Heaven poking through

Amidst the hustle and bustle of shoppers, frantic to grab a good bargain, a store laden with beautiful things waits patiently, warm arms open wide. I take delight in the rustic creations of its shelves and inwardly croon and swoon at the serenity created by a piece of soothing music.  I feel peace. And I see Heaven poking through.


Joy reaches his eyes as he relives his childhood. And I see Heaven poking through.


Though her eyes are filled with tears, she smiles with acceptance and carries on. And I see Heaven poking through.


Ahead is a mixture of orange, pink and purple as the sun sets behind with striking gold and yellow. It lights the eight o'clock sky. And I see Heaven poking through.


She smothers me with motherly hugs and kisses. Her love knows no bounds. It reaches the depths of my heart. And I see Heaven poking through.


Evelyn looks into the thickness of Winter; a blur of pine trees and snow disappearing into the misty distance. And she sees Heaven poking through.

Slumber

Something definite about winter is that it has this particular darkness about it. What with the fog and grey enriching the green of the land it may appear beautiful and mysterious, but the reality is quite opposing. Bad choices are made in the darkness of winter. Irrationality is taken on in an attempt to find familiarity, warmth, love. And lust prevails.

Oh! Into this slumber I have fallen.

Against my greater will I have behaved.

Oh! Winter you have tricked me

And set me in this slumber.

Oh Spring come! Awaken my better judgement.

Or if you be delayed,

A freak of nature would be okay.

Oh! Freak of nature wake me from this sleep!

Instead I do what I hate

A thicket of cloud has settled over the land, matching the mood of our heroine. Yet something changes in Evelyn and she acts impulsively. She feels a stranger to her own body. "I do not understand what I do;  for I do not do what I would like to do, but instead I do what I hate" (Romans 7:15).

My left hand brandishes a knife

Whilst my right arm cradles the weak.

My left hand throws a punch

Whilst my right arm settles to sleep.

My left hand creates a barrier

Whilst my right arm invites a guest.

My left hand causes chaos

Whilst my right arm cleans up the mess. 

My left hand slaps my sister

Whilst my right arm holds my brother.

My left hand hates my father

Whilst my right arm loves my mother.

Darkness

Okay, I think it's high time for another teaser. I hope this snippet whets your appetite for some blogging to come about winter:

The nights drew long and bitter. The wind continued to whip at the windows so that they rattled long and hard, day in, day out. The skies knew nothing but grey, and a chill had settled over the land that denied any relief. 

Yes indeed, the cold, dark winter has settled itself over Evelyn. There will be no escaping.

Cold.

Dark.

Nothingness.

I find myself wondering if it will ever end.

The winter takes its stronghold.

Sigh

Sigh. For the busyness of life! I would love nothing more than to have something to blog about... but I suppose when you blog about writing and you haven't done any writing for almost a month, it leaves little to say. Sigh face.

The difference a day can make

I realise the irony of my previous post. Today is the first day of spring and I've only just reached winter. It will definitely be a challenge to write about the cold dark days of a white winter whilst the sun is shining through my window and the birds are chattering as they fly by.

I don't know about you but I've already felt the difference in temperature. To quote Evelyn, "it's amazing the difference a day can make".

Winter is here

You may recall in early June I posted that Evelyn (and I quote) "is about to enter into her coldest and darkest [winter]." While I was truthful in saying that she was about to, it just happened that it has taken a further "two months" for it to come to fruition. And so I excitedly exclaim that WINTER HAS ARRIVED in the land of Evelyn. Not to say that this is an excitable thing for her. Quite the contrary. It is, however, excitable for me, as it means that we have stepped into another season full of unknown beauty to be explored. It also means that I am that much closer to completing Evelyn's story- a project seven years in the making.

Creative Genius

In my recent research, I stumbled upon a fantastic poem about autumn. Further reading found me a gold mine of creative genius. John Updike, you are my new hero. 

The stripped and shapely

Maple grieves


The ghosts of her

Departed leaves.

The ground is hard,

As hard as stone. 


The year is old,

The birds are flown.

And yet the world,

In its distress, 


Displays a certain

Loveliness.


- John Updike A Child's Calendar (1965)

He wrote one poem for each month of the year and compiled it as a children's book with illustrator Nancy Ekholm Burkert. The book was later edited, re-illustrated and reprinted in 1999 with illustrator Trina Schart Hyman. 

I'd love to get my hands on a hardcover first edition.

