Balancing Act

Life is all about making decisions. Some are easy. Some are hard. All are necessary and affect the outcome of what happens next…one way or another.

Right now, I’m torn between making the decision to go into self-preservation mode, and just letting the chips fall where they may. In self-preservation mode, I face two options: the first being that I’m shutting myself down emotionally so that I become numb, and the second is distancing myself so that I don’t get hurt. Though neither will keep me from feeling like my insides are being twisted into unfathomable knots.

The knots of which I’m referring rest comfortably on the proverbial scale between my heart and my mind. A scale that is imbalanced with what my heart tells me to feel, and the simplicity with what my mind tells me to preserve.

My heart is on the heavy side. Having shifted with the weight of ache that seems to be tipping the scales beyond the capacity for my mind to rebound. Once resting high, what it contained was lighter than reason, intelligence, trust and pragmatism. It only knew what my brain told it to do – feel. And so the thought process rested opposite, weighing down my common sense, telling me not to be guarded. A balancing act of clichéd companions that would sacrifice all doubt…walk with open eyes through fire…to have a chance at the one thing they don’t understand, but were designed to do; love.

What makes us fall in love? Why, as human beings, do we crave companionship?

It’s more than just the instinctual need to further our legacy. I think it’s because we want a witness to our lives. We want to know that we matter to someone. That our words are heard. Our touch is felt. Our hurt doesn’t go unnoticed. And our joy doesn’t go unshared. A connection to our counterpoint in another – a balance – that quantifies the steps we take on our journey. Steps that take flight when that correlation between the mind and the heart gives our soul a set of wings.

I only know one way to love – mind, heart and soul.

On one side of the scale, if I self-preserve and distance myself from feeling, then I deny the natural response my body needs to grieve. I don’t allow my mind the confusion it wants to sort through now, leading eventually to comprehension and resolution. I don’t allow my heart time to ache, and yearn for the final breaking beat that sets it back on the path to healing stronger. I don’t allow my soul time to recognize that its now void of the one element that made it whole, made it shine. If I shut down emotionally, then I run the risk of staying low on the scale, protected and sheltered. And apathetic. If I distance myself, then I risk always running. Never falling. Never hurting. And never flying high again.

On the other side of the scale is self-perseverance. It is the tie that binds my strength, determinedness, and my ferocity to try again despite the risk of failure. It tells my mind to remain open to new possibilities. It reminds my heart that it might hurt, but hope will prevail. It tells my soul that the void is not a missing piece, but rather a deeper capacity to experience something greater than myself.

So, I make the decision to let the chips fall where they may, and put my heart back on the table. I may bluff at the low hand I’ve been dealt but I will risk betting high to stay in the game. I will find the self-assurance between hurting and healing. Irrationality and reason. Passion and practicality. Falling and flying.

I think the Cowboy Junkies said it best…

“To live is to fly. Low and high. So shake the dust off of your wings and the sleep out of your eyes.”

I’m balanced on the perch between my mind and my heart. My soul is awake. My wings are ready. Tomorrow is a new day.

The Face of My Mother

She looks in the mirror and reflected in place
Are the colors and lines of a woman’s face
The brow, nose and lips are a delicate shell
Comprising a history of stories to tell

Her eyes see the humor in life each day
At times they hold sorrow for things gone astray
They see hope without doubt and love without fail
And compared to their warmth, all else is but pale

Her nose is a creature that is sly and wise
It embraces sincerity and sifts out the lies
The smell of home or her garden of flowers
Remind her of joy in its simplest power

Her lips form a multitude of shapes for her life
They’ve parted in laughter; pulled taught through strife
The tones from beneath can be chiding or nice
Full of secrets and wishes, and treasured advice

Her wisdom and faith can be seen in the lines
Bearing honor and grace, aged perfect through time
For the character and features unlike any other
Are the beauty and love in the face of my mother

For my mother, Carol Jean.

I love you, Mom.

Pop-Pop

His overalls were faded blue and oil-stained
And had dirt and grease smears on the seat
An old John Deere cap sat crooked on his brow
And a toothpick was always between his teeth

He feigned surprise and fear at the word “boo”
And he’d give me shiny pennies for good luck
I loved bouncing around next to him on the seat
As we drove around the farm in his old truck

Bellowing from the pew in church on Sunday
Above all others his bass voice would ring
He was talented; a naturally gifted musician
And he could make any instrument sing

I fascinated in watching him concentrate
As his hands and his fingers shook
While he set up an old skinny bamboo pole
And threaded twine through a fishing hook

His grin was enhanced with certain wisdom
And years of laughs and earned wrinkles
His voice and gestures could animate a story
As his eyes held those mischievous twinkles

He loved to piddle and tinker around in his shop
To fix up machines and old engine parts
And a puttering rusty red riding lawn mower
Made for a mighty fine kid’s go-cart

Like a hawk, he’d watch me use his pocketknife
As he instructed me on how to whittle a stick
Afterwards I sit on his lap in his rocking chair
While we sipped a root beer and talked for a bit

He’d tickle me till I had tears in my eyes
From laughing and having so much fun
And he could pull a quarter from his pocket
Faster than a cowboy could draw his gun

He let me sneak popsicles from the freezer
And taste range cubes and chicken feed
My favorite place was next to him in the garden;
He’d scoop out the dirt and I’d drop in a seed

