Old dogs, new tricks

College didn't work out for me. Is it terrible to say that I didn't like school? Don't get me wrong - I was all about making 3:00am Cool Ranch Dorito runs and wearing pajamas to music theory first thing in the morning. I was very into my friends, hot guys and stupid shenanigans, but the school part - meh. Not so much. It's not that I don't like learning - I simply prefer to learn in more non-traditional ways. While I may have my Masters in Life degree from The School of Hard Knocks, pursuing education after my attempt at going to college was never on my list of things to do. 

About a year after I left college, I worked as a Sonic carhop. This was back in the glory days when we made regular minimum wage and everyone tipped the carhops, and when we could literally eat or drink anything we wanted while on shift. My lunch every single day consisted of two chicken strips on a hamburger bun with cheese and ranch dressing and a small side of tater tots that I dipped in their barbecue sauce. I have quite the sophisticated palate. 

I worked there until I had enough cash saved up to buy my first on-my-own car which was a teal green 1994 Chevy Beretta that I affectionately named Buttercup after the green PowerPuff girl who was known for being a little mean and feisty. My first real grown up job was as a secretary for the sweetest old man named Ron. My dad knew him from the HVAC business and knew he had a need for someone in his office to answer phones and do administrative work. I'll never forget how important and adult I felt the first day I drove up to my very first office job in my black slacks and silky work blouse holding my to-go mug of coffee. I was bright eyed, bushy tailed and 20 years old when I entered the work force.

His office is where I got my start in bookkeeping. While I started out as a secretary, I ended up teaching myself how to use Quickbooks and eventually started taking things off of the bookkeeper's plate. When she had to leave, I was primed and ready to take the position and managed the whole tiny office all by myself. Over the years, I've worked for different companies, primarily small businesses, in mostly full charge bookkeeping positions. I've mostly enjoyed my work which seems strange to say. While I have this very outgoing and bubbly personality, I like to stay busy and keep my head down at work and I love that as a bookkeeper, I do the same thing every month over and over again. It might sound boring to some, but I've appreciated the predictability of my job as everything outside of my job is anything but predictable. I've been doing this for twenty years now which is a pretty damn long time.

At the end of 2021, which was in all actuality one hundred and ten times more horrible than 2020, I decided that it was time for a change. I want to do something more fulfilling with my work. Now, I love my current job and my boss and co-workers. The place I work now is the best, but I'm also burnt out and I want to do something new. Since December, I've been researching and reading about different writing opportunities on the internet: copy writing, content writing, ghost writing, articles and blog posts. After talking with a couple of professional writers and checking out dozens of hilarious and amazing copy writers on the internet, I decided this is something I could see myself doing and being good at.

It seems a bit foolish to try something new at my age though. Isn't it true what they say? "You can't teach an old dog new tricks."  Pursuing an entirely different career in this current world climate and economy - I've had my own doubts, especially with my lack of fancy degrees, about my ability to do this. And at the same time, I feel like I'm right where I belong and I would be more foolish not to try.

I have a plan, a brightly colored website, a supportive boss (because I'll be writing for him too) and a pocket full of small business owners I'm slowly reaching out to. I've been setting things in motion for weeks now and honestly, it's kind of weird to have a goal and then doing things to achieve this goal. I've never been one to dream lofty dreams and it's only been since my late 30's that I was able to start imagining a different life for myself. With 41 quickly approaching, I decided it was time to follow my greatest passion and I've been doing just that. I sent off my first application, portfolio and cover letter this morning to work with an organization that other companies use for all of their writing needs. Now, I'm fully prepared for a full on rejection, because who the heck am I to land anything on the first try? But, I felt pretty damn accomplished when I sent off an application for something I've been dreaming of and working on.

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? I'm about to show the world that you absolutely can.

A Hallowed Heart

It was raining without clouds.  It seemed fitting somehow to drive through blue skies on the way to the cemetery, rain still managing to find us.  Gray road stretched out before me, I kept wondering how tragedies and heartaches that happened over a lifetime ago could feel this new.  I have lived with loss and know the darkness of death, but grief still takes me by surprise.

My boys were in the back seat in ties and black Sunday shoes.  This was their first time time to go to a cemetery and they wanted to dress nice.  When my Uncle died two years ago, they went to the funeral, but the family chose to wait until now to bury his ashes.  He was going to be laid to rest next to my mom and brother.  My feelings were so overwhelming I could feel them aching in my throat and surging through my legs that made me want to run.  It felt like something was trying to come out of my body and I quickly recognized the trauma tied to those physical sensations.  I closed my eyes and took breath after breath, long and deep, until I felt my core settle inside of me.

