Drudging up Dust from the Depths of Darkness

It takes years of successes and failures
to truly and accurately find one’s voice.
~There Are No Shortcuts

As I remained bored again today I started sifting through my computer's old files. Organizing folders, deleting things and reminiscing over past pearls worthy of my hard drive space started me thinking. How much are our souls like a computer? Although we generally only have a dozen or so priorities demanding our affections (recent documents), we can easily recall old memories, dreams, guys who stole all our attention, and moments of saving grace. But how often do we? How often do we scour our hard drives, searching for an old memory that will shine light on our present? Why are we reluctant to take time to learn from the moments of darkness; to relive the pain so that we can remember and relish in the joy of the healing?

Under twenty thousand tons of brick and stone,
She carries all the weight of her own world,
and somewhere deep inside,
Beneath the cartilage and bone,
Beats the battered heart of one little girl alone.
She is sweet, like sugar,
But she is bitter like the broken sugar pot.
I say that, she could be anything she wants to be,
She only sees what she is not.

I don't like the valleys. I avoid them when I can. But I don't want to forget them. I don't want to hide them either. I want to rejoice with thankfulness that I didn't stay there; in the dust and dark, feeling all alone. Reading old files today reminded me of how I actually felt in the valley, which then filled me with a fresh awe for the Grace given unto me.

Hope is rising…on the wings of the morning
Hope is rising…in the shadows of the night.
Hope is rising…from the hands that have made us
And are holding us tight....

Dusty files from 2004:

We watched as the storm swallowed the light. The sky turned from blue to black, night descended in an instant and the dust was on us. Brown earth rained down from sky.
~Out of the Dust

I am dirt

The wind
tosses
me
about
a tiny insignificant
spec
lost in a powerful torrent.
But how can I be wind-
blown
dust
when I am going

nowhere?

Perhaps I am a jagged
ROCK
Stuck In The Ground
Immovable
yet slowly being
withered
away
by the
Crashing Waves
and
Howling Storms.

I long to be dust again
Moldable with a little
water and
Strong caring hands.
A rock can not be molded.
It is
ignored
especially when it is
plain.
Carvers callously chip
chip
chip
away at it’s crack-
ing sur-
face.
What is left is
ART
But what of that which is
destroyed?

Why can I not just be
unchanged
still desired
unbroken
still loved
just me?