Please! Dear God
So many times in my life I have wanted a face- to- face talk with God! Now is one of those times. I want to say, “Tell me, please tell me: How am I doing??? I am bored! My energy is LOW. What is this all about? Life, love, relationships, work, creativity….WHAT???”
One of the first times I clearly remember wanting to talk with God (I suspect I often felt that way as a child. And maybe I did talk with God then. Maybe I named God Bradshaw. For sure, Bradshaw and I talked a lot! And no one else knew about or saw Bradshaw but me). Anyway, I was a young mother of 4, lived in a suburb of a medium sized town in mid-Michigan, was wearing a red, white and blue cotton sleeveless bib coverall summer one piece outfit I felt grand in then and shutter about now. It was night. My children’s father was not home. I ran out into the front yard (I may have had a glass of wine, I don’t really remember) and looked at the star loaded sky: Millions of stars. I shook my fist, screwed up my face, squinted my eyes in an evil eye glare, wiggled my nose and shouting for all the neighbours and god himself to hear, “I KNOW you are a male god, because if you were a woman you would have the guts to come down here and TALK TO ME”
Help me make sense out of what feels like craziness. Or worthlessness. Or self created, unnecessary, self indulgent, useless, mindless pain and mind wiggedness. That’s it. My mind is wigged. Well, I’ll be darned. Solved that in just a manner of minutes. Nooowww, for the making sense out of it all part.
I believe, if we have any sense at all, as we become nearer 100 years of age than we are to 50 years of age, (as am I!), we begin to look back, ask questions, answer questions, grieve, celebrate, frown, laugh at ourselves, and seek closure. It amazes me to realize this process, if made visible, might be considered suicidal. WOW. Gives me shivers. I sometimes go deep down into the dark cave of solitude and angst. And I often times come up dishevelled and a titch mind boggled. Wigged, as I say. But I always know I am coming back up. I love the sunshine.
I must ask myself why I am writing about this at this particular moment. It is true. I am bored. I feel best when I am writing. I feel better if I think the writing is useful: to me AND to someone else besides just me. I am not enough. I want connection, soul connection, many beings holding hands, together walking on an unknown path. Why do I find this easier in the written word than the spoken? Pretty darn obvious: no one to nay say me.
Well, I got that off my mind and feel a whole lot better. Sorry I am often so slow at writing on this blog. Mind slippage. It happens a lot lately. This is all part of the collecting it all together and finding closure in the aging process. More about collecting later. The world outside this computer calls.
Blessings, Nancy
One of the first times I clearly remember wanting to talk with God (I suspect I often felt that way as a child. And maybe I did talk with God then. Maybe I named God Bradshaw. For sure, Bradshaw and I talked a lot! And no one else knew about or saw Bradshaw but me). Anyway, I was a young mother of 4, lived in a suburb of a medium sized town in mid-Michigan, was wearing a red, white and blue cotton sleeveless bib coverall summer one piece outfit I felt grand in then and shutter about now. It was night. My children’s father was not home. I ran out into the front yard (I may have had a glass of wine, I don’t really remember) and looked at the star loaded sky: Millions of stars. I shook my fist, screwed up my face, squinted my eyes in an evil eye glare, wiggled my nose and shouting for all the neighbours and god himself to hear, “I KNOW you are a male god, because if you were a woman you would have the guts to come down here and TALK TO ME”
Help me make sense out of what feels like craziness. Or worthlessness. Or self created, unnecessary, self indulgent, useless, mindless pain and mind wiggedness. That’s it. My mind is wigged. Well, I’ll be darned. Solved that in just a manner of minutes. Nooowww, for the making sense out of it all part.
I believe, if we have any sense at all, as we become nearer 100 years of age than we are to 50 years of age, (as am I!), we begin to look back, ask questions, answer questions, grieve, celebrate, frown, laugh at ourselves, and seek closure. It amazes me to realize this process, if made visible, might be considered suicidal. WOW. Gives me shivers. I sometimes go deep down into the dark cave of solitude and angst. And I often times come up dishevelled and a titch mind boggled. Wigged, as I say. But I always know I am coming back up. I love the sunshine.
I must ask myself why I am writing about this at this particular moment. It is true. I am bored. I feel best when I am writing. I feel better if I think the writing is useful: to me AND to someone else besides just me. I am not enough. I want connection, soul connection, many beings holding hands, together walking on an unknown path. Why do I find this easier in the written word than the spoken? Pretty darn obvious: no one to nay say me.
Well, I got that off my mind and feel a whole lot better. Sorry I am often so slow at writing on this blog. Mind slippage. It happens a lot lately. This is all part of the collecting it all together and finding closure in the aging process. More about collecting later. The world outside this computer calls.
Blessings, Nancy
posted by Nancy Ross at
2:07 PM
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