Indescribable

Some emotions, I've come to discover, cannot be described. We use metaphors and similes to attempt to speak aloud what is going on inside, yet always fall short in our comparisons. Oh the complexity of being a human! Such things are particularly hard to accomplish when I am trying to keep my readers in the dark and surprise them with small pieces of the story along the way to keep them interested...

Two vacant rooms stare back at me.

The lights are on but no one is home.

These lights they appear unchanging:

Dim like lit kindling, yet unable to draw a flame.

Look no further and it may seem a happy place,

But to venture on will be found something contrary.

Yet none look further; they see what they wish.

If just one would, maybe then it would change. 

Words or there lack of

It could well just be the fact that I haven't written in some time, or perhaps my mind recovering from the roller coaster ride I've taken it on for the past few months. Whatever it is, it's left me stuttering to find the right words. I've found myself on countless occasions of late, stumbling and um-ing and ah-ing before someone chimes in with the words I was trying to put together in my brain. It's transpired onto paper as well and I've found myself somewhat wordless. So, I'm sorry to say, no prose today. But they say "a picture is worth a thousand words" so here's hoping that this will suffice:

10 points to anyone who can guess what it is...

Hiding

As the years carry on, I'm starting to see just how true Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 is. That with each season of life, it brings with it different emotions. That a person changes with these seasons. Things are revealed about them that were not known previously. It makes me think that, if we are not careful in our seasons, life's opportunities will pass us by. It makes me think of Georgia Fair's song Real Man Hiding "...my hair grows thin you know, but I've grown no more wise..."

The words seem to be sprayed

With little care.

‘Cause if there were,

Then no words would they share.

Avert my eyes

For fear and doubt.

Avert my heart

To keep the world out.

Bury my head,

Shut my mind.

Close the doors,

Lock the blind.

In a small huddle

We will pull through.

Time it will pass, yet

There’s nothing we can do.

emptiness

Pronunciation:/ˈɛm(p)tɪnɪs/

noun

[mass noun]

• 1 the state of containing nothing:the vast emptiness of space

It looks something like this:

Those times when the party is over- everything is packed up and all the people are gone; those times when I'm home alone; those times when I've no place to go. Yes, it is those times that I feel empty inside; those times where I try so hard to turn to God for fulfillment. Not always do I feel His presence, His providence, His love. Yet I wait in trust.

I feel He is shaping me in my patience. That the longer I wait, the easier it gets. I wonder if there is a tipping point... I hope not.

The art of waiting upon God is not something that comes over night- especially if you are not on speaking terms with Him. Evelyn has many nights to endure yet.

The waves continue to roll.

Day and night they go in and out.

Give a little, get a little.

It all works out in the end.

I shall follow the lead of the creations before me.

Keep on keeping on 'til I can no longer keep on.

And when I can no longer, but lay my head to rest,

For my keeping on, may I be well blessed.

Predestination

Okay, so I have a confession to make. I didn't actually know until seven days ago, that the Catholic Church does not support the idea of predestination. I had thought it was up to our own interpretation and I was leaning towards the "destiny" side of the scale. So, naturally, my world has been turned upside down in this last week and I've had to reconsider a lot of things- in my own life, and in Evelyn's.

The only thing that is certain is that we have freedom of choice, and I've found that I've had to go back to that foundation and work from there.

Let us consider, for instance, the scenario of a woman praying for her future husband. God knows who these prayers are for because God is outside of time and already knows who she will choose. But that's exactly it: she has to choose who he will be. Perhaps she has many choices. Perhaps there is not just "one perfect man" for her.

Then there is the knowledge that God has said He has plans for our lives- perfect plans (Jeremiah 29:11), but it is a matter of whether or not we choose to follow those plans. That there are many roads that we could travel, but one road in particular is better than the others.

So, now, I guess it is my choice that when I come to a crossroad in my life, that I would seek out His perfect plan, and then choose whether to follow it or not.

Choosing choices,

Hear those voices.

Lead me, guide me-

Walk beside me.

Take some time,

Don't wait for sublime.

Speak! -Don't speak!

But I am weak!

Please, I beg- Oh!

Don't say no.

But then to say yes-

Oh what a mess...

You clock, won't you slow? 

Do not worry, I will go.

No! Tick a little faster.

It's you, you're the disaster.

Okay, I surrender.

Treat me tender.

Actually, I change my mind-

I will wait for the other one, blind.

Crossroads

Have you ever entertained the idea that perhaps the world around you doesn’t actually exist? Like that it all may be in your head? I’m thinking A Beautiful Mind... The Matrix...