We arrived at the place.  Sacred earth housing the bones of loved ones and memories never made, I got out of the truck, holding my son's hand in my own.  Feelings began to swirl inside of me.  My brother's ten year life, how betrayal and alcohol destroyed my mother, stealing her spark and light and heartbeat.  I was feeling forgotten and missed, much like my mother's headstone in that sticker burred country cemetery.  I showed my boys where they were buried.  I could feel bellowing sobs forming in my gut as I saw Tommy touch my brother's grave, his eight year old fingers tracing the letters "The Greatest Blessing," that was etched into gray granite.  I put my hand on my mother's stone. "Child of God, Beloved Mother of AJ," it read.  I didn't remember that was what it said and the words sat heavy with me.  She was my mother too, yet those words felt true.  She was more his mother than mine and the ambivalence I feel about her was as tangible as the crunchy dead grass beneath my feet.

We laughed and cried and prayed together as my Uncle's ashes were put into the ground.  I think we all felt the finality of something, ever aware of a unique hole his absence has created inside of each one of us.  His wasn't the only hole inside of me.  I thought about AJ and my mom, Aaron - my first love, the death of dreams and the unmet longings I carry on the outside and inside of me.  It looks like a double-chin and a large belly, and feels like a watercolor mess of tragedy and indescribable joy, splattered and swirled together with darkness and light.

My face was wet with tears as we walked back through the cemetery, the living among the dead.  You can't walk on hallowed ground and not feel the gravity of death and how it has changed you.  My heart like a headstone, chiseled and marked with all of the pain, all the joy and the broken, beautiful pieces of my story that make up who I am.

The clouds were gray and pregnant with rain.  Eyes and sky both crying as my husband reached for my hand.

My Big Mama Moment

Big Mama was one of the first blogs I ever found.  She is hilarious and she lives near me and for the last nine years, I've been hoping I would run into her at Target or Alamo Cafe eating queso and we would share some kind of magical moment and talk fashion.  Or about our love for cheese.

Over the weekend, I finally got to meet Big Mama live in person.  Though she's a distinguished author now and is all fancy with her real name and everything.  Melanie Shankle, a.k.a. Big Mama has written three books.  If you haven't ready Green Sparkly Earrings, The Antelope in the Living Room, or Nobody's Cuter Than You, than you are missing out.  They are hilarious, heart-warming and touching reads.  She spoke at my friend's church for a ladies thing.  And not only did I attend a churchy ladies thing, but I set my alarm on a Saturday morning and everything.  There are few people  I would get out of pajamas and miss my morning viewing of the Pioneer Woman for - but Big Mama is totally one of them.

Melanie spoke on friendship and how we as women should engage with one another.  I wasn't expecting to cry but there were tears galore.  I also went with Sarah, the one person in the world who has known  the ins and outs of my life for the last 20 years.  And if anyone knows what it's like to be a friend to me, it's that girl.  So, we got lost in the feels and the memories we have shared over the years and at one point were blubbering over our coffee and a chorus of You are My All in All because sometimes life presents you with these full circle moments and you can't do anything but cry at the glory of them.

My finest moment came when I was first in line to meet her.  I behaved myself and did not bring all THREE books for her to sign, but I had seriously considered it.  Before I knew it, I said something about being star-strck and began blabbering about how long I've read her blog and this one time she left a comment on my own when she held her "Fashion Fiesta" and I nearly peed my pants because I was so excited.  And she said, "Oh, you're so cute!" but I think she really meant to say "Bless your heart," because I mean, really.  I also told her I kept waiting for the day I ran into her at a Target at some point and I'm sure she's now hoping that day never comes because I did not stop talking the whole time I was in front of her.  I'm one of those fans.  Sorry, Melanie.  Amazingly enough, I quieted down long enough for a picture.

I now have pictures with two New York Times Best Selling authors and something about that feels brag worthy.  (Also on my list - Anne Lamott, Jennie Allen, Glennon Melton and Kelle Hampton - a few of my other favorite writers/human beings). However, my mouth starts working long before my brain, causing me to use words like "ass" when talking to Jen Hatmaker about how her book had kicked mine, and then the word "peed" to Melanie.

I'm so eloquent. Bless my heart.

Be Quiet

Words don't always flow easily for the writer all of the time.  Sometimes beauty is hard to create through the written word.  Sometimes we are quiet. 

