Plucked out of context I knew you.  Not the people around you.
Met online, in person, loved, was loved, you were real, and I loved you.
But the day came when you were called home,
and I did not know.
By group email announcement I found out that the man I thought I would one day marry,
Had passed on to the other side.
I'm not family to yours... just you.
The grief wells up inside me and I've no place to put it.
No friends to talk to who knew you too.
No family who thought to call me.
Now what...

You are like a laser beam burnt like a hole through my heart.
Straight through, no carnage.
But my heart is full of sadness.
Hebrew lion, I miss you deeply.
With a finger hole, just there, through my heart where you touched it.
Rest in love Yahziel.

Twisting Reality

You are the embodiment of the pain I did not want you to feel.
Driven by the losses that have permeated your childhood.
The losses I tried to protect you from, but couldn't.
Like a rotating wheel is the rerunning of injuries that passes as therapy
Turning and twisting situations, playing a different role each time,
In replaying it your own way, you try to make it better.
Try to prove that it wasn't your fault.
You try to figure out who to blame,
Try to do it better.
Hind sight is twenty twenty, they say
But it is reality shifted on its axis.
It's not the solace you seek, it is repetition.

The Minions

I have been silent.
The pressure of welling words whispers from within and I can no longer stop the torents from tumbling forth.
I must write.
My research, as I have called it, has taken me down dark roads,
to painful places I wish only to wash with words,
What loss.  I am still here.  Eternity by grace I'm sure. 
Fragments of a lives I thought I'd live whirl mischieviously in my head.
Hundreds of plot lines, pushing forward for attention.
Waiting for their endings.
If I do not give them what they want,
They will take me under.
Drown me.
Ironically, they only want to be heard.

A still strong voice amongst the masses is not heard by many... even when it is right.

Eight months ago I became a foster parent. After half heartedly pursuing it on my own, two children were put in my path who needed a place to go, and I found the other half of my heart and brought them home. Many things got put on hold as I dealt with kids in crisis... not just the foster children, but also my own. I'm challenged every day by surprises... the clarity of a five year old and the wisdom with which he can speak about his circumstances. It reminds me to live every day for what it is, and love and appreciate each person around you... because things can change quickly. Always forbid regrets.

You can only reach what you believe;
Because you can not reach beyond your own faith.

At Thy Feet....

There is a place beyond this world
Where the chains of our past don't weigh us down
Where we have every confidence and knowledge and wisdom
Where the imperfect passes away
But that world is for later
The imperfect is for today...


.....

Through cracks and scars I see thee
Thy light doth draw me near
Beneath thy mask and armour
Searcheth I thy warrior's heart.
Fear prevail not; indeed courage grasp thee firm
For amid faith and into naught, the true doth trod
Thy sword and shield upon thee
The heart of a lion strong within thy breast
And thus pray I, peace be thy treasure
And quiet reflection thy luxure

Thine am I
Yet and On...

HOPE

In the face of doubt, faith is the irrational hope that the unseen really does exist.

Rationality is intellect taking over when you start to doubt your intelligence and intuition.

Intuition is the perceptive feeling that sparks imagination.

Imagination is hope transforming into reality.

Reality is perspective and perceptive.

Perceptive knowledge is unshakeable belief.


Proverbs 9:10 The fear of YAH is the beginning of wisdom: and the knowledge of the holy is understanding.

Psalm 119:73 Thy hands have made me and fashioned me: give me understanding, that I may learn thy commandments.

BREAD MAKER COMMITS SUICIDE

After being expected to produce bread several times a week for the last 2 years, the bread maker formerly residing atthe home of Arwen North threw itself off the counter last night in an apparent attempt to hang itself from its electrical cord. It appears that when the cord could not hold the weight of the whole machine, the machine crashed to the floor causing irrepairable damage to itself and its contents. Witnesses say that ensuing crash was loud enough to wake all the members of the household around 11:30pm... sending two of them into the kitchen to find out what had happened. Damage from the successful suicide included separation of the lid and machine, horrible disfiguration of the lid as well as broken glass. The floor was thankfully left undamaged. The bread machine, which was at the time of death, pregnant with yet another batch of dough, left its contents splayed across the kitchen floor with mixing paddles and bread pan loosely thrown on top. Whether the contents colluded with the machine in any way is still under investigation. It is also unclear as to whether this recent suicide will have any effect on future safety precautions for the unmonitored use of bread machines. Such safety precautions may involve the use of physical restraints which some parties believe to be inhumane treatment of workers. It seems that like teenagers, household appliances can revolt against hard labour and find any excuse to stop production. It is noted that this suicide is the second this week in the same household. Earlier this week, the dryer was said to have attempted to burn the house down by overheating and refusing to tumble the laundry.

