The Art of Creating and Destroying Excuses

     I am a master at procrastination and avoidance.  In fact I have not looked at this space for more than a brief moment since my last post in October.  I confess to allowing fear and denial crowd out my ability to come up with anything of value in this space.  All sorts of “valid” excuses fueled that particular brand of crummy procrastination, manufactured in the bad neighborhoods of the mind.  It was fueled by the sort of excuses that kept me guiltily slinking past my computer even refusing to look at it for days. 

Stop creating excuses!

     Let's face it when we need an excuse, it is amazing how readily we can supply ourselves with something to fill in the blanks.  Any thing will work for an excuse when you are avoiding something.  That "anything" can also be backed up by wholehearted and equally ridiculous evidence.  I need a quiet house is one of my favorite worn-out procrastination excuses.  It is true enough that our house is NEVER quiet.  The only quiet that lives here is available for the over-exhausted or the unlucky victim of some planned mischief by resourceful boys behind closed doors.  This excuse holds water right?  I had myself  convinced it did when in one of those abnormally quiet moments I discovered my late grandmother's antique sewing case ransacked and all of the pins cut in half with a pair of discarded wire cutters.  "Of course I can't sit down and make time to write!  Look at what happens when I am preoccupied with something else!"  However, that isn't what really poked at me under the blanket of my flimsy excuses as much as the discovery that my ten-year old had more creative determination to do what he loves than I did for my passion.  While I was coming up with excuses about why I couldn't breathe life into writing, he had found time and a way to stealthily work at his.  In fact in under an hour he had not only ransacked the off-limits sewing case, but had also managed to tear erasers off of his sister's pencils, cut somebody's shoe laces, steal off with a pack of matches, and dismantle all of my coveted pens in order to construct killer blow darts for warding off marauders and bedroom intruders.  He was determined to create something against all of the odds and under the threat of punishment and confiscation.  Oh yes, excuses indeed!  Mine were holding less water by the second.  

     So as it goes when you are doing your worst at avoiding something out of plain old cowardice, I had to come up with other excuses.  As always the bad neighborhoods of the mind were more than willing to come up with a fresh round for me.  "You can't write.  You just think you can.  No one is interested in what you have to say.  Look at all of those creative, cute, savvy blogs out there.  Why is one more or one less blog in e-space going to matter?  You really don't have time to do this.  You need a real job.  Nobody with a real job has time for that.  You are too slow.  Look how many unfinished writings you have.  You are supposed to be educating your children, not dabbling and messing around with pursuits of your own."  On and on and on it piled up.  One big stinking, smelly pile of crud my heart was all too willing to accept from the negative spaces of my own mind.  

We lock our dreams away with fear.

     This went on for a few months until I considered myself completely cured of the "writing bug".  I brushed my hands of it and went about writing on the sly via my phone and kindle in social network land.  I wasn't interested in writing, but I was doing it while I was telling myself I couldn't.  That nonsense had been put away again with sparkly snow-globes and locked down for another moment in life when there might be more time and money with less chaos.  Then the gentle nudges from God began.  Did you ever catch those?  Ironically enough I started to see that every excuse I came up with, He was lovingly countering for me.  No time to pursue a passion you can use for good?  Look at your son letting nothing get in the way of his.  No ability?  I will use multiple people at random moments and in various modes to tell you that you SHOULD be doing this.  You are already a writer.  No money?  Is that what you are writing for, really?  When was money ever your motivation for doing or not doing anything?  You shouldn't be selfishly pursuing your own interests as a mother?  Now, tell me how you go look your daughter in the eyes and tell her to NEVER, EVER QUIT or belt out "Keep on dreaming even if it breaks your heart," with your son who begs you to turn up the radio because that is his favorite song.  Excuses, indeed!