My heart feels grieved by all of the hatred and ugliness that seems to be flowing from everywhere.  Around the world, in our country, in debates about flags and gay marriage, in senseless acts of violence, in the toxicity of racism, in idiotic stories continually posted as truth on social media.  In Christians behaving like Pharisees and self-righteous assholes.  It's been hard to not become filled with hatred myself.  When I'm not wanting to tell people to shut the eff up, I mostly feel sad.  So, so sad.

I started the heavy duty medication for my RA.  I'm currently somewhere in between being okay with it, feeling very not okay with it, and feeling like some kind of failure.  It's amazing how this disease continues to invite me to shame and how willing I am to accept.

We have been going through a painful growing process ourselves as church-goers and Jesus-followers.  I briefly wrote about our church going through changes and after much wavering and sifting through feelings and losing most of our community, we have decided to stay where we are - only because really we feel as though God is asking us to.  It has been an emotionally exhausting experience and more than anything, I've realized how fragile and broken the church is.  And how desperately we all need Jesus.

Lately, I have been introspective about the idea of friendship and more specifically, the kind of friend I have showed up to be.  I've recognized how quickly I tend to write people off.  If I know you might bail, or move away, if you're too much like me, or not enough like me, or you're not available for me the way I want you to be, I stop pursuing any kind of closeness and quickly detach.  I have been unkindly picky and have been sitting in a puddle of my depravity as I look at what is true about my heart in those places.

And I've been living too.  Summer is in full swing and we have been grilling out and swimming and staying up late and memorizing Bible verses together as a family.  We have Tommy's birthday next week and a day trip to the beach planned with our friends next weekend.  Our vacation is two weeks away and Todd and I are so incredibly ready to have a break from normal life, even if it means traveling across the country with our boys.

But for the most part, my words are stuck.  They are stuck in the bullshit garbage of the hatred that is oozing out all over the place in our world right now.  They are stuck in complicated feelings over a disease I am having to accept that I have.  They are stuck in places we are growing and healing and ever changing. 

Maybe sometimes though, it's okay for them to be stuck.  Sometimes it's okay to just be quiet.

Maybe it's not silly

Every once in a while, out of curiosity and deep longing and hope, I’ll scour job postings for writers.  Silly right?  

I’m not really sure what I’m looking for, or how a story-loving, writer-aspiring woman like me would even fit in to that world.  I have no credentials, no degree and no editing expertise.  Any experience I have would date back to an award-winning essay written in the seventh grade about water conservation and my sophomore creative writing class that led to a silly published poem about how a woman died under an apple tree from a broken heart.  And of course, there’s this little blog I’ve come to pour my heart out to for years telling stories and writing down memories of what I’ve wanted to capture and keep for always. 

Writing has been a constant over the years.  It’s the thing I’ve returned to again and again since I was a young girl.  Next to my passion for sitting with others and hearing their stories and pointing them to Jesus, my greatest desire is to write something.  If not for anything else, simply the mere enjoyment of it and how it makes me feel.  It is without a shadow of a doubt something that I was created for. 

It feels silly.  It tell myself that it’s silly all the time.  It’s silly to think that I could be a writer.  It feels silly to pursue it or go after it.  After all, it seems like everyone wants to be a writer or claims to be one and how silly of me to think I’d actually be one of those people.  Everyone has something to say.  This is everyone’s thing and what would make me any different?  These thoughts have silence me and I’ve allowed myself to feel defeated.  Like I’m not special or unique and I have nothing valuable to say or to offer because I don’t write like her, whoever that her is.  I envy those who can compose these beautiful, rich sentences dripping with so much imagery and beauty that I lap it up and am left thirsty for more.

I sit a job every day, and have for years now, where my main job is keeping the books.  You know, reconciling accounts, paying bills, filing taxes and sending invoices.  As I do this every day, I stare out the window to my Texas blue sky and green live oak trees and I’ll catch myself writing a sentence in my head about what I see or what I’m feeling at the moment.  As I watch dark rain clouds come in, or fierce winter winds that blow everything into chaos, or watch a doe chase her fawn in the fall sunlight, I know in those moments deep in my gut that I was made for more than the living I have made for myself.  This living that came as a result of a broken heart and a great series of tragedies and giving up on a dream I once had to sing opera.

Most days I feel like opera was a dream I was meant to let go of.  And most days, I am grateful for the skills I have developed and taught myself and how working hard over the years has enabled me to help support my family.  I like the security of knowing that if something happened to my husband, I could still take care of myself and our boys.   