I think we take our existence for granted.

I mean, let’s think about this for a second, what proof do we actually have? Perhaps we’re kidding ourselves, or perhaps there’s a huge amount of trust involved, but I guess we don’t have much choice, do we?

If we did come to the conclusion that what we see, experience, and feel each day isn’t real, then what could we actually do about it? What would you do? Would you cast aside your newfound belief or would you dare to uncover the truth, even if it meant your entire world as you knew it would come crashing down?

Evelyn is at a crossroads. Which road will she take? I don't think she even knows it... because you know what? I don't even know it, and I made her. I find myself asking "Where do I want her to go?" But I guess the better question is "Where would Evelyn choose to go?"

Indeed, where would Evelyn choose to go?

Winter

Winter. It is at our doorstep. It doesn't knock politely or ring the doorbell once. No, it doesn't even wait for the door to be opened- it finds any nook or cranny, any hole you hadn't noticed or were too lazy to fix. It seeps through, quite unnoticed, until the chill reaches your skin and runs down your spine. Then you start to notice the walls, the floor- they become your enemy, unable to defend the battle line as they too allow the cold to surround you. There is no escape, no warmth to be found and you feel as though you might suffocate from the intensity of it all... Winter is cold in more ways than one.

Not only is it cold, but dark too. A sinister, foreboding darkness of nothing good to follow. Winter is the enemy. It gets all the blame. It takes all the blame. But it doesn't care. It will continue to haunt you, year after year. It waits in the shadows, like a fox, licking its chops, ready to pounce at just the right moment.

Yet some winters are colder than others. And Evelyn is about to enter into her coldest and darkest.

Let me choose for myself

Shaphan's demeanor is that of someone full of certainty. His is self-assured in all he does. Then, in all his humanness, he pushes his self-assurance to become defiant; stubborn that he is right. The mistake throws the balance of Evelyn's world. It reveals a part of Shaphan that I, and Evelyn, did not realise was so extreme. Suddenly Evelyn treats him with wariness. She treads carefully around him, not knowing what to expect. The messed up part is that she knows that he is right. But it is because she doesn't want him to be right that she resists.

Let me choose for myself.

Let me make the mistake.

Give me a chance to live for myself.

Give me a time to change alone.

Leave me be! I internally cry.

But outwardly I allow the push.

I can do it! I defy.

Yet instead I suppress the child inside.

By the winter -persistent and strong-

The tree is forced into hibernation.

By the spring nudging it along

The flower is told its time is come.

To live a life by its own choosing:

If not even nature has a chance...

To have a life that's not worth losing:

Oh surely, what chance have I?

Loneliness

You've probably heard this before: "feeling alone in a room full of people." You've probably felt it too. Perhaps though, you are fine throughout your busy day while the people mill around. Perhaps you are fine even, as you prepare yourself for bed at night. But it is then, as you lay beneath your warm covers, that it hits you like a cold patch under the blanket. You not only are alone, but you feel alone too.

Where is the remedy? To invite others into your bed? Hardly. It would only make the hole inside you gape wider. So, where is the remedy? A pet? No. They only stifle the loneliness, helping you to believe it isn't there. But it is. So. Where is the remedy? They say that God should be our comfort. But what about when you don't feel His comfort? What about when His flickering presence isn't enough. OH! Where is the remedy?!

The truth is that none can fill this hole but He. Try as we might with people, possessions, ideals, we fill up this hole of loneliness until we don't feel so alone anymore. Eventually, however, these things crumble and we are left feeling even more alone then when we started.

Perhaps the answer is persistence: seeking His comfort to the point of living in the knowledge of His comfort until eventually we begin to allow ourselves to experience it.

Good Friday

Last Friday we remembered the sacrifice that Jesus made for us by dying on the cross. I contemplated deeper this year what that actually meant for Him. What did He feel as He hung, nailed there by His own people?

I was asked to create some kind of "performance" for the twelfth station ("Jesus dies") at my local "Stations of the Cross." I wrote a piece of prose and read it out whilst playing an amazingly moving song by Sigur Rós, "Vaka." Here's the prose:

Naked. Exposed. Everyone could see me.

But none really saw me.

It was my heart that you were blind to.

It was my heart that you refused to see.

After all I had taught you,

There was nothing I could do but hope.

After all I had fought for you,

There was nothing I could do but wait.

You spat at my existence,

Your disgust reigned down.