     The truth is that I AM afraid.  I am afraid to write something meaningless.  I am afraid to write something that will be untrue or lead another astray.  I am afraid of being a hypocrite.  I am afraid of trying and failing.  I am afraid of rejection.  I am afraid to take that leap of faith and never let go of my dreams because falling seems like such a long, long way down.  I already know how awful it feels to leap only to feel the impact of crashing.  I am afraid writing makes everything inside of my exposed heart leak out all over the place.  It uncovers the depths of myself and makes me vulnerable.  Writing is impossible for me to do without facing all of my demons and fears.  I have been packing and unpacking those for years.  All of my excuses have been driven by one vehicle braking and sliding across a treacherous road of black ice.  Fear.  The absence of love and the seed of all of our failure to try, to love, to sacrifice, to give it our very best no matter how many times we fall down or need to get back up.  

Toss your fears into the fire!

    We all have them.  A big stinking list of excuses as to why we can't or shouldn't or even won't do something.  Why we can't or won't change.  Why we can't face that fear.  Why we shouldn't dream that particular dream.   We can point to our long histories of falling down and getting back up only to fall down repeatedly.  We can argue that it doesn't make any difference at all in the world or ourselves.  This is what Satan wants us to do.  To feed into the tiny seed of fear he places in the dark neighborhoods of our minds.  The more you visit those neighborhoods, the more you feed and water the seeds he so cunningly sneaks in there.  Before you know it, those tiny whispers of fear have taken root and grown into monumental, life-choking weeds that will consume your hope and steal your dreams.  Don't give those seeds room or time to grow in you, friends!  As soon as you find them in yourself, do not be afraid!  Don't run from them or think that closing the door on them will keep you from having to deal with them or face them.  Do what you must, boldly, and WITHOUT hesitation.  Look at them inside of yourself.  Turn on the light and have one good, hard look at them.  Be brave enough pick them up without clutching them too tightly to your fragile heart.  Write your fears down on paper, or a ribbon, or shout them out to the wind.  Then let them go.  Let them float away or get carried out to sea with the tide.  Toss them in a burning fire instead of dragging yourself or anyone else through it.  Just do NOT let those fears stay inside of you!

    I am going to do something with my writing I should have done from the start.  I am giving all of it up to God.  I am certain, based upon past failures and experiences, that I can accomplish nothing on my own.  I have failed so miserably in the past and fallen down so many times along the way that I know I need Him for every breath and second of every day.  I am going to listen to the nudges and the signs He has lovingly placed on my path.  How about you?  What will you do?  Continue to visit those neighborhoods in your mind that are full of fears and excuses?  Or do you want to take them by storm with the courage of light and love?

Fly with the dreams God placed inside of your heart!
Original photo credit:  Pixdaus.com

     These are the whispers He is filling my heart and soul with.  Change and fly!  Do not be afraid.  The past does not matter and cannot define you unless you give it room to.  Let it go.  Surrender it like I have been asking you to do.  Let me take over and fill all of the empty spaces and neighborhoods that are left behind.  Breathe deeply and let it go.  Give me that space to fill with new light and more love than you can possibly imagine.  I am sufficient for you.  I will give you more than you dreamed would ever be possible.  My dreams for you are even greater than the ones you can ever dream for yourself.  Good-bye Fear!  Hello Love!

Walk with God.
Shaunda Eck

   


  

Weighted Change

     We've seen an overflowing bustle of activity spill out everywhere at our house the past couple of weeks.  Reconstruction mode has sparked digging out a pit, and laying the foundation of a great wall intended to hold up and bolster a new family gathering place under the canopy of studded black velvet and whispy blue optimism.  Lines have been drawn and new stories are being pulled off of shelves with eager anticipation of a school year unsullied by smudgy eraser marks and wrinkled speeches lost under bedded chaos.  Change is pressing away the illusion of carefree summer afternoons lounging under waving trees, while watching happy hens scratch the ground and cottony charades transform in the sky.  Fruit ripens on the vine, weighing down branches and spilling out onto old wooden tables and work benches.  Multi-colored hot jars are lifted from boiling baths and steam burns tender skin.  Air conditioners buzz incessantly and are drowned out only by the deafening waves of insect songs rising and falling in the black muggy haze.  The mountains whisper the slipped secret back and forth that summer is waning.  Autumn begins its timed descent dropping clues of bleeding leaves and seed maturation along trailing creeks. 


