Bring on the Sun

What a beatiful day! This is my favorite time of year, when the weather flirts with summer. Lately, they haven't made the decision to go steady because of committment issues, but I am coaxing them to get back together.In the past they have had some problems, but I know the two are perfect for each other. I am suggesting couples therapy, and I am completely content to play matchmaker.

Days like this remind me of Elizabethtown when they talk about taking some time to dance alone with one hand held high.

Match Fire

Not sure why I feel like talking about this, buckle in for some gruesome analogies that make absolutely no sense.

I am sure if you know me this will be just another "Abigail" moment and you will walk off shaking your head. If you don't know me - well, I feel for you. You just wasted part of your life - reading the jumbled up thoughts of my brain.

I have in the past craved to be passionate about something - something/anything to be truly passionate over.

I have come to the conclusion that I am matchfire (compared to roaring flames or dying embers - lol) passionate about two things and bonfire passionate about one. Writing and people top out my list of burning candle-wick loves. While the raging inferno goes entirely to my Lord and Savior (okay, to be real - right now it is just a camp fire but in the past it has been a California wild fire, and it is not for lack of Him trying).

It is hard to feel anything right now except numb. Sometimes it seems, I am basically on autopilot. I never used to wish for days to go by, but now I find myself living for Thursdays - the last day of school for the week.

Phantom of the Opera soundtrack is raging through my brain as I remember what it was like to be passionate.

This week was amazing. God really took care of some things that were bothering me, and helped me turn some disasters into good. I am so grateful for everything He did.

There is not enough skipping in my life. And probably not enough "happy dances". Life is not worth living if there isn't any dancing going on.

I am excited though - because tomorrow is a new unwritten day and I have already penciled in at least one awkward dance moment.

Please turn red...

I have come to appreciate red lights. In this fast paced world, I find often find myself in need of a moment to gain my thoughts, listen to good music, sing at the top of my lungs - and that one minute of time does all that for me. I have a hard time scheduling "me time" because everytime I do it turns into "sleep time". Red lights take care of that...


Please turn red
Another light means another minute

When this works out I'll give the cat a name.

I can't really explain why I have the sudden interest in writing for my blog again. The feeling reminds me of going back to a house that someone you loved died in and walking through the rooms. It sounds stupid, I know, but luckily no one cares or will read my nostalgic moments. I mean, why should all good memories of the house be tainted just because the beloved owner no longer lives in the house. I have said before - I have to write. I don't have to be read. Most of my innermost thoughts aren't ready to be viewed by the public because I am still digging deeper into the "why". If I was to truly write down all the thoughts in my head at any given time - no one would ever be able to make sense of them - least of all me. And yet, here I am compelled to write. Compelled to keep typing. Something about seeing it in black and white always seems to unlock the unknown in me.

So here I am writing as if I was going through a haunted house. Tip toeing through the memories. Wading through the dust and spider webs. Just to remember how far I have come.

I like to think that I am improving, that what I do matters. But I look at everything going on and people in my life - and feel discouraged. I have never expected to change them, but since they constantly come to me for advice and I tell them the same thing over and over - you would think they would either leave me alone or change.

It is sad life has to be so complicated.

~A

6 - years - old

He was 6-years-old.

I had a dream about him the other night. I had almost forgotten the dimples when he smiled, the squirrely grin, the chillibow haircut and the consistent problem of him not turning out his toes.

I was his assistant teacher. Nicholas was a most adorable boy in a class room filled with little ballerinas. He loved ballet. He got to play all the manly roles.

He was so little. I can still see him struggling to pick up Marrissa in the doll dance, and Marrissa was about three feet tall.

As far as we could tell, his mother seemed like a caring sensitive woman. We knew she was having problems in her marriage, but she seemed to have them all under control. I always thought she was the epitome of a rocker chick. She had long permed hair, wore no make-up, and had her right eyebrow pierced.

I will never forget the day I received the phone call. The teacher of the ballet class called me because she wanted to prepare me for questions from the students.

Nicholas was dead.

His mother had lit fire to the hall outside his bedroom, and they both died in the fire. The neighbor had heard him and tried to get him out but couldn't because there were bars on his windows. I think I remember her doing it because in her mind she was protecting him from her husband.

Things are blurry now, but one thing I know - He will always be 6, and I will always remember.