Your hateful eyes pierced me

Deeper than any iron spikes or crown of thorns.

I hung low, sucking in air as my body would let me.

Cramps rushed my muscles.

Blood pounded my veins.

There was no peace to be had.

In my exhaustion you mocked me.

In my agony, you jeered.

You knew no better; you knew not what you did.

So my nature poured out forgiveness and pleaded the same of my Father.

You turned away from me

As I took on your agony:

Pain beyond all pain, fear beyond all fear.

I was abandoned.

Never did I turn my back on you,

Never did I condemn.

No, it was I that could see only backs.

And it was I that was eternally judged.

Rejected,

My heart lamented,

Sorrow abounding.

I ached with the grief of your hardness.

Time pressed forward,

Each moment unbearable.

I faced too many moments-

Six hours to be exact.

Every movement caused a ricochet of pain,

Pulsating through my every vein.

I shifted my weight and found little relief-

Instead a new pain to endure.

The wonder of human creation:

What once brought life and pleasure,

Now brought a seemingly endless death.

Death could come no sooner.

But I would wait.

Patience: the very virtue of trust.

It would be my friend and enemy all at once.

I could wait.

Enduring,

All in my pitiless human strength.

It was the key to unlocking forgiveness.

None other would ever have to suffer as I.

And in suffrage I was multiple.

The physical hardships were few and far between the emotional strain

Of your hardness of heart,

Of your incessant need to rely on yourself.

I don’t need you.

I just want you.

But you leave me time and again.

And I was left alone, hanging on a tree.

Alone, no one could comfort me.

Alone, I hung on a tree.

Alone, my Father left me.

Alone, I was alone in that too.

Humiliated.

Taunted.

You lashed out at me.

I couldn’t breathe.

Thirst brought me closer.

Bitter-sweetness quenched me.

There was not much left to do.

My time had almost come.

And it was there that I experienced

Pain- excruciating:

Physical, mental, spiritual.

But it was your lack of faith I couldn’t bear.

Eyes upon Heaven, soul gravitating to Hell,

I gave in. I gave up.

I promised my spirit to the only One that could hold it.

And it was there that I breathed my last. 

Questions and answers

Does our search for answers actually prevent us from accepting life and living it? Or when we search, are we just embracing this life and digging deeper to find more?

I could wait a thousand moments

With a thousand questions.

Would they be answered by my patience,

Or left hanging in my mind?

The alternate is to seek and search,

To search and seek for a thousand moments.

Would the time be fruitful or wasted?

Would I find what I'm looking for?

Perhaps even, discarding my questions

Might be easier and less disappointing.

Would I be free to live this life,

Or feel as if something is missing?

Something like a life of mystery.

Something like a purpose to move forward.

Something like a desire to be fulfilled.

Something like a thousand questions.

Wait

In the Communion Rite of a Catholic Mass (right after the Our Father) the Priest says "... as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Saviour, Jesus Christ." I feel that this is the place that Evelyn has come to: "waiting in joyful hope." She doesn't know the joy. She doesn't know the hope. She doesn't know Jesus. And she certainly doesn't know that she is waiting, let alone what for. But she is. The time is coming. "Tomorrow", not in the sense of "the next day" but in the sense of "that day", is not so far away.

It must be an subconscious thing, but I am finding my own journey running parallel to Evelyn's. I feel that I am waiting too. I, however, do know the joy, do know the hope, do know Jesus, and most certainly do know that I am waiting and what for. It's probably more frustrating for me, though, because I'm just waiting (actively with hope and joy, but waiting nonetheless). Oh such a painful thing we must endure!

I can see it clear as day.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could speak the truth I know.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I can feel it within arms reach.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could take it into my own hands.

But the Lord, He says "wait."

I could kick up a fuss.

I could speak too soon.

I could shed light.

I could.

I could.

I could.

But His answer would still be "wait."

And I would still be waiting.

Truth and lies

It's funny how truth can blaze through a lie. We try desperately to protect ourselves, and put on a great show- a quite convincing act. Our act proves that this is all we are: acting. Attempting to fool others, but in the process fooling ourselves. 

Evelyn might believe that Shaphan cannot see her inner ugliness, covered safely behind a thicket of lies. The truth of the matter is that whilst others don't really know what is going on, they do know that what they are being told is not the truth. That probably speaks louder and clearer than the truth itself: our lies are unconsciously intentionally obvious. These lies are us screaming out for help, without actually screaming. Our pride is our worst best friend.