      Change calls for us.  Even though it beckons from afar and nudges us along with carefully placed clues, it is not voluntary.  Eventually it sets in with a heavy, inevitable beauty.  It's gentle breezes and heavy weights can lift us into airy castles or sweep us into pressured vats.  We may make struggled attempts to fight against it like stubborn toddlers refusing to sit still for a hair brushing, but no matter how hard we struggle or how fast we run to escape it, change brushes us forward, unhindered by flimsy excuses of unpreparedness.  God knows change is necessary and can sometimes be difficult for us to flow with.  He will alternately pursue us or gently hold us through our stormy sessions of unwillingness to surrender by lovingly turning a deaf ear to our temper tantrums.  Then He whispers ever so quietly into our hearts that instead of crying out against it's crushing weight, we can discover relieving counter pressure hidden in submissive silence if we stop struggling and pause to listen for the breathed promises of a new season of growth.  When we gather our harvest of blessings with aching muscles, bow a submissively grateful head to God, and taste the renewing goodness of creation, it prepares our hearts for the protective crushing weight of winter's blanket.  Bow down and give yourself freely to God for anticipated transformation.  Allow yourself to be consumed by the entirety of the process.  So that when the weight is finally lifted and closed doors open, you are able to recognize what is worth celebrating as spring's light crosses your threshold. 

Weighted Change

A fragile heart grew protected fruit

Among pale green leafiness in lofty dreams.

Admired for it’s wild sweetness

Plucked casually under early summer sun

Set aside to ripen momentarily.

As sands passed through time’s keeper

It is swept up by the pendulum’s swinging.

Brushed into the presses for preserving

Reason ceaselessly crushing weeping

The weighted finality of change.

All that is left is juice and mashed pulp.

Maybe someday there will be wine

No, it will not be strawberry sipped under the moon.

Aged far beyond transparent fragility

Bittersweet maturity deepened the colour.

Merged in a battered sturdy cask

Black cherry tones lace earthy dark grains.

Siphoned as a kin's homemade brew,

From musty depths into corked brown glass

Masqueraded with a little dust on a shelf

It waits.

The Lesson

     My Dad used to give us a lot of chores to do.  Picking apples perched on extension ladders, pulling weeds, picking rocks, shoveling snow, butchering chickens, stacking wood, and taking out the compost.  That is only the short list.  We did not like it.  We bulked, we sulked, we dawdled and drug our feet with the dramatic expertise only a child can display in the face of good old-fashioned work.  For me, there was nothing more dreaded than the stomach churning threat of forced time in the corn field picking rocks or pulling weeds.  That hung over my head all summer, heavier than the oppressive cloud of mid-August humidity.  Banished to the buzzing heat in worn-out sneakers and mismatched clothes from some hand-me-down bag, I would come up with a lengthy list of fun things I could be doing, while convincing myself I was the only girl in the world, except my sister, stuck in a field doing the two-handed yank of quackgrass and topping dandelions that were bound to haunt me with their regular reappearance forever.   There was no getting out of it.  Weed pulling and rock picking were my parent's favorite method of diffusing negative attitudes and yanking out rebellion by the roots.  

     As a child I felt the sting of punishment, but what I didn't see was that God was also using those moments to actively teach me deeper life lessons.  The ones He knew I would need for the rest of my life.  Those sweltering summer days in the corn field clanking stones into an old backhoe bucket or finger-numbing mornings bracing myself and shovel against drifted banks of snow were part of my physical preparation for the challenges and obstacles of life.  Training my body, mind, and heart to lay down physical connections to my soul so I would have a infrastructure of active coping mechanisms when things around me appeared out of whack. 