Even so, I constantly catch myself day-dreaming, thinking if I only could be writing.  When I’m not working and not mothering and not off somewhere, I am writing.  I am journaling, I am writing down thoughts and lists and memories.  I write almost every single day of my life.  And I don’t glamorize in my head what life might be like if that’s all I had to do.  I know it’s not all fun and glorious or easy.  I’m sure it’s full of deadlines and edits and gut-wrenching emotions and disappointments and criticisms.  I am very aware though that the job I do day in and day out often times drains and dulls me. Don't get me wrong - I’m thankful for my job.  I’m thankful I’m good at what I do.  I'm beyond thankful for what I have.  But sometimes, a lot of times, I wish I weren’t so good at it.  Most days, and most every day, I hate that I’m a bookkeeper.  I don’t want to be a bookkeeper.  Probably because I am much more interested in a very different kind of book-keeping.

Seeing as I am on the eve of my 33^rd birthday, perhaps there is more growing and maturing to do.  I keep telling myself when I’m older and when my kids are older, when the world is older and when all the things are older…..When age and wisdom and more life has been lived and more experiences tucked under my belt, maybe then I’ll be qualified somehow.  But that sounds ridiculous too.  Silly even.  Because I’m not guaranteed living to the older and I don’t want to wait that long to let myself dream or see my dreams become reality. 

So here I am on a cool Tuesday in March, writing about writing and thinking how silly it is to do that very thing.  Staring at this screen, my fingers on the keyboard, surrounded by notes and scribbles, knowing, believing, feeling that I was created and made for more.

And it’s not silly to want to do this.  It’s simply time.

The Best of 2013

Looking back on my little blog this year, my writing felt just as disappointing as my year did. I didn't write as much.  I couldn't write as much - I have a new baby, and a new job and then issues surfaced and left me aware of my need to get care and help for myself again.  Words didn't flow as easily this year as they have in the past either.  Yet, there were a few stories told, happenings that I want to remember and things written, that made 2013 what it was. 

On trusting

On taking a risk

On letting others see my messy

On a cute nursery

On a baby born in February

On selling my house

On a God who gives and takes away and gives again

On not loving Mother's Day

On a Spiderman Party

On being broken

On true friendship

On making sweet rice

On not running a marathon and showing up anyway

On tears cried in December

On new years and being kind and not being a "new" me

2013 will be remembered as the year that we risked and that we dreamed.   It will be remembered as the year that we trusted God in big and bold ways.  It will be the year our second son was born.  That our patience and wills and hearts and bodies were tested and exhausted every day.  This will be the year that we will remember disappointment, frustration and struggles.  

But it will also be the year we remember intimacy and fellowship.  True community and God's miraculous ways of making things happen and unfold.  

2013 was an adventure.  A heartbreaking one, a rich one, and mostly, a memorable one.  While part of my heart looks to the new year with a bit of hesitation of what will unfold for us, as with any fresh start or new beginning, I hold hope.  It reigns in my heart.  

Happy New Year friends.

A Broken Beauty

The sleeve of my blouse caught the tip of a flower bud.  

Those in my bedroom that give off vibrancy and color and softness.  

In my haste and hurry, I brought down the whole vase, every last petal and branch.  

The glass broke and shattered, flowers laying there in shards and pieces.

And I had to walk away and save the mess for later.  I was late and hurried and had to get to work, to obligation and responsibility.

My morning began with brokenness.

The day came and went with its tensions, disappointments and frustrations as days always do.  And it never ends at 5pm with the ending of work.

  

Tommy's carsickness made for a memorable ride home.  My baby fussed at me all evening and somehow I interpret this as him being upset with me for not being with him all day.

  

I didn't get to eat all of my dinner, and I look in the mirror and wonder how this weight stays on me when it seems I eat so little.  I was enraged that I still have the body of a binger when I am not one anymore.  

Contempt coming and going, lies swirling around waiting to be invited in to my heart.  

Anger rising up and seeping in.

Tears have poured.  The guilty ones.  The frustrated and tired ones.  

The wondering when things will ever change - those tears.

And after the babes were tucked in bed, kissed on their foreheads and prayers said for the night, there was the glass.  

The broken and shattered.

The flowers, still and forgotten.  

Glass. Reminding me that I am broken.  

Flowers.  Reminding me of beauty.  My beauty.

My night ended with brokenness.  

Pieces picked up, tossed away.  