Naked. Exposed. Everyone could see me.

But none really saw me.

It was my heart that you were blind to.

It was my heart that you refused to see.

Waiting

I am waiting (rather in anticipation) for autumn to show its full colour. I know I shouldn't hold my breath- Queensland rarely experiences a real autumn. The days are nothing more than pleasant- so much so that the weather almost goes unnoticed. I am waiting not just for my own heart-contenting pleasure of a sight of red, orange, and yellows, cascading to the ground (which I will probably have to go south to see). No, I am waiting so that by experiencing real autumn, I can recall the memories of autumns past to piece the words together for this book.

Ahh, the perils of writing a book based around the seasons of our year. It is rather difficult to fully capture a season from memory. Perhaps the days will begin to crisp up a bit soon and I will find the words I need.

Such a shame we don't see things like this in Queensland:

Death can mean life

So, in my previous post I talked a lot about life and death in a very earthly sense. The thing is, there is so much more to these words. They have a double, deeper meaning.

"Life", not as in life on earth, nor as in everlasting life after we pass from the earth, but life in the sense of truly living. Life in the sense of being consumed with joy, love, and peace.

And "death" not in the sense of deathly things such as sin. No, death does not always need to be ugly, repulsive, or something to be feared. Certainly not in the sense of its other meaning- because with death brings new life (as exemplified with the butterfly and leaves giving to the earth). Death brings us with entry into everlasting joy, love, and peace.

Ironic, isn't it, that death (as in expiration from this earth) can mean life- everlasting life in joy, love, and peace in Heaven. Yet, life (truly living on this earth) can bring us things of a heavenly nature, living in joy, love and peace. Confused?

The bird soars south.

He follows his beak.

It leads the way.

The whale travels north.

The treacherous waters

Won't have her fooled.

They are where they are.

Not where they've been.

Not where they're going.

They are where they are,

Living with life

until death brings life.

Life and death and beauty

Death is meant to be ugly, tasteless, colourless, lifeless. Isn't it? When a butterfly dies, it is no less beautiful in shape and colour. Certainly, it is not flitting about, dancing in the wind, but it still holds something.  It holds that something for only so long before decay brings it back to the earth that once sustained it.

These are dead, so why do I see them as so beautiful?

They too will eventually become mulch; fine fragments of what they once were, no longer holding the rich reds, yellows, and browns.

Why do they live such short lifespans? Because beauty is fleeting. Yes they may appear beautiful as butterfly's or leaves now, but soon enough they will be a part of the earth, contributing to another beauty, no longer beautiful in and of themselves.

Life nor death can take away

Agape come Your way.

Sight upon sight You woo my heart,

You who've been from the very start.

Life nor death can cause me forget

All the grace you have let.

You who've made this wondrous sight,

You who've made my darkness bright.

Life nor death can bring me despair.

The price's been paid, the burden beared.

Your beauty has already won out

Over the wretched life-drought.

Freedom

Instruction to Governor Arthur Phillip on April 25^th, 1878:

We have by our Commission, bearing date (2nd April) 1878, given and granted upon you full power and authority to emancipate and discharge from their servitude any of the convicts under your superintendence.

What would those first convicts of Australia have felt upon learning of this? To be set free: Peace. Weightlessness. Potential.

But there are things other than incarceration that man can be bound down by. Things like bitterness, resentment, anger. Feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, insignificance. They can be self-taught or other-inflicted, with us for a lifetime or recently acquired. Whatever they are, the reality is, when we choose to find meaning and healing, when we choose to dig deeper and discover the origin of these things preventing us from truly living, and when we choose to learn to deal with the implications of them in our present life, it is there that we begin to experience freedom. The difference between those convicts and us is that we have a choice to find our freedom.

The darkness has seen a great light,

A new dawn of hope to keep up the fight.

So set these shackles free

And let me just be me.

I'm not a number, not a mask,

I just want life to be my task.

Here I stand pleasantly by a spring.

Oh! for the joy it makes me sing.

In this land of peace

Where my suff'ring did cease

There's no more shouting, no more pain,

And now I can live my life again.

I am free.

Peace

Why is it that when we most need to hear the truth, we least want to hear it? 

In order to experience true peace in the present, you must first come to peace with what has gone before you - Shaphan

Easier said than done. Evelyn knows it. I know it. You probably know it too.

Pandora's Box

I've just begun reading Redeeming Love By Francine Rivers. The main character, Angel, has learnt through experience to build a wall around her and let no one in. That is, of course, until she meets someone determined to break down that barrier.

