My Words

I can never hope to be as good

As Dickinson or Keats:

My words are very feebly put

And I am bad with rhymes and patterns.

Yet every so often

The words spill out,

They lilt, songlike, onto the page,

And I feel that they are perfect.

Profound.

Beautiful.

Strong.

 

Perhaps if my own poor poetry

Can speak so much to me,

Another may enjoy it, too.

My thoughts may help another through

This murky business of living

And give them a little light.

Relief.

Happiness.

Connection.

 

Most people will probably think

That my talent is ordinary and meager,

Nothing to catch their minds.

But I write not for the critics, the experts, or the masses.

I write for the one.

I write for me.

I write for you.

Windows of opportunity

I wanted to clean the kitchen this morning. It had been dirty and yucky far too long, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I put on some favorite music, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, made sure the kids were happily playing with toys, then prepared to go to work. Before I even got started, Beth was crying; Noah had hit her on the head with a toy. Great.

I ran upstairs to hold and comfort my daughter. We sat and rocked on the floor until her cries faded to sniffles. I prepared to stand up and begin my intended chores, but before I could, she grabbed a board book and pushed it into my hands. Reluctantly, I sat down to flip through the pages with her. It was a short book; we flipped through and looked at the colorful pictures of animals several times. The penguin page was her favorite. After a few minutes, I tried to stand up again, but she stubbornly insisted that we read the book again. We looked at the book for a long time, and she finally got off of my lap.

By then, I had remembered a dish I needed to start in the crockpot for dinner. By the time that was done, it was time to get dressed and change diapers and take a shower. And my daughter continued to clamor for attention. My window of opportunity was gone. The kitchen remained a mess for most of the day.

I often tell myself that I can have it all: a clean house, happy children with ample attention from both parents, perfectly balanced meals, and time for myself to boot. But the truth is, I can't do it, at least not without a huge effort of organization and time management on my part. Which is not something I'm terrific at. So unless I fight against my personality and make myself adhere to some crazy schedule that starts at 6:00 a.m. and ends with a strict 10:00 bedtime, "having it all" isn't going to happen.

Maybe it would be easier to take the "window of opportunity" viewpoint, and willingly recognize that opportunities often have a cost. If you choose to do one thing, you automatically exclude another one. This morning, I had hoped for the opportunity to deal my messy kitchen. The cost of having fussy kids while I cleaned was too great, so instead, I took the opportunity to read to my daughter, and give her some much-needed extra love and attention. And, in the end, my day balanced out: later on, I had another opportunity to clean, and it worked out so much better for me and my little ones. By taking advantage of the windows of opportunity that present themselves, the important things usually work themselves out. Everything usually doesn't get done, that's true, but it seems better than trying to force a schedule upon oneself.

An Explanation

I already have a blog. A blog with lots of entries, pictures, and a good handful of followers. It's called Walk in Joy. I haven't been very good at updating it lately, and it would be easy to just add these entries to this old blog and feel good about picking it back up again. But the old blog is cluttered with many topics and types of posts. Someday, I intend to write there regularly again, and post lots of pictures of my little family there.

But sometimes, one needs a fresh start. A clean page. You won't see many pictures of my children, or Pinterest-inspired crafts, or delicious meal ideas here. I want to make a little place where I can send thoughts that are just my own into the universe. A place where I can open myself up a little bit more than I usually do.

Why call it Simply Vulnerable? Lately, I've been reading a beautiful book called The Gifts of Imperfection, by Brene Brown. It's brilliant, I think. It's given me a lot to think about. Her book is about living a wholehearted life. I'm not going to give a summary here, but she has some amazing things to say. This is one of my favorite quotes:

Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.

(Brown, Brene (2010-09-20). The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Suppose to Be and Embrace Who You Are (p. 6).)

I recently read another book entitled Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Another incredible, life-changing read. In it, she addresses the need for solitude, and how everyone needs to set some time aside each day to just be alone with one's thoughts--time to ponder, pray, meditate, write, dream, and reflect. I often do my best reflecting as I'm writing, which is one reason I love it so much. However, as a mom of two rambunctious kids, I've convinced myself that writing was something I didn't have time or energy for, much less daily solitude that involved anything more pensive than wondering what will happen in the next episode of Lost as I reach for the remote. I am learning that this, however, is not true, and beginning this blog is one step in my efforts to establish a regular pattern of intentional solitude.

This is a place for me to "own my story" and put myself out there a little more than I usually would in everyday life. This is a place for me to intentionally ponder, as often as I can, the joys and trials in this life God has granted me.

Beautiful Things

My house is not beautiful;

No art from Etsy here.
Just ugly hand-me-down lamps
And cheap laminate furniture.
Drab walls, all the same color
And a carpet that needs cleaning.

I have a dreamplace,

A home I pretend to have
With white cabinets
And walls painted in favorite hues.
Pretty curtains hang from the windows
And everything is clean.
“A place for everything, and everything in its place”
Is the motto of this dream,
But these beautiful things are a long time coming.

 Instead of curtains, paintings, and vintage picture frames,
My home is decorated with little fingerprints
And the occasional crayon mark
And dinner, splattered and dried,
And scribbled pictures tacked to the door. 
The theme of my bedroom is “laundry”
And the living room’s is “toys.”

 No, my house is not pretty,
And our few beautiful, breakable things are kept up high,
Out of the children’s grasp.
But I am in the business of making a home,
Not designing a house.
Designing will come later.
Now, my art is in creating a world
Of safety, peace, joy, and belonging,
Where the stuff of life is learned,
Laughter sings loud,
And the strength of love is felt.

Perhaps, someday, I will decorate
And make my house look just right.
But for now, these will suffice:
Giggles, picture books, tiny toes,
First steps, first words, and smiles.
My house is not beautiful,
But my home is.