September 30, 2012

The Already

This morning I woke up before my alarm. Just a shaft of sunlight was coming through the window, and I remembered I had pumpkin oatmeal waiting for me in the crock pot. Instead of rolling over I actually got out of bed with a sense of peaceful anticipation. In a very abnormal sort of way, I was excited to be awake.

I made a cuppa, dished out some oatmeal, and headed toward my front porch. Already smiling at my clumsy, hands-full door-opening process, I fairly giggled when I saw the morning which met me. Chilly, bright — a morning made for Erin Hill. The air was the definition of fresh, the kind you feel you must breathe deeply. I snuggled up in my adirondack chair and warmed my hands on my mug, listening to the early birds. As I looked up at the reddening leaves of my tree, lines which frequent my thoughts in such moments rushed to my mind: “The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil …”

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September 25, 2012

The Not Yet

Sometimes I wonder at how fundamentally alone we all are.

I have a caring family, wonderful friends, people who get me. And yet, at the end of the day, it’s just me in my head. Never mind the walls of calculated self-presentation I build — there is a chasm even those who see through all my crap can’t cross. Sometimes, despite a history of smiles and tears and shared experiences, I just can’t get you to see what I mean. We talk past each other. We misunderstand. And I wonder why.

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September 18, 2012

Familiar Paths

This is my spot. I come here when I need to write or think, or if I just want a good drive. It’s a nice park, but nothing special. Neither urban nor rural, quiet nor bustling. I wouldn’t have picked it for my spot, but it seems I had no choice. You see, I became a writer here.

I first stumbled into this park five years ago (nearly to the day, as I realized on the way here tonight). It was an evening much like this one, the cooling breeze of the bright, early fall playing with my hair. I came here frustrated with a creative writing assignment that just wasn’t flowing. Somehow I found the inspiration I needed, and I walked out with a rough draft of the piece that would be a creative turning point for me. It’s still, I think, the best thing I’ve ever written. I’d found my sweet spot.

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September 6, 2012

Character

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Flat on my back, I looked up and saw four fingers. The room was still swirling and a few stars still floated in front of my eyes. It was around midnight, and a trip to the bathroom had gone very wrong when I stepped on an ill-placed guitar (I won’t tell you who put it in the middle of the floor), wobbled around like a bad tight-rope walker for a second, fell head first into the door-frame, and bounced backward onto the floor. The bang was so loud that my comatose sister actually woke up. I counted her fingers again. “Four,” I said.

“Erin … there’s only two.”

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September 4, 2012

Author

I’m very excited today to present a guest post from my BFF—my bestie, if you will—Elisabeth. I won’t say much by way of introduction since I’ve already written a rather gushy post about her, which you can read here if you want to know her better (or if you need a good cry). What is not commonly known is that Elisabeth is an excellent writer. I loved this when I read it—I think you’ll find it as penetrating as I did.

She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: “You are the God who sees me,” for she said, “I have now seen the One who sees me.” (Genesis 16:13)

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