Category: Pieces of Me

Disparity

How does one reconcile in ones’ mind the disparity between the rich and the poor?

As I soak up the sun on the dock of a beautiful lake home, on a glorious day, my mind turns to those in abject poverty.

Each situation; that of those enjoying the beautiful lake, and that of those suffering from hunger and want are conditions that were perhaps out of the control of those finding themselves in these situations.

How does Heaven view the rich and the poor? Are temporal things; gorgeous Lake homes, verses mud huts in third world countries, viewed differently from the Throne of God?

Does one represent a blessing while one represents indifference by the Almighty?

The heart of the poor, who put their children to bed hungry each night, is it somehow different from the heart of the one whose child eats contentedly?

Disparate.

How is it that with my out-of-focus mind, I question inequity? I am not a believer in redistribution of wealth, but I am a questioner. Is what I call a blessing rather a distraction? Or should I take this lovely day and do nothing more important than give thanks for it.

I give thanks, while also pondering the hungry waif and the struggling parents who question their lives; and perhaps question my life.

Reconcile my mind to You Lord.

Show me.

In tangible ways I want to be one who is aware; one who takes action.

Send Hope to the hopeless.

Send Love to the unloved; may we see by the Spirit of wisdom the condition of our own hearts.

May we seek and may we find as we seek You without the temporal distractions of this world.

May my disparity be one of soul, where I recognize that this world is but a shadow.

I want to continue asking.

I want to know.

What do I think? What do I do?

Most importantly; what do YOU think?

Who do I LOVE? What do I give.

Oh! Where does my heart wander as I soak up this sun?

Little One

Little One, what do you see?

Your ecstatic smile lights your face.

Are there reflective thoughts that you alone think? Is there a Voice that you alone hear?

What is this joy that you soley observe?

Seeing as you see would delight my soul.

Joy often eludes the old.

Beauty in Nature becomes insignificant; trivial and expected. Mundane.

Common.

How did I let Nature’s beauty escape the grasp of my mind; the very essence of self?

Did I stop listening to the whisper of the breeze? Is the sparkle in the dust somehow lost on me? The rainbow in the puddle; where did it go?

Little One. Revive my wonder.

Smile, twinkle, revel. Teach me.

Remind my spirit of the simple Beauty in smallness.

Oh Little One, share with me.

What do you see?

Heroes

You may never know your hero.

Who was that woman who stepped up to the cashier and swiped her debit card to pay for the groceries while I was panicking because my wallet wasn’t in my purse.

Who was the man who pulled over and changed my flat tire on the hot dusty road? He wouldn’t let me pay him.

There was a hero who had a chain and a pickup truck and rescued dozens of Texas drivers who slid into a ditch when a road was covered by unexpected and invisible ice.

Heroes wipe the tears of the heartbroken and offer tissues when life has become torrential-blinding-pain. When the world stops spinning and time stands still, the hero isn’t the myth flying around with a red cape, but the one offering a box of tissues, or a cool drink and a sandwich.

Some heroes have the gift of a smile that they offer freely and genuinely to the destitute, lonely and marginalized. They must possess some sort of X-ray vision allowing them to see society’s cast-offs.

Kindness and genuine concern seem to be their super power.

There are vocational heroes and there are volunteer heroes. There are heroes who do not think they are heroic. They walk and live and breathe in the midst of us. By their selfless actions we are encouraged. We hope.

You may never know your hero.

Strive though, to be heroic to one who needs to see hope in humanity.

Hope for humanity

Wisdom’s Call

Wisdom calls.

Where paths meet she takes her stand.

Wisdom’s voice is calling with this demand:

“Choose Wisdom not silver, knowledge not gold.

True wealth is something you cannot hold.”

Wisdom directs; “hate evil, fear the LORD.”

In listening hearts true treasure is stored.

Be filled with delight, rejoice in the day.

Seek Wisdom, and ask her, know her, and pray.

Seek her in the streets, find her at her door.

The favor she grants is knowledge, and more.

Wisdom CALLS.

Listen to hear.

Wisdom hopes

To draw you near.

(Proverbs 8)

Tsunami Again

The Tsunami: To my Rescuer

Mental illness was a tsunami. It wreaked total devastation; unannounced.

There was no warning before it swallowed me up in its miry depths.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Tossed.

My soul was wrecked and ravaged by the torrential savage tsunami.

On the very shores of death, I was deposited.

Pain and brutal sight surrounded me.

Those who were not dead already saw, as I saw, Destruction staring at us; Eye to eye.

Why.

Why did I see the depths?

Why did I take my last breath only to be recesitated and regurgitated by the creature Destruction?

Images burned into the silence in my soul will forever smolder because I have seen him. He knows my name.