It would appear that once you let one thing out of the box, everything else comes tumbling out with it. It's like they're all connected by some invisible, unbreakable string. A Pandora's Box of emotion, if you will. You let your guard down for just a moment, you let someone in on just one little secret of your heart, and then BAM it ALL hits you. It's hit Evelyn and it's hit her hard.

Pandora, can you close this box?

Pandora, can you hold this mess?

Pandora lock it safe and tight.

Pandora for another night.

Elephant In The Room

There are some things deep within us that are there for a reason. We hold them so close to ourselves for fear of losing control over whatever it may be. We grow comfortable with the dull ache that is becomes. We become accustomed to the hurt that surfaces every so often in lashings of anger, grief, loneliness. After all, who - or what - would we be without that thing that has become a part of us?

Sometimes our loved ones know about this "thing". Sometimes they don't. On the rare occassion that they've become attuned to our odd behaviour, some say something. Some dare to point out that great big elephant in the room doing cartwheels whilst balancing a plate of jelly. Even rarer is that it ends well.

Evelyn's elephant is big, solid as steel, and unbudging. The question remains as to whether Shaphan will be put into that very small category of an "attuned loved one", and the even smaller category of a happy end result.

Ripped Off

I felt ripped off when I watched the 2003 version of Peter Pan for the first time. The trailer for the movie featured the intoxicating song "Clocks" by Coldplay. It was (and still is) my all-time favourite song. As a result, I had high expectations for the movie. There is one scene in particular where Peter and Wendy are dancing in the dream-like forest, floating up and up from the forest floor. The song in the trailer sings sweetly to make this the most perfect scene I've ever laid my eyes on. I felt ripped off, because not once did the song make an appearance in the actual film.

Disappointment aside, the feeling that this snippet in the trailer evoked in me has stayed for many years. It is the reason behind one particular instance in Evelyn's journey. I just don't know how to portray the magic that "Clocks" does. I hope Seasons gets made into a movie one day to truly do this moment in Evelyn's journey justice.

Now, I couldn't source the trailer with the Peter Pan clip in question, however here's a taste of that magical feeling that I'm talking about:

Nostalgia

The music of the 1940's has been working at my heart. It's finally won me over, but let's be honest- it didn't take very long. The music just has this amazingly romantic feel about it. I never stood a chance. Now it's got me thinking about investing in a record player...

It's funny how nostalgia can grab ahold of us. It's funny how this nostalgia can grab a hold of me, considering I was not around in the 1940's.

The haven that Evelyn has found elicits these same nostalgic feelings; thoughts of another era. It makes me think of several words: vintage, charm, rustic...

Past days,

Better days-

The grass was greener

Far before us.

That era,

Never dearer-

To have lived your time

That'd've been nice.

Swing and sway,

Dance and play-

Life was simpler

In your era.

Dream,

Oh! Dream-

I live in my mind

Conjuring the enchantment of a time gone by.

One Perfect Moment

It's not often in life that we encounter perfect moments. You know the ones- the ones that couldn't last long enough. The ones that bring you speechless, breathless, unable to consume their perfection. They're the ones that you recall later, that you ache to live again, and the memories never suffice.

Evelyn has found herself in a seemingly timeless perfect moment. It's clouding her vision, her rationality, her ability to think of others. Perfect moments are about one self, after all.

Oh blessed dream

Don't ever go away.

Last through this night

then through another day.

Oh blessed existence

In all your perfection,

Grant me another memory

To add to the collection.

Love Is

Love is always patient and kind; love is never jealous; love is not boastful or conceited, it is never rude and never seeks its own advantage, it does not take offence or store up grievances. Love does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but finds its joy in the truth. It is always ready to make allowances, to trust, to hope and to endure whatever comes. Love never comes to an end. (1 Cor 13:4-8)

I'm a big believer in what it truly means to love someone. In its purest form, love means to act out of the best interests of another.

Being IN-LOVE on the other hand, that is a whole 'nother story. It is a feeling- the gushy thing that goes away after a couple of years (or months) of marriage. Being in-love is excruciatingly painful. It is boisterous. It is unthinking and uncalculating, it is irrational and untimely. Being in-love is one of the best and worst feelings a human can experience. In my opinion.

Oh Evelyn, we feel your pain.

There's no point holding on anymore

It's lost, forgotten, never to be found.

The result is as expected;

Disappointment rains down.

