Friday, November 11, 2011

The Silver Hurricane

(Also known as, Things Ann Voskamp Prompted Me to Say)

     For decades of days I have sensed the presence of a marvel waiting to be. A silver tornado--twisting, hovering--at the edge of my existence.
     What epithets have I been called? None. You can’t say I’m a failure. Because I never tried. I shroud myself in recycling, laundry, and recipes. Whisper the lie: "This is all there is." It’s not all. But it is easier. At the end of the day—No, at the end of a life, does easy get you anything?
     I dread my habit: Beginning another day I’ll just waste, fritter away. Lord, please don’t think me blasphemous that I want more than simply my daily bread. I desire the silver hurricane--its velocity, passion, urgency. And the sure knowledge that it was here. When I'm gone, will anyone know I was here?  
     Every morning I lie in the trough, the culvert, of my bed. In between get up and you’re going to be late. I pray: "Make this day special, please. Mold it into something other than meaningless. Because my hands are useless, snuggled in duct tape mittens. Ordinary is a paraffin dip of all of me, not just my hands. Warm, then not. Fluid, then immobile. I need you to dynamite significance into the humdrum white flatness of today's to-do list."
     I’m fatigued, tired of living carefully, exhausted from waking in the night with a bottomless craving for abundant life. I don’t want tomorrow to be just another biscuit of a day--pallid, arid, desperately needing a smear of salted Amish butter, raspberry jam, or Nutella.
     Even so, I long for contentment in all circumstances. While you’re at it, may I pretty please  also have eyes more wide open to the things of you, to the goings on in the spiritual realms, to my own possibilities? What did you place inside me eons ago that I have not yet discovered? What is the God-destiny of me? Lord, please don’t let me perish before I do the thing you formed me for. It's downloaded in my essence, kissed on my DNA. I just have to find the file, the cell, or the strand, and press OPEN.


Tony said...

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena (on the field), whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devoions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.

writingdianet said...

Well, hello, husband on a business trip. Let me guess. Is this from Invictus? And you are saying I am the man in the arena? The only thing is, I don't feel I'm striving valiantly. That's the truth of the matter. I think I need to bring more game to my life, to my writing. Does that make sense? Still, I am encouraged by your words. Thank you for them, darling:)

Laura said...

Diane, this is beautiful. Left me breathless. Like a hurricane. A silver one.

writingdianet said...

Hi Laura! Thank you so much. You saw the subtitle, didn't you? I basically wrote this piece as I was reading (chapter 2 or 3 I think) of One Thousand Gifts. Still, it's stuff I've been thinking about for the last decade. Glad you liked it:)

writingdianet said...

Oh, one more thing I wanted to say. I sure hope folks are clicking on the embedded link in the words "dunamis" and "zoe." You'll get the definition of these words in the original Greek language:) They used to put embedded link words in a different color. Wish they still did.

Sara said...

This is a very powerful writing. Perhaps in writing it, God is showing you where you need to go and what you need to do :~)

As a reader, I recommend you keep writing, especially with this kind of passion.


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