A new vase for the flowers that endured what had been shattered.

Beauty remains.

Less is more

It's been a struggle to write lately.  I've decided it's because I don't feel like myself at all - it's as if I'm only a version of me right now.   Pregnancy does that I suppose.  Between  my lethargy and my crazy emotions and not being able to wear my cute clothes anymore (and already) I'm just not myself.

The scorching August heat doesn't help either.  Oh fall, please come.

There are parts of me that feel more "under control" most of the time, but they ooze out because of excessive hormones and tiredness and who knows why really.  Like how I hate having my picture taken all of a sudden because I'm self-conscious.   How I'm over-reacting to situations that I could normally talk myself down from.  And complaining about everything so much that I actually end up annoying myself. 

Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Pregnancy is a small amount of time, and all of it is gloriously miraculous.  I'm ecstatic to be with child and I don't want to sound complainy.   But like I said, I simply don't feel like me.

I'm not a "here's my pregnant belly" week-by-week kind of writer.  Nor am I a hard-core mommy blogger either.  I have things to say about both pregnancy and motherhood, just not every day.  Or every week.  It's just not my style.

All that to say, there's been less of me showing up here to write.  And there will probably continue to be less in the coming months.  In a way it feels like a quiet season for me.  To focus on taking care of myself, body and spirit.  Of waiting and hoping and resting.

In the meantime, I'll be reading and growing a baby and dreaming.  And I'll come to write on the days that feel just right.

Poetry

RIVER

The river, still and black, calm

Traces of blue sky catch on its waters

Before surrendering to the night

The river, like a mirror, liquid glass

Sees into my soul

Reflects what is really there

Not only what I see

The river, quiet and inviting

It whispers, my heart listens

Ripples of hope

Of promise

Poetry came out of me after sunset during a drive through the hill country on our little getaway this past weekend.  It's rare, very rare, for me to ever write anything poem-like. I guess I don't consider poetry "my thing." 

I've noticed that something happens inside of me anytime I'm near water though.  Words come to me in abundance and the writer in me bubbles up.  It just so happened that what bubbled up this time was a poem.

Few things make me feel the kind of alive I feel in my soul, when I get to experience nature and beauty because I'm surrounded by some magnificent body of water.   And when I'm near it, I want to write more than I want to do anything else.

I don't know what all of this means really.  But it makes me curious.  What unique and lovely thing has God planted in my heart?

Whatever it is, it's growing.

When writing is hard

Writing has been hard this week. 

Some days and some circumstances seem to suck the creative parts out of me that really enjoy writing, cataloging pieces of my life, and putting words to things that take up space in my heart. 

It's been one of those creative-sucking weeks this week.

Also, my blog-traffic is down.  I thought I didn't care, but apparently, I very much do.  I suppose for someone who has these budding dreams of being a real writery-writer at some point, having decreasing blog-traffic makes me feel like some kind of failure or as if I've been rejected.  I've never handled either of those words well and I've been curious about how being rejected or feeling like a failure has shown up in my story.   And how it will continue to if I am brave enough to pursue this dream.


That being said, I've been somewhat distracted this week too.

Todd and I are celebrating our anniversary this weekend and I'm not sure if I've ever looked more forward to an anniversary before.  It six years and it's not really a special number or a big anniversary by any means.  But, we are REALLY celebrating this year.  Not only do we have some pretty epic plans, but there is so much for us to really celebrate.  All that we've been through and come through together - it's worthy of some major partying. 

So because my writer is stuck somewhere and I'm slightly distracted by all the fun I'll be having with my husband starting tomorrow, I'm taking a short little break. 

Though there is a sweet little story scheduled to post on Sunday, and you might not want to miss it.

Happy Thursday.

.....and Stories

Five years of blogging.

Five years of finding my inner writer.

Five years of figuring out what should and shouldn't be written down for the "world" to read.  

Five years of figuring out what I do and don't want to write about.  

Five years to find confidence and the belief in myself to see that I have my own style, my own perspective, and my own talents that are unique to me.

It's taken five years, but I've finally found my unique voice in the blogosphere.

I'm not sure if anyone noticed the slight name change and "about me" that I made a couple of weeks ago.  The thought came to me in the shower, as most brilliant thoughts do.

In 2011, I made a huge change.  I closed the chapter on all I had written on Simply Jenn-Sational and began There is a Season.  I contemplated the change for several months well before I went public with it.

