My sister, who is moving to Ireland in a few weeks, gave me some of her old clothes, which included some of her scarves. She covets her scarves, so I felt very lucky to obtain some of them.

Tonight I wore one to class (even though it was 100 degrees out at 6:30). I blamed the cold classroom, but ultimately, I wanted to wear it.

The colors of the scarf are striking. It holds a detailed collaboration of pinks, browns, and blues, and then the rich golds jump out like little stripes of sun.

I felt very poetic and writer-ly in this scarf. I felt it in my hair wrapped in a loose bun. In my black, flowy, post-pregnancy cover-the-belly shirt and black framed glasses.

I think that’s why I told the class tonight that my Masters is in creative writing, in poetry. I almost felt wrong saying this because I haven’t written much, especially since my blog entry here about how I must write and how I needed to start NOW, and then summer comes and goes and I haven’t really written anything creative beyond captions for my Instagram pictures. In fact, I think I felt a little stupid coming back here to write about writing YET AGAIN, because it’s what I’ve been thinking and processing for years now. Years. This sure is a dormant seed.

But life is like that. My life is like this scarf of many colors.

The color red: my marriage
Parenthood has drawn my husband and me out to such a degree. We’ve been made thin. We’ve had significant fights and break downs. But we also love more than ever before. I see more passion in our interactions and conversations. I look at him and know him, sometimes more than how I’m known in that moment (because we are transparent now). We are five years into this and richer than ever.

The color yellow: my son
He is my utter delight. He turns nine months old this Sunday, and he is so smart and articulate in his movements and facial expressions. He is getting ready to properly crawl (after belly-scooting for about two months now). He is smiling back at me. He is laughing with me. When I lay on the ground in his room, he crawls over to me and throws his whole weight against me. He is bright, warm, and lovely like a sunflower.

The color blue: Yoga
I am finally in a place where I am ready to do Yoga. It is the best combination of movement, strength, and rest for me in this season. It is like the ocean. When I inhale and raise my arms above my head, when I launch into downward facing dog, when I throw my body out into warrior pose, and when I curl up into child’s pose, I am listening to my breath. I am listening to the brag of my heart. I am feeling my body, and it is carrying my soul and spirit, and I am communing with God. I place my hands at heart center and thank Him for this life He’s given me. I thank Him for the power to be able to move in this way. I thank Him for the strength. I stand off-balance but try again, and I take each day and listen to my body, and I feel so connected to every part of my life.

The color green: The Life-Giver Himself, the Source of all Creativity

“Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise”
(Rich Mullins, “The Color Green”)

This is one of my life songs. I first latched onto it when I was thirteen. I heard it in my mom’s Ford Aerostar, and I specifically remember sitting in the car for a few moments after we were parked back in the driveway, the song still playing, and my feet dancing around underneath me. I wore a black skirt, and the folds of the dress swirled beneath me. It was my earliest memory of being connected to music and to poetry.

“And the wrens have returned and they’re nesting
In the hollow of that oak where his heart once had been
And he lifts up his arms in a blessing for being born again
And the streams are all swollen with winter
Winter unfrozen and free to run away now”

This was one of the first stanzas of poetry that rendered my young mind. The oak had a heart? The arms of the oak are raised in blessing? Or is it the farmer? I always thought it was the oak. And what is a stream swollen with winter? I didn’t grow up with real seasons, or real streams. I was enraptured by the pastoral, by the way this scene resonated with high praise.

These are my colors. They are woven into a scarf that comforts me and keeps me warm. More colors will come, with more layers to cherish. They will withstand all the challenges as well.

I do have to say this, and this may be a separate blog entry at some point, but it is very hard to write with the intent of getting something published. I can’t create a piece just in order to try publishing it. When I do, the work is all fake and dumb. So I may just blog like this for a while, and work on my writing project when I can. I think I’m going to avoid trying to get little things published for the time being.

But that could all change. I have many more colors left to add to my scarf.


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