The silence rings out deafeningly.

The bread sits there going stale,

Just like the taste you left in my mouth.

You appear ignorant to my love for you.

My heart laments.

You do not reciprocate,

And I transgress.

Why do you have to be so damn wonderful?

My love is strong.

I cannot control it.

Oh how am I to survive this

As the mold attacks my allergy?

We've Stepped Into Autumn

It's interesting: I was writing the other day in Seasons how autumn seemed picky in the weather it wanted to portray. Some days it was hot and humid like the summer past, others it was crisp and cool like the winter to come. It seemed unable to make up its mind. What I find interesting about it is how accurate my writing was to the autumn we have just stepped into here in sunny Queensland. One moment the sweat is dripping off, the next I'm tempted by a doona and hot chocolate- or at very least a cardigan.

Fickle. I thinks that's the best way to describe autumn- it is neither here nor there. Perhaps it likes to keep us on our toes and not get too comfortable. It gets attention by its unpredictability- unkind attention, but attention nonetheless.

Umbrella and gumboots

Or hand-held fan?

Jumper and stockings

Or shall I tan?

Give me a clue

About what will I wear

Share me a secret

I won't tell, I swear.

But now I am fickle

Cause I don't want you to cheat

Don't tell me, I'll survive-

Your mystery is a feat.

Autumn keep me guessing

I'll love you anyway.

Autumn who makes the leaves change

Go 'til the last day of May.

Believe

Evelyn does not believe her existence to be important. She lives in the denial of her self-worth. She does her best to stop herself from believing it, whilst those around her fight for the opposite.

Does this sound familiar? Like, have you ever heard those matter-of-fact statements from a friend, a colleague, your mother: "you're amazing", "you're wonderful", "you're so worth it"? They can see it, even if you refuse to. You respond by shying away, bashful by the statement, or lash out in disagreement.

I want to challenge you to believe it. When you hear those statements, agree with them. Go "yeah, yeah I am brilliant, aren't I?" (in your head of course- no one gains from a big head). Then let it sink in- let it sink in until you believe it.

Because:
Great things are accomplished by people of great confidence.

The Joy Of Reading

I spent a large chunk of my primary school years reading books. They absorbed me until the wee hours of the morning until I would choose rationally, guiltily, and regretfully to put the book down. At school I can recall spending far too long browsing the shelves of the library desperately hoping I would find something interesting. Alas, I was often dissatisfied and disheartened with the quality of the stories I read. Because of this I read and re-read my favourite authors: Judy Blume, Roald Dahl, John Marsden to name a few.

It's no doubt they've influenced my writing, but in recent years I stopped reading novels, feeling I was wasting precious time that could be used being productive. It's such a sad way to live, I realised this week, when the joy of reading returned. On Tuesday I felt compelled to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. I'd seen the movies, but fared from the books, acting upon the rumour I had heard that she wasn't very good at writing. But the story took me immediately- and I lost myself in it, forgetting where I was, not even realising I was reading, turning pages, living someone else's concoction. I've missed that feeling. I think I will make it my priority to read more. My English teacher long ago said I would be a better writer if I did.

Don't judge a book by its cover,

Its dull pages, or cramped fontsize.

Don't open its pages with expectations,

preconceptions, or limitations.

Don't hurry through to know the last line,

It's about the journey not the destination.

Don't close it in grief for its ending come,

Be glad for the life that was lived then done.

Autumn Mood Swings

We begin the journey that lays before Evelyn in autumn:

The days grew shorter, the night cooler, breeze past more frequently, and the plants began to change.

It starts out delightfully- taking off the edge of the heat from summer, and the days become pleasant. It is a pretty season, yet it holds such dread for the winter to come. With the changing days comes changing emotions. Both Evelyn and Shaphan experience wild mood swings, unaware of the effect the weather is having on them.

Oh I love thee dear flower

May your petals never fade.

Oh I love thee dear shower

May your droplets ever aid.

Oh I hate thee sun bright

Won't you ever go away?

Oh I hate thee black night

Won't your darkness turn to day?

Oh I love thee dear trees

May you never fall apart.

Oh I love thee dear breeze

May your wind cool my heart.

Summer

The last day of summer has come to a close in Evelyn's world, her eyelids imprinted with the sparkling night time sky. She leaves behind her a season that couldn't leave fast enough. Let us breath a sigh of relief on her behalf.

You bring me discomfort by your humidity

And burn by your ray

Oh Summer why do you forsake me?

