The Balloons Will Fly

It’s been so long, I think I may have forgotten how to do this . . .

I’m sitting here, telling myself “just pick a topic and go.” But that in itself is the problem. I have an abundance of raw and uncultivated fodder, and the prospect of culling the relevant and essential from the “stuff that makes me me” is moderately overwhelming. I’ve never been very good at narrowing down things. I imagine most writers contend with this persnickety character trait. Or is it just me?

When I sit down to write a scene that hasn’t quite developed, but rather spotted my imagination with colorful gems of potentiality, I can’t help but swoon, moaning, “Oh, the possibilities!” This results in a milieu of mundane and bizarre tactics and responses.

A) Check my Twitter

B) Stare at the computer screen and wait for genius to strike

C) Get a glass of water

D) Check my Facebook

E) Make a snack

F) Check my e-mail

G) Give myself a short pep-talk: “Come on, it’s easy — just write something, anything, doesn’t matter what, just write. Writewritewritewritewritewritewritewrite.”

H) Realize I’ve had a small, but nonetheless stunting, mental break

I) Practice cathartic pacing and breathing, all the while still actively engaged in tactic “G.”

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I Love You

My faith; of all my possessions, none hold more value to me than this. It is sustenance, accommodation, and livelihood.  As a challenge to myself, I don’t often speak directly about my beliefs or the One in which I have devoted my life to following; not because I am ashamed to say so, but because it is my understanding, that if I am being who I am supposed to be, than the need for me to tell others I am a Christian is superfluous. Do I need to tell you I have peach skin, or green eyes, or auburn hair? Of course not. And so my faith should be as evident as the most prominent features — more so! — on my face. However, with tomorrow being Easter, a day in which holds fervent meaning to me, I wanted to take a moment to acknowledge Him. To proclaim boldly that yes, I love you Jesus.

I love you with all my heart.

Tomorrow is the Sabbath. For some, this means a long laundry list of “Dos and Don’ts”, for me, it simply means that I will Rest, that I will spend the day with those I love most, but most importantly, remembering Who loves me most, and how He showed that love by laying down His blameless life to die brutally upon a cross.

Even now, as intoxicating scents waft down the corridor of my home, beckoning me into the kitchen where Michael prepares the feast in which we will happily partake, I am tempted toward distraction. Hulking wedges of frosted cake, tender chunks of sautéed tri-tip, ice-cold beer a bottle opener away from relaxation. Sadly, my stomach is often the mentor, when it should always remain the mentee. . . Though it will not come without its challenges, I will do my best to remember that tomorrow is not about the food. It is not about a bunny, either. It is not even about going to church.

It is simply about Him.

“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” ~ Galatians 2:20

The Son shall rise.

Happy Easter, my friends. I pray you are able to spend the day with those beloved.

Love, Cara

An Uncomfortable Character

The problem:

Lately I’ve been somewhat of a sourpuss. Fine! Have it your way, then; I’ve been an utterly petulantly, self-indulgently moody sourpuss.

You will remember my ankle, perhaps? I sprained one of the tendons that run along the top of the foot. Who knew an injury would alter and augment my cheerful disposition to this degree. Pain, I suppose, will do that to you. And not just pain, but inconveniencing pain. Not only does it take me three times as long to get anywhere, but my workouts — my nightly, sanity reviving workouts, freeing this writer of a day copious with discouragement and defeat — are devoid of all the exercises that raise my heart-rate, which in turn make me sweat, which in turn release those delightful little endorphins that so obligingly bring me happiness. Well, I can’t have that, can I? So, I decided to just do them anyway. This is where I tell you I injured my ankle over 2 weeks ago and the swelling has NOT gone down. Hm . . . why ever could that be?

Moron.

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