “Why give us hearts that are tender, let them harden through pain, only to make them soften once again?  Why put Your Spirit into this flesh so far away from You, only to make us long and desire for home?  Why make us all in the brilliance of Your Image, only to strike us blind to the true form of ourselves and others?  Why give us the power to create through the “Word” only to leave each of us standing atop a heap of rubble, the fragments of our own Tower of Babel?”