Tsunami. I have seen you eye to eye and yet you did not overcome me.

Tsunami. I am stronger; I am wiser; and I am more compassionate because you tried to take me to the Miry Depths.

I however, had a rescuer, a resource of which neither of us knew would intervene.

I had a Storm-Stopper.

Burned into my soul was an ability to ride water.

I have no why.

I however have sight, that was given to me in the brief moment before you thought you had stolen my last breath.

The image of miry death and the torrential savagery are now Strength in me.

The collapse, and the devastation, is part of who I am.

I am not afraid.

I wear my burden lightly.

Again.

Again,

and again. Toss my soul if it allows me to see my Rescuer; my Redeemer; my Storm-Stopper.

Tsunami.

I know your name.

I know of your limitations.

I know who you are.

You?

You know my Rescuer.

Again.

Again

and again.

The Evolution of Me

10/04/2017

janatisdalehorton

Do I fight it or do I embrace it as the next step in the evolution of me?
The leathery softness, the sagging skin…the fishlike pattern worn into my arms as if the Artist used the wrong brush while painting the strokes.
Time has worn wrinkles of love, laughter, tears and worry into deep crags around eyes, mouth, cheeks, forehead and chin. All of these, mark the passing of time.
Time: slipping smoothly, soundlessly along while eroding my shell.
Time: marking me in ways my soul doesn’t feel and I cannot fathom.

Dust. Mist. Vapor.

Who am I internally?

Reason. Purpose. Direction?
Is my Soul marked in ways similar to the external? Are there deep crags?
Are there artistic renderings? Have I been marked in ways I cannot explain but for Time’s ceaseless ticking?

Joy. Sorrow. Solitude.

Each of these are etched into the very core of who I am. Only in accepting the internal and external changes am I able to truly love this new phase.
This me. Fighting Time is futile.
This Evolution of Me: how do I earnestly and eagerly seek it?

Surrender. Acceptance. Anticipation.

I must seek the Artist’s Vision and embrace, not just who I am, but also what I see; the timely eroding of the outer me. I want to accept it, not quietly but joyously, in anticipation of the new phase of who I am becoming. Wiser perhaps? Interested in things other than just the day-to-day mundane. Looking and seeking more… more wisdom, more value, more adventure?

Degeneration and wasting away of my outer body is inevitable; the wrinkles, the etchings each tell a story and are not going away, but are daily increasing. I must therefore work on a regeneration which builds up my inner self- my soul. The me inside the exterior shell must be fed a daily dose of joy, kindness and humility.

Wisdom in wasting is powerful wisdom, while the virile find strength to be their master, the weak master wisdom in the guise of humility. A humble heart, who can find? Pride and strength exalt themselves while kindness and love are found to be quiet and strong.

My Artist loves the changes being wrought in me. How can I question His definition of beauty?
A new rendering: beauty in difference? My soul seeks to see the same.


Was this really any better?

An Asymmetrical Girl

I am asymmetrical

In a symmetrical world

Asymmetrical

I am an asymmetrical girl.

I do not lack substance

Although I am not clearly defined.

My form may not be pleasing to you. I don’t really mind.

Beauty beholders will often see that some ideals are just trickery.

An Asymmetrical in this symmetry loving world…

Will see the depth of spirit in this overcoming girl.

YES

I am Asymmetrical in a symmetrical world Asymmetrical, I am an asymmetrical girl.

Dawn

My heart needs the whisper of the wind.

It needs the silence surrounding dawn.

My heart sheds tears as it hears the song of the birds. The sunrise brings fluttering things that I need to know.

White butterflies have an obscure beauty, a purity and humbleness that my heart aches for in ways that I do not understand.

Little Squirrel; where are you scampering? Worm, did you know that the mockingbird was eyeing you?

Gentle Breeze; why do you blow? Where are you going? Do you know?

Tears…where are you bound, as glorious day breaks, who sees you?

Why cry?

The Green Grass knows your soul and the Water sees its sister streaming from your heart.

Broken? This heart is not broken. This heart is longing; longing for the freedom, for the joy, for the release from the power of the dark night.

My heart needs the whisper of the wind,

the power of Dawn as she silently awakens the world.

My heart yearns for you, Dawn.

I need your Light in my dim soul.

My Boy

A boy soldier is marching to war

with arrow in hand ready to soar.

This boy has no fear marking his face.

He steadies his hand; readies his gaze.

The arrow flies to destiny’s flight; breathless boy in the darkening night.

His aim is true, the target secure.

My breathless boy is so fearless and pure.

The war rages on and arrows fly.

He braces his heart prepared to die.

Strength and terror an unlikely gift;

Prepared his soul for this coming rift.

He raises his eyes and clearly sees

Freedom coming; he falls to his knees.