     My Dad never caved to murmured complaints or allowed us to drag our sneakers in defiance on the gravelly driveway.  He appreciated the value of simple labor when it came to developing perseverance, curbing fear, and clearing room for new growth.  He made certain that the seeds were planted in our minds and hearts even if the shoots of that did not take off until years later.  Like my Dad, I think God does the same thing.  He points us in the right direction, and goes about setting us to certain tasks designed to teach us.  He challenges us to stretch and grow and asks us to take on simple tasks we sometimes find meaningless and repetitive. As adults we can find ourselves guilty of reverting to dragging our feet and balking at what our Heavenly Father sets us to.  However, if we get our bodies committed to the tried and true method of simple physical labor we can discover our minds and hearts will follow suit. As an adult, I love pulling weeds.  There is nothing more satisfactorily simple than a vigorous session of yank and pull while talking to God about whatever negativity is trying to lodge itself inside me.  The physical act of pulling and tugging helps aligns my mind to take over easing it out of my heart. 

     I am so thankful for the lessons God taught me through my parents and life on a small farm.  As a parent I am amazed at how many simple opportunities God gives us to teach our children about Him and coping with life.  Some of those lessons require stretching out of our comfort zone and are hidden from view.  However, if we look back at our own childhoods, we can find lessons designed by Him to mirror the challenges encountered in everyday life.  Simple tasks like weed pulling, shoveling snow, washing dishes, sweeping, and gardening can be turned into life lessons for our children to carry through their walk with Him.  They are tried and true methods of teaching them active, physical ways to connect to God with heart and mind while working out the internal kinks that are bound to cramp things up along the way.  Let us not neglect to teach our children some simple ways to remove obstacles, listen, alter their perspectives, and count their blessings.

The Lesson

I told you to climb.

Did you catch sight of it?

Clenching the ladder

With fear-narrowed eyes

I set it for you

At the very end of the branch

Under dense cover

So fingertip faith

Learned to hold tightly

Before grasping the prize.

I sent you for it.

Were you able to find it?

Chewing stranded hair

As spinning wheels jammed

I placed it there

On the other side of the vice

Next to the grinder

So developing minds 

Learned to carefully listen

Before picking up the hammer.

I made you go out.

Could you finish the task?

Huffing mumbled clouds

Against drifted icy banks

I sent them for you 

Along the rutted trail

Down the bank

So stubborn hearts 

Learned how to dig out

Before carving new paths.

I pointed you to them.

Were you able to pull?

Squatting in the dirt

With rising summer-baked ire

I put them there for you

In between tender shoots

Strangling vital life

So rooted hurt

Learned to clear obstacles

Before harvesting the fruit.

I told you to do it.

Could you finish the task?

Brushing splintery debris

With achingly numbed fingers

I dumped it there for you

On the icy concrete slab

Amidst dismal pelting sleet

So bound hardening hearts

Learned to thaw and melt

Before pouring out love.

I called you to it.

Did you find them?

Reaching into smarting spaces

Swiping hands across stained cheeks

I grew them for you.

Scattered in tangled brambles

Hidden from view

So busy hands

Learned to alter perspectives

Before counting their blessings.

Shaunda M. Eck

Snow Globes & Plastic Bubbles: Why I Write

     Do you remember those red vending machines that used to be at the front of every grocery store, drug store, and restaurant?  The ones brimming full of those plastic bubble encapsulated treasures we used to covet as kids?  In went our hoarded pennies, nickels, and dimes, and out popped a handful of kaleidoscopic sugar or some prize we would carry around with us for a day until it was broken or lost in the haste of running off on a new adventure.  The plastic bubbles were dropped, accidentally stepped on, or tossed in the trash by our mothers when they were cleaning house.

     Our lives are full of plastic bubble moments that fade quickly or get left behind in the chaos of running forward.  While we speed forward through one season of life into another, tackling school, jobs, marriage, and family, we travel across a land strewn with plastic bubbles.  In plastic bubble land, moments, people, and words get tossed out, casually overused, and cheapened.  So why do we write at all or bother with putting our two-cents into the massive ever growing word machine in e-space?  Possibly we are still holding onto more than plastic bubbles with child-like hope and praying that every once in a blue moon some breath taking beauty will take shape and pop out instead.  Something more like a snow globe.

