I've never kept a 'real' journal. It is too hard and personal for me.
Instead I scribble. I found this entry sometime between Dec. 3 and Dec. 31 of 2009. It is undated.
It is a poem with no title, with two words, "Live loved," written on top and a sentence above that; "Dear Father, thank you for a more abundant life. Help me to accept it." And here it is:
What I can say
about your love is that
it is strange to me. That
I cannot seem to fit it, that I don't
even try it on. What I can say is that
my own embrace refuses to collect it.
Though you give it to me. Though it falls
to me, like white giant sheets
from a widened sky.
I don't understand it. Too perfect,
covering all of me, what I know
never pleases even myself, that
entire body like a box of frustration,
bouncing and springing inside. It takes
it all.
What I can say
is that the life I'm offered sometimes sits stale. Because
I must be broken,
to come ready to be mended.
Nevertheless, your love comes over me.
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