From Justin

Valise-ian Fields

For Drea: Thank you for cooking for me.

I've often said that when I die, I want everything I own to fit into a suitcase. This is only because I have a really bulky toothbrush. Otherwise, I would just use a Wal-Mart bag. But then the eco-nuts would draw-and-quarter me and use me for organic compost. So, yes, Samsonite. Banville says that maybe life is all a great preparation for the leaving of it. That sounds very neatly contained, and I think that's a part of it, sure. But even more than my suitcase-stuff, I want to de-collect invisible things. I want, when I die, to smile at the thought of breathing being my last, heaviest burden. I will have forgiven and been forgiven. I will have loved and been loved. I will live and leave and live again. You can keep the suitcase.

-justin mcdevitt

smitten. smoldering.

I'm one of those people who uses three out of four stove-top burners for one meal. Pay close attention - I have a way of juggling too much, but I'll make it look like I was born to stir three pots at once.

Today someone asked me about how much I trusted God's providence. I didn't have much of an answer, so I thought it was best to stew on the question a bit. And eight hours later I'm suddenly struck sick with the thought that this might not work out the way I thought. Or hoped. And I'm not sure what to do with that. I'm not ready to just let go of this. In fact, I'm pretty adamantly refusing. And it's not the thought of not gaining something that's painful; it's losing something.

I'm not sure where I wandered off. But I found myself in a good place. So imagine my surprise only to return to find all these pots boiling over.

Farewell June.

This month has 25 days of conflict. Mostly emotional, sometimes mental, never physical (unless you count when I shoved Jett during a particularily engaging game of "Pit." I've never been one to have it all together, but I fake it well - which is good, because I'm pretty much always a mess. But I've decided that since June was the month of "No Hope" that July would be the month I get myself together. We'll call July the month of "Grace." Not that grace is necessarily the opposite of No Hope, but that's what I need. Any maybe that'll lend it's way to hope, and joy...maybe even peace? Here goes nothing. In the mean time, I'm on my way to developing a terrible journal habit and I'm applying for teaching jobs. And I'm also trying to keep myself from turning into a complete basket case. Goodbye June, you've been stressful. I hope July is more kind to my soul.

This is my Jeremy. He left for the Air Force this morning. My routine of watching old Simpson's re-runs and playing hours and hours of card/board games just took a serious hit. Also, vegetables just made their way back into my diet in a strong way.

This is Kodos. My baby. He came in and out of my life quick, the little rascal. I had him for a month, where I spoiled the "stray" right outta him. But no amount of fancy kitten food or cutesy little play toys could make him better and I had to put him down. To date, that is probably in the Top Five of "Most awful moments." But we got to love on him, and he sure did make for a good snuggle mate.

I rest in this - June is almost over. I never thought I'd be so excited about the heat and mosquitoes July brings, but I'm so ready.

waiting.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.
-Dan Albergotti



I remember all those nights I would tread water, and I wonder if this isn't better. It's certainly easier. And so while I sit and measure the walls, call out to friends in vain, make smoke signals that no one can see, I'll narrate stories in my head. Name my future children. Alphabetize my spices. Chastise myself for everything I've done wrong. Defend those choices. Refuse to move on. Play board games. Wait for you to come to your senses. Put nothing on paper. Neglect my commitments to people. Write letters I'll never send. Make excuses. Let my heart be hardened. Still the last fainting beat. Wait for it to be revived. And if it doesn't, I'll rest in this - being in the belly of this fish is more peaceful than treading water. It's not where I'm supposed to be, maybe. But I'd rather not escape. Much less tiring.

no reason.

I just liked this. It seems to fit here.

Don't ask questions.

Just accept it. As wonderful.

I promise I'll write something significant soon.

But right now I'm too busy reflecting.

lunch.

My feet are dusty, but if I slip off my sandals I can barely see patches of clean skin shining like little stars hidden under the straps. I’m sitting on the backs of my legs, my heels pressed hard on the stained tiles under my weight. There’s a bag of water above my head in the hallway with a penny floating in it. It catches the light and looks like a little copper sun. It doesn’t seem to be doing its job though. A housefly has made it past the bag and lands on my hand. I stare at it for a second before blowing in its direction, sending it away from my sandwich. It’s too hot to move. Blowing on that fly to save my sandwich was almost too much effort. I’m not even hungry.

So I lean back a little and watch the kids make their lunches. They shuffle beside the tables lined with food. Starting with paper plates, adding white bread, jelly, peanut butter. Forgetting napkins. They skip right over the carrots and apples. They take two bags of chips. They’re chastised. They put one back. There’s a holdup at the end of the assembly line, where a picky junior high kid is determined to find the last chocolate chip granola bar.

A bit of sweat rolls into my eye and I get a whiff of my own peanut butter and jelly creation as I wipe my face. I want a shower. Or a nap. I don’t have time for both, and I’m sure shower would win out. But it’s still too hot to move. So I watch the girls pick at their nails and watch the boys throw bottle caps at each other. I watch dirt on my legs become a muddy smudge. I listen to bits of conversations and relish the few minutes that I have to myself. The fly has made it back into the hallway and found its place on my sandwich. I watch its wings spread and close. It rubs its little legs together, preparing to feast. I ignore it. Leaving my lunch on the floor I slip on my sandals again and open the blue gate leading back out to the dust. What does God require of me? To walk humbly, love mercy and do justice. I wonder if feeding that fly counts. I wonder if that is enough.

3 o'clock

There’s a quote that’s often attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald, whom I admire for continually producing such profound literature in the midst of self-destructing.

“In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.”

It’s like I’m on the edge of daybreak all the time. It’s that stillness that is like another person, lurking, when you awake in the middle of the night. And you lay there, in bed, waiting for it to finish you off, too terrifed to move.

And it’s hard to express this sort of thing. How do you do it without sounding melodramatic? Without trivializing things? Without being the one who cries "Wolf?" So I sit and write it all out. I’ve neglected my journal for so long I’m almost embarrassed to admit not being able to find it. But instead of process, I’d rather just sit and be in this place.

Not quite dawn all the time.

Of course, there’s always the noted difference between “happiness” and “joy.” And I wonder when it was that I lost both. And for how long I’ll continue to analyze my steps and watch myself move through the day with not much grace.

Day after day.