Bring me rest, I beg, for just one day.

No, Summer will make you wait.

It will go 'til its done.

It knows about Autumn 

That it's not so far

And refuses to give up on its fun.

We yearn for you Autumn

to take away the sting.

May you come early this year-

Your cool breeze and shorter days...

Give Summer the fling.

Mistakes

Do you think people like making mistakes? Like to struggle? Like to experience pain and suffering? We certainly make things hard for ourselves, but then learn our most during these times. And for what we do not learn from, we usually experience again in some form or another.

How many times do we have to do something to do it right, to make a good choice, to act with good consciouses? Evelyn still doesn't get it. She fails to gather the strength to say no. Or really, she fails to rely on God for the strength to say no. There remains no option but this:

No regrets, no regrets.

I rejoice in new beginnings

And second chances, or third…

Forgiveness has become my new best friend.

But how to repair my broken past?

Not Your Ordinary Flower

The wonderful thing about writing is that you do not have to follow the laws of this world: you can create whatever you like in whatever way you like. A flower does not have to be like what you or I would call a flower. "Yes" could mean "no" if you so wish it. There could be no such thing as gravity. Heck, man could have never thought to slice bread! It's exciting having the opportunity to create things the way I would have them created: new, fresh, never thought of before! I mean, what's to say that this bottle brush I saw at Mt. Warning doesn't retract its flowers when the weather goes sour? Certainly invites for some interesting literature!

Unraveling The Tangle

Every step of Evelyn's journey is outwardly expressing the internal journey she is on. It makes sense that she has found herself immersed by mother nature, being taken deep into a forest that she didn't know existed. Just like the beautiful mess of her heart, the branches and vines are tangled beneath a thick canopy blocking out the light. Just like the pain of her past, the trees stand tall, deeply rooted in the ground. Just like the smell of the oxygen-thick air, it is all too fresh in her mind. She does not realise that by every step she takes she is subconsciously agreeing to clear out the forest-like mess until her heart can be seen bright as day once more. But the real healing comes when we start to ask questions.

How can I be living in darkness,

When the light is all around me?

Like feeling alone

In a room full of people.

Is that all it is-

A feeling... thoughts in my head?

Do I really have the power to change that?

Do I have the courage to choose to?

Can I?

Should I?

Will I?

What's In A Name?

I think names are very important. Especially in fiction. They encapsulate in a word so much about a person. It is for this reason that I have struggled so much in deciding a name for our deuteragonist. I gave him the name David for its popularity, but have come to realise that his character requires something far more aberrant and peculiar. Not only does the name need to appear in this way, but the meaning behind the name needs to fit who he is and what he stands for.

I'm currently using Shaphan (Shay-fen) and seeing how I like it. Javan only lasted a day, and Elah is to come next should Shaphan not work out. I'm just not entirely satisfied. None of them really jump out at me and scream "Perfect!" Not that a name has the capacity to do that, but one can only hope...

Evelyn, however, would scream "Perfect!" if it could. It's an oxymoron for our protagonists current existence. It means "life, living, lively", but really she is a living death by her inequity. The hope is that by being made for life, she will find it- in the sense of being truly alive and free.

What's in a name?

Oh a rose, a rose.

Who is to blame?

The creator I spose.

Or perhaps the creator is not to blame,

For the suffering caused by the name?

But does it really matter who knows

The blame of the name, a rose, a rose?

Backstory

It is strange (and feels wasteful) to write a backstory to the story, with full knowledge that no one else will ever read it. But it is integral to the success of "getting the characters right". Even little things like a conversation that Evelyn doesn't hear directly but is given a recount of from one persons point of view. Because it would be too easy to just write a book. But to write a really good book without holes and that is believable... well, these things take time. So much time, in fact, that I was dreaming when I first had the goal of finishing before the end of high school. Several years down the track and I'm still going, but I'm not complaining, I'm loving having a backstage pass to Evelyn's world.

Now, whilst sin is sin, for a person to act in spite of God has got to be worse, right? Evelyn in her recklessness and lack of care for herself has quite knowingly gone against everything she believes in, hiding her face from the only One that can wash it clean. Now she suffers the consequences as the thicket of her darkness weighs down heavily on her heart. 

Lord, You are my King.

Ashamed am I in Your sight.

You see everything,

And I fear my life is not right.

I've been trying desperately to hide,

Running rather than colliding.

I'd much rather pretend it weren't bona-fide.

For fear of pain residing.