He hung up a rope from the rafter in the barn
So I could swing high and land in the hay
He gave the best horsey rides around on his back
And he never seemed too tired or busy to play

His hands were rough with scars and calluses
Weathered from hard labor over time
And though my hands were small in comparison
I remember how gently his held onto mine

The years that separated us never seemed to matter
For he was my hero, and I was his Kellie Jean
The bond between a grandfather and his special girl
Was unbreakable; one nothing could come between

In November ’04 he left behind a legacy of family
When his spirit went home to Heaven above
There will never be another like my Pop-Pop;
A generous soul of extraordinary friendship and love

Country Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas
When we all gathered ‘round
To open the presents
From Santa, we’d found

The stockings weren’t hung
By the chimney with care
(‘Cause Mom put ‘em away last year
And couldn’t remember where)

I, in my Aggie shirt,
Furry house shoes and jeans
Had eaten so much
I was bursting at the seams

The little dogs were happy
To hoover the floor
From the tidbits we’d dropped
Only moments before

My BlackBerry was handy
To take pictures of the fam
While Chad roamed the room
With his video cam

Dad sat in the recliner,
Like a king on his throne
As Jen sorted loot
Into piles of our own

Mom wore her apron
As she sat by the tree
And Aislynn kept asking,
“Can we open them? Pleeeeease?”

Soon ribbon was flying
As we all looked inside
To reveal the big secrets
The wrapping helped hide

We oohed and ahhed
At the treasures we’d found
As I soaked in the laughter
And smiled at the sound

There, in that room
With my loved ones so dear
I realized I’m blessed
To have them all near

And then I reflected
From earlier that night
When we’d attended church service
And sang by candlelight

The kids marched on stage
To perform in the play
Complete with a manger,
A doll, and real hay

Their smiles were nervous
As they all took their place
And there was always that one
Who stared off into space

Or had forgotten his lines
Or sang a little off-key
Or mumbled, or shouted,
“Hey, Mom, look at me!”

What a joyous message
About Bethlehem’s star
And some wise men that traveled
From kingdoms afar

They fell on their knees
To worship a boy
Who’d give us salvation
And bring the world joy

Mary and Joseph
Would watch over Him
Until the day came
When He’d die for our sins

I thought about the life
That was given to me;
My wish is for everyone
To see what I see

So let the spirit we feel
During this season of cheer
Overflow from within us
To last the whole year

For the hope that surrounds us
And the gifts we bestow
Was given to us first
So many years ago

Our most gracious Father
Gave us unending love
In the form of a Savior
From Heaven above

Dream Again

I remember reading somewhere that dreams are the subconscious wishes of our heart to achieve what our brain deems to be the impossible. On that same note, why do we feel our hearts break a little when our dreams don’t come true?

When we allow ourselves to feel things deeply, it transforms us. Changes us. Sure, we might look the same on the outside, but inside we are lifted to a level that is higher than what we though ourselves capable. We view the world, and the people in it, with new eyes. Eyes that refuse to see fault. Eyes that gaze upon the objects of our affection with a poetic sense of wonder and perfection – be it a person, a goal, an obstacle to overcome, or a dream we keep inside us. We are buzzing with the energy of inspiration, and that feeling of euphoria propels us further, frees our imaginations, and helps us to focus on what we thought to be unattainable.

If one dream fails, perhaps it means that it was never supposed to be ours to begin with. And still we find the renewed strength within us to reach above and beyond our own perceived limitations. The ache in our heart heals, making us stronger and more confident for the next bout of trials. We tell ourselves that if we survived a failure once, we will surely bear it again, and recognize the signs when we’re on the wrong path.

Giving of our whole heart leaves us vulnerable, open to deeper wounds. And deeper disappointment. Yet, we find our capacity to feel has broadened. With each hardship we gain new knowledge and wisdom. With each mistake we grow. We find courage in our struggles to overcome the odds against us, for the devil knows no greater joy than seeing us fall. And fall we refuse.

The heart retains so much of who we are. Our brains are analytical, black and white. It processes facts, information and intellect. It distributes the necessary impulses to make us function. But our hearts...our hearts are a deep abyss of pure emotion. Love, hate, longing, hope. Every sentiment we experience might begin in the brain, but it is felt in the heart. Residually, it breaks when we fail. When we lose a loved one. When we are betrayed. And it seems to swell to twice its size when we practice patience. Endure hope. Feel a sense of pride. Fall in love. Accomplish greatness.

Dare we dream big at the risk of coming up empty handed? Things worth having rarely come easily, and rarely come without risk. There is profound beauty in the moments we sacrifice everything and put our hearts on the line, because we stand to lose it all. Our ability to hurt is coupled with our ability to love. One cannot exist without the other. Dreams cannot exist without the heart.

We remain still unwilling to deny our hearts the opportunity to start over, to burn with the flames of a new wish. And so we wipe away our tears and begin again. Stronger this time.

Breaking a heart isn’t depriving it of love or hope, but rather, taking away its dream. When it is denied what it so achingly desires, it is left void. It beats no longer with the energy invested in longing for the one thing that makes it powerful with emotion. Its valiant rhythm is interrupted, broken.

Until another inspiration comes along and awakens it to dream again.