I think at the end of the day, I felt more grown up than when I had first started writing.  For a long time, I tried to write like other writers I enjoyed reading rather than writing my own words. I wanted to start crispy and fresh because so much inside of me was feeling new.  And whether or not anyone else thinks so, most of my writing since then has been reflective of that.

Plain and simple, I write from my heart.  And that wasn't always the case.

In the past year since I've been writing here, I've noticed that my passion involves stories. I am a story-teller. Seasons and Stories feels fitting for how I write and where my passion for story lies. I love to read them, tell them, and listen to them.  I could sit for hours listening to men and women share their stories and hearts with me.

Just two weeks ago, I began gathering pieces of my own story that I've written over the years.  Even hitting copy and paste made me feel anxious because I feel like I'm doing something that I was meant to do and it's nothing short of terrifying.  Announcing anything on a blog makes things feel official in a way that instills fear in me rather than courage or motivation.

But I've started piecing together my book - my story.  The parts I want to write down and share with the world.  I've officially begun the process.

I don't know where it will take me or what will ever become of it.  I just know that I need to do it.

And I know that it only took five years to finally feel brave enough to begin.

Owning it

I saw a quote on Pinterest the other day from Lord Byron. It said, "If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad."

That feels true for me. Especially on the days where I want to just sit in front of my computer screen and type whatever it is that comes to mind. To release something, to get something out, to empty myself. And also, to create and do something that feels natural to me. To do something that maybe I was created to do.

A friend, whose writing I have deep respect and admiration for, left me a comment a couple of weeks ago that said, "You are a writer Jenn. I know it when I see it. Own it." Those words caused an earthquake in my soul and left me overflowing with hope.

So maybe that's what I've been doing. Trying to "own it."

Writing has felt more familiar and easy to me as of late. I have found that in my spare time, I've used more of it to just sit down and write than anything else. I started carrying a journal around with me to jot down thoughts or memories that come to mind. Or some blurb that just comes to me in the middle of the day that I want to remember. It feels somewhat silly to be sitting in the middle of a restaurant or the parking lot of a grocery store just to pause and write something down, but it also feels like a starting point. Because right now I don't know what I want to write, just that simply, I want to.

Grabbing coffee with a friend last weekend, I also heard about a "writer's forum" that meets at a non-Starbucksy coffee house on Monday nights. My friend said to me, "You're a writer. You should go to this." She said it fluidly. As if to say, "You're a mom," or "You're a bookkeeper." It was so matter-of-fact. My friend thinks I'm a writer. It felt weird and right at the same time.

The bookmark I snagged for the writer's forum is still in my wallet. And though my current excuse for not attending is that I have Journey Groups on Monday nights, I'm also glad that I have something else occupying my time that night until May, in hopes that I can work up the guts to go and sit with other writers. What they do there - I don't know. I just know it sounds like something I want to be a part of.

And I'm already wondering if I'll stand out or if I belong in that setting because, what makes me a writer? Should I even go? And then I hear the words, "Own it" in my head again, and I know that I probably do belong there and I probably should go.

Days like today though, I feel like Lord Byron's quote. If I don't write to empty my mind, I might go mad. Writing helps me bring order to the chaos of the things I try to contain inside of myself. It grounds me. It's a healthy outlet - like working out is for the physical body.

So here I am. Writing about writing. And maybe in doing so, I'm owning it just a little bit more.

Sun Interruptions

There is this moment that inevitably happens after any long
rain shower.

When the sun first peeks through the clouds after two days of
gray, teary skies. When the ground is drenched and you drive through puddles of
water that splash onto sidewalks. The sky suddenly surrenders to the light of
the sun, highlighting the remnant clouds and it makes you squint and it's hard
to see because you've been so used to the gloomy around you. Where bright meets
dreary and it's unsettling and disrupting. The storm passes and the rest of the
day promises to be light.

There is something about that particular moment that stirs my
soul. It irritates and disappoints me and I get angry at that first shot of
sunshine. It feels like an interruption. Something about it feels unnerving.
Like I'm not ready for it. Like I just want more of the storm and the gray and
the overcast.

I want the sun to be tucked away and get lost back in the
clouds and come back quietly the next morning. It's soft light coming in slowly
through my windows and inviting me to its warmth. When it doesn't feel
demanding.

I want more of the rain hitting my windows, bundled up in
blankets lost in Jane Austen plots and eating chocolate slowly. The dark, soggy
days invite my tears and my heart to feel things I've been holding on to that
need letting go. Rainy days do something for my soul that the sun just can't.