     You see, our lives also contain definitive sparkly moments we cherish just like one of those snow globes our mothers would pull out of boxes before Christmas and then place upon a shelf or windowsill where it could be kept safely away from inquisitive chubby hands.  My mother had one she kept in her bedroom.  I relished the feel of stealing away from chaos and chores into the forbidden territory on tip-toe so I could sit on her tidy bed in the tranquil coolness, twist the knob underneath, and listen to a dreamy tune while I breathlessly watched sparkly bits float and drift around the scene illuminated by the starry, stranded lights outside her snowy window.  It not only gave me a moment to breathe, but the time also connected me with my hopes and dreams for the future with the eyes of a child.  We all have moments in time, people, and places we cherish in our hearts like this.  Every now and again we need to unpack our memories, brush the dust off, and shake them around so we can keep in touch with ourselves and listen to the tune of an older season gone by.

Where do I begin?

     However, as we mature, we realize we will have to navigate and negotiate through a vast ocean of memories and moments.  Precious time slips through our hands like sand slipping through an hourglass and sometimes we find it necessary to choose what we will hold onto and what we will let go of as we are swept forward.  Knowledge comes at us in short bursts and long painful climbs.  Along the way our collection multiplies, tucked away for safe keeping in the hallowed halls of our hearts and memorial chambers of our mind.   We will more than likely come across places in time that we discover we must pause and clean house to make room for growth and lighten our load.  A daunting task, we can struggle with knowing where to begin sorting through it all.  Somewhere in the middle of our messes God patiently shows us what to let go of and what to hold onto.  We eventually learn to see the difference between cheap plastic bubbles and cherished snow globes.

Ingenious artwork by Camryn Forrest Designs

 

      I've been writing ever since I was a little girl.  As an adult my childhood love has become more than a hobby.  It is a link to Jesus, the cornerstone of my life, as well as a personal touchstone.  Most of the time I write to vent out whatever gets trapped inside the spaces within so it doesn't stay bottled up, bobbing up and down uselessly inside of some restless ocean in my heart.  Other moments I write for the delight of holding onto lovely snow globes in my own life.  It challenges me to cough up my two-cents while it gives me a chance to steal away for those slower moments in a usually hectic life, much like I used to do as a child.  Writing has given me a way to reflect upon lessons of the past and who God is calling me to become.  My life, as yours, has been littered and blessed with collected moments I have needed to clear out or have another look at.  I pray you are able to enjoy all of the moments of your life and whatever they have in store for you.  I hope that here you may find a word or two that helps you navigate through your own world of plastic bubbles and cherished snow globes.

~Shaunda M. Eck~

Out of Exile: Breathing New Life Into Old Words

     I pulled the scrappy draft of this poem out of exile recently.  It was tucked away in an old photo album from a lifetime ago.  Our children helped me take and choose some photos of different antiques around our home to add to my poetry.  They have been having as much fun with photography as I am having breathing life back into old words.

     Antiques remind me of people.  Both have acquired their share of battle scars along the way.  Some are beaten in roughly from neglect or abuse, while other marks leave tactile etchings of life and the seasoned maturity we define as character.   Their flaws and grooves ask you to cherish and love them smoother with patience.  Much like seasoned hearts, they reach out for a new safe harbor,  a place they are once again at home in. 



OUT OF EXILE

How did it become so floydian,
Desperately scratching surfaces
Of antique, hollow spaces
Housed within safety-wired shells?

What began the narrow defining
Of weary travellers and trains
Bouncing off collected scraps
Of impenetrable armor?

When will the viewing of
Scarlet trails be made clear
Through shards of salty glass
Relinquished fearfully into steel vices?

Why spark the embarkation
From the confines of squared matrixes
Only to drag affectionate fraility
Around silent bulwarks of a labyrinth?

~Shaunda Eck~