distractions made easy

there's something about not having people over, not being too affected by appearances, being able to "make do" with whatever and an overall nonchalance toward daily living's habits and rituals that makes the more practical points of my existence . . . well, non-existent.  the needs of my apartment are staring me square in the eye and when i turn around i can feel them boring holes through the more tender, empty parts of my skull.  each room is a neglected piece of my life that has been told, "soon, i'll get to you soon."  the kitchen is my practical roommate.  he's there when i need food or drink, microwave or coffee, the rare moment of actual "cooking" . . . and not cooking for cooking's sake (such as the artists would tell you is the only way) but for the mere need for food. the dining area is actually a dining/conservatory/office/catch all.  he is the roommate that catches all the flak for nothing, ends up being dumped on most of the time and only occasionally is used for his specific gifts.  the den is my laid back, long day, gotta get my feet up "forget the world" roommate.  he does nothing but entice me with his music and movies and tv shows . . . mind altering drugs which medicate the numbness which is often ascribed to the monotony of that thing we call "work."  i won't delve into the bedroom . . . most do not appreciate a venture toward the darker corners of ones dwelling.  let's just say he's the roommate that all the other roommates throw up on.

what i've seen

distractions are easy when they're stealing you away from those things which are of little or no concern to you.  those things which concern you most; for some it's relationships, for some work, for others family and home, and others a secularistic life style of out and up all night, have a tighter grip on your attention and little can steal you away from them.  it's not a profound statement, but it does give me pause to think of what things in my life hold my attention and what other things i'm neglecting toward a sadder end.  

historically, i've seen myself give way to myself.  there were no needs greater than my own and no avenue worth traveling if it did not end in my needs being attended to . . . even to the detriment of others.  hopefully, though, by the grace of God and an altered perspective on life and living, i am giving way to the needs of others before myself.  i still see glimpses of the old self when i look the mirror, the selfish and needy sinner within.  turning off the light on that person hasn't been easy and often times it still isn't.  guilt can still plague my mind.  my distractions have shifted from my needs being externally met to a focus on trying to fix how i "used to be" in an attempt to change my self perspective.  this never works and every attempt leaves me looking at the messes everywhere else.  a wake of wreckage has followed me for years and God's grace has cleaned up much of it.  but i struggle so often with my internal wreckage, my own innability to paint my life differently, and the rueful truth that no matter how many smiles i paint on my face, it is only by seeing myself in light of the cross and in the hope of the resurrection that i will have any peace, contentment, joy, and lovliness in this life.  

it's a process.  it's an easy process some days.  it's a downright hellish one others.  but it's a process.  tonight my apartment will be clean.  partly because it needs it, but also because for a few minutes i was given the grace to see how the smaller things in my life reflect the larger ones.  my kitchen may represent my witness day in and day out.  my dining area the mirror of my tendency to dump myself on others and not give heed to their needs . . . not be an ear or hear, or a shoulder to cry on.  my living area is my slothful desire to quit life and be a bum in a time when i must spend time with my children, be productive at work and develop relationships wherever i am.  and my bedroom . . . 

we are not lights in and of ourselves, we are mirrors.  and whether the light inside is bright or dim, we will reflect what is truly there, regardless of what we paint on the exterior of our washed out lives.  

the poem below was born out of a bad day and is a complete contrast of how my days begin when i look in the mirror and see the love of my Savior.

morning

the imprint of your frame still

lingers in my bed, and the sheets you messed

as you kicked and pulled yourself

away from sleep—your silence louder than the screaming alarm.

 

folding back the warmth,

feet recoiling from the cold,

i force my eyes to your pale back

and watch you dress it in guilt.

 

your goodbye closes with the door and with it I begin

another morning, just like the last—

drawing a smile on the bathroom mirror,

trying desperately to shower off the shame.