Thankful for all that’s given to him,

The sun fades away growing so dim.

His father comes and grasping his hand,

Leads him to bed his day was so grand.

He dreams of peace not his pretend wars,

With wings of eagles, my boy now soars.

Day to Day Mommy

The Summer of Great Sorrows (TSoGS) last year, was the summer that took my Daddy’s life. His funeral was on the day of my Danny Boy’s birth. It was like grieving them both on the same day; new death and unforgotten death; together, buried on the same day. That day I greive two of the men I love unconditionally. They are out of my earthly life forever. It is the worst day on the “Jana” calendar; a day of my heart’s forever grief.

TSoGS also robbed my mommy.

I know. Mommy is not a word an adult uses for her mother. I did not know Mommy was a young child’s nickname for ‘Mother’ I thought “Mommy” was Helen Tisdale’s name.

Her name is still Mommy to me. When death takes her; I will be an earthly orphan, with both Mommy and Daddy: gone. It will replace 6/29/2018 as the worst day on the “Jana” calendar.

In The SoGS; there was a tragic accident that ended the life of my daddy in five short days and robbed my mommy of who she used to be.

It is certainly hard to reconcile in one’s heart that the best day of your life was one of the thousands of days that came before this day… but you don’t remember which day it was, or what happened on that day. That is what the accident took from my mom.

It took the memory of the best day of her life. It took the memories of all of the best days of her life.

She has so many jumbled long term memories, and then she has a short-term loop of memory.

I call her my Day-to-day-Mommy. She knows me. Every day she knows me. Every day she knows me but can’t remember yesterday.

‘I have never been to see her, and she wishes I would just call!’ (Her perception not her reality.)

My Day-to-day-Mommy is someone I am extremely grateful for, and am happy to have in my life, but she breaks my heart when she does not remember yesterday.

My Day-to-day-Mommy; I love you.

If Daddy and Mommy had both been killed in the accident during TSoGS, perhaps it would have been a more joyous exit from this earth for her. I think, however, it would have been the ruin of me.

We each must endure the heartaches we face; sometimes that means we are alone. Only we, know our own hearts; we know, and God knows. He sees our sorrow.

I hold to the belief that a day is a gift. My mom has been given additional days, and rather than being something that she just has to endure; there will be purpose and beauty. She (and I) will diligently seek the gift. It was a choice we did not make. It is not where we want to be, but it is where we are. This is the saying my mom coined after Dan’s death and is the grass burr behind my cerebral cortex.

“It is not where we want to be, but it is where we are.”

It is an unusual gift. No one wants undies for Christmas; but undies are a practical gift. Gifts are not always faery dust and joyous magical thing-a-ma-bobs. Some gifts are practical, useful and questionable. These gifts of days for my mom and me are like that… in our season of waterproof mascara, or naked eyelashes…we will unwrap this gift; me and my Day-to-day-Mommy.

It is where we are.

Where Do I Start?

Where did my song go?

Why can’t I sing?

Where is the joy

That God’s Spirit brings?

Why am I bound by

Life’s many woes?

Why was this heart

Shattered by my foes?

~~~~~~~~~

Have I been blinded?

I look within.

Am I deceived;

is it my own sin?

Will forgiveness

recover my joy?

Was I undone,

by a plot and ploy?

~~~~~~~~~

I must see clearly,

to really know.

I want vision,

in order to grow.

I need God’s Spirit.

That’s where I start.

I need melodies;

deep in my heart.

~~~~~~~~~

Discover Song,

I was meant to sing—

solace that music,

alone will bring.

Melodies; harmonies

flow within.

I fight my fears—

and loudly begin.

~~~~~~~~~

Self-Speak

Meandering Reflections and Self-Speak

In the early morning light I look for you. I hear your voice in the rustling wind and in the cool breeze. Tears glide effortlessly from the heartache in my soul down my cheeks on their journey to nowhere. They leave invisible scars on my face as they etch a chasm between who I was and who I am. As the valley becomes deeper I am amazed that the world doesn’t see. I look in the mirror and wonder who she is who looks back at me.

Will my broken heart ever be healed or will the chasm split me in to?

Believe? I must believe…in weakness I am strong and in vulnerability I have power to conquer…self-speak. I must self-speak. I am more than a conqueror. I am a woman who is perfectly loved by One who knows me better than I know myself. One who walks with me through the haze of life and knows the pain of death.

Self-speak…Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

Universe, know! I choose to believe that these tears will be the silent prayers that my heart and breath are unable to pray. I believe that they are treasured gifts to the One who knows my soul.

Should the chasm of tears break me in half?

The Healer of hearts will restore me. I hear it in the breath of the wind. The trees have told me so.