Unexpecting

Isaiah 54:1* Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song and shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are your children than the children of her who has given birth.

When this scripture was read at my prayer writing group I couldn't help seeing a little of myself and where I'm at in life in it.

I have no children of my own. While to describe a woman as barren would generally indicate a more permanent and less voluntary state than I would presume or wish for myself (or anyone), the fact remains that I've never given birth. I've never experienced labor or held a baby in my arms knowing it came from me.

I don't have a family of my own to raise (though I hope to someday), yet I spend my days raising children. I've cared for enough families I've lost track of how many. I've had countless kids capture pieces of my heart, and to myself I call them my kids. Especially recently, now that I'm working for a single family instead of a preschool with dozens of kids, I've caught myself saying “my __ year old” and adding “that I watch” or “that I babysit” before telling something they did, to prevent confussion over why I talk about “my” kids but never have them with me. And so I have both many kids and no kids.

*I adapted from the New International Version

Update

It's been almost two weeks since I've posted anything, so here's a quick update. The time change has screwed with the kids' I watch schedule, so they haven't been napping regularly and I haven't been able to write as much while they sleep. I've actually a little bit been making up for that lost writing time in the evenings and weekends, but at those times I've been writing job applications since I only have my current position through the end of the school year. I've also been thinking a lot about life and career goals and what my long term plans (or perhaps lack of plans) are, but I need to sort all of that out more before I can post anything about it. In the mean time, if you know anyone in PA looking for childcare please let me know.

Flash Fiction - Hide and Seek

I finally decided to write something for the flash fiction prompt a writing group I'm in sent out a few weeks ago: "That's when I realized I could control time and space"

Hide and Seek

I was only six. My brother had yelled at me for the millionth time that I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends. He said I wasn't old enough and I would cry when I wasn't any good at what they were playing. He'd only reluctantly agreed to let me join them when Max told him to just let me play so I wouldn't go crying to our mom.

I saw Max whisper something to him and him nodding before he told me “We're playing hide and go seek. You get to hunt first, but you have to find everyone in ten minutes or you're out of the game.”

One of his friends snickered “She'll never find us all.”

“Close your eyes for one minute so we can hide, and then you get ten minutes to hunt.” My brother issued his final instructions to me then turned to his friends “Come on.”

I closed my eyes and started counting silently before remembering the new watch I'd gotten for my birthday had a second hand on it, so instead of counting I quickly pulled my head and arms into my coat and stared at my watch. I willed the second hand to move faster as I waited for the big kids to hide, and it seemed to work. I burst my head and arms back out of my coat yelling “ready or not here I come!”

Silently I prayed for ten minutes to be long enough to find them. That minute had seemed to move so fast, I willed time to slow down. I knew the territory for our game spanned the space of six yards, but I tried to convince myself that wasn't half as big as it seemed. Looking up the houses seemed closer together, and even smaller then usual.

That's when I realized I could control time and space, and my brother and his friends didn't have a chance.

My New Queen Sized Bed

Last night* I slept on a queen size bed in my own room for the first time in my life. I've always had a twin size bed and was never interested in trading it for a larger bed when I've been offered other beds in the past.

There's been a whole list of practical reasons for my attachment to my twin bed:

• I already have twin size sheets and blankets I like and have to find new ones if I got a larger bed.

• It takes up less space in my room.

• It's what I'm used to.

• Switching beds would take more work than keeping the one I had.

• The bigger beds I've been offered have been water beds, which I'm not a big fan of.

Those practical reasons haven't changed and still kind of annoy me a little, but there's something else, and that has changed.

There's a song by Death Cab for Cutie (see lyrics below) that puts into words better than I could why I didn't want a queen size bed in my room until I “needed” it. I wasn't exactly afraid, but almost. I didn't want that much extra space to feel lonely going to bed by myself at night. I didn't want to make room in my bed for someone else only to have them never come, or to end up sharing it with the wrong person. I didn't want to wait forever for the right person to come fill that space beside me.

But now there's a different feel to all that. I'm not trapped waiting for someone, and I'm not trying to fill a space beside me with guys who aren't worth it. I've actually met someone I want to wake up next to because it feels so right being with him. I'm not adding an empty space beside me (even though it's physically still empty most nights), and I'm not adding space for someone just because having anyone beside me sounds better than another night alone.

I don't want to jump ahead of myself, but I can't help thinking that sharing space and my life with this man will continue to feel right for a very long time, and I hope that's true, cause this is a good feeling.

Your New Twin Sized Bed

You look so defeated lying there in your new twin size bed

with a single pillow underneath your single head

I guess you decided that that old queen was more space than you would need

and now it's in the allay behind your apartment with a sign that says it's free

and that I hope you have more luck with this than me

you used to think that someone would come along and lay beside you in the space that they belonged

but the other side of the mattress stayed like new...

*actually two nights ago cause I rarely get things posted the day I write them.

Stress and Writing... Or Not

If you've ever tried to write I'm sure you've experienced writer's block at some point. It happens to all of us, and about the only way to completely avoid it is to just not write. Obviously just not writing isn't a satisfactory solution for me, so I've been thinking lately about what causes writer's block.

For about a month and a half I was spending fifteen minutes to an hour or more writing at least four days a week, then suddenly for the past week I couldn't really focus on writing any of those times. It's not that I suddenly stopped having anything important to say, or that my time available to write changed at all, I just hit a vague lack of focus and found myself unable to concentrate at any of the times I had been writing.

I'm realizing the biggest reason why – stress. The last time I stopped regularly writing for myself I was highly stressed over my school and work situation. Now I've spent the past week worrying over my finances. I realized my current income to expenses is not sustainable, so naturally I've been worrying. I've been hyper aware of how much money I'm spending, and thinking twice before putting anything I might some day want in the give away pile (I've been working on cleaning my room, but that a whole other subject) just because it might be more expensive than I can replace later, even if I don't need it now.

And my writing suffers. When I'm stressed or worried about something I can't fall into my writing like I do at other times. The stress holds me at the surface and ties me to reality when I would rather get lost in words. At best I do this, and ramble on paper about whatever is bothering me. At worst I can't focus, can't sit still, and find myself pacing the room, fidgeting anxiously, or sinking into depression. In any case I lose my creativity, and I hate that. If I don't have creative outlets I don't feel like myself.