Arwen North 2008

More Precious than Rubies.

If you have not gone before me
To prepare the path for me to walk
Then I trudge through thick brambles
That prick and poke my heart to bleed.
If you have not prepared a place
There in your life amongst the pieces
Then no place is there for me to rest
To lie next to you; to love; to bless.
For I cannot feel more for you
That what you feel for me
Else foggy plains and rugged cliffs
Become the demise of my sentiments.
I cannot treasure this bond more
Than the treasure you’ve found herein
For a ruby’s glint is hidden well
For the man with a patient heart,
Who takes the dirty wretched stone,
And cracks it open with faith and care
Who Finds within it a precious gem
And a treasure worth holding dear.

© Arwen North 2008

I sometimes think I don’t belong in this century.
I long for gardens filled with sunshine,
Children playing in the yard,
Baking bread on snowy days,
Knitting sweaters by
The fire burning on the hearth.
For simpler times

My todays are full of computer screens
Paperwork in an office
My garden sits untended full of plans that never bear fruit
My children play in other people’s yards
My snowy days are spent trying to keep up
with the ever mounting pile of travail on my desk.
I knit together financial reports
In the dark corner of my basement,
next to a cold concrete wall
This isn’t the life I had in mind.

I haven’t written much of late. I guess I tell myself I am sorting things out. But sorting for me is writing… so it’s not that. Searching for forward motion had become a perpetual pursuit, but suddenly I have hit a big pile of feather pillows and am floating on clouds of contentment and peace. You give me roots yet allow me to fly… not too far, but far enough. I prayed for you, and the angels brought you here…

First snow day... He didn't want it to end :)

To understand another,
The greatest obstacle we face,
Is our own perspective.

Reverberations

Where that love exists in many colors and depths
It sinks like perfume into the crevasses of my soul.
The sweet smell anoints my face
Like wine, an elixir on my lips
My thoughts are drunk with the warmth of you
And my head seeks its peace upon your chest
Can you hear my heart beat faster
When your soft words caress my ear?
What truth is this you speak
Upon the night wind and morning breathe
That seeks my soul and finds it yearning
For every moment… every word…
I hunger for your presence
My love… my Hebrew man.

Unexpected

Wrapped in golden linen,
Guarded against the world;
I reached out for a moment
And was caught up in the breeze.
A gentle hand that clasped mine firm;
A deep strong smooth voice that whispers.
The clear calm smell of summer rain,
And the undulations of ocean tides
Are not sweeter in this moment
Than falling into the warm sun.
Watching autumn leaves
flutter like heartbeats
And each moment
I fall a little more
Into you.

I wrote this piece after dreaming it about 2 years ago when I was pregnant with my son. I have kept it hidden away because I did not understand the meaning of it. This week a very dear Hebrew man showed me new meaning in what I had written. It is a humbling experience to be shown the true sense of something that I wrote. Indeed I do believe the veil is beginning to lift... and my ears are beginning to hear. You are cherished among friends my Hebrew man... may YAH bless you greatly and continue to restore the years the locusts have eaten...

THE CATHEDRAL

Every brick was placed in the Father’s name. The masons worked long days mixing mortar by hand and setting the large gray stones in place to build the cathedral by hand. Opulent and majestic it has stood for nearly 1000 years; built strong with faith, and the best that the time could provide. I’ve been inside this stone house of God. The inside is filled with candles, and pictures of battles fought in the name of religion. Above the alter hangs a life size replica of the Christ himself, hung on a cross, thorns on his head, spear in his side, blood pouring from his wounds. His head leans to one side; his eyes are closed in death. People come in to look, but rarely stay any length of time. The services are like empty rituals; repetitive words, a priest in white cloth swings a lantern of burning incense over those few that gather in the pews for Sunday morning. The symbols displayed do not equal life. Inside this church is death… life exists outside its doors. Around the church are the houses of people who busily go about their daily chores. They hang laundry out to dry, feed animals, weed gardens, wash steps, sweep the walkway, seed the fields, and tend the graves. The cathedral rises above them, and they continue their work in the shadows of its magnificence.

From my outlook far above the village on a hill, I look down at the activities of the warm summer afternoon below. The enormous cathedral, its stones now covered in moss, stands alone, high above the other buildings, like the backdrop to some gothic movie. Images of gargoyles landing atop the roof and perching there, race through my head. I feel the deadness of the place; the coldness of the symbols; the absence of faith… the absence of God. Years ago, God was taken from these people, taken by a man who gave them death in return. Sometimes I think I see a small glimmer of hope in the hearts of the people, but in most… I see only the bare emptiness that replaces that which was once so vibrant and true.

Clouds begin to roll in around the steeple, and the sky begins to darken. The bells of the cathedral begin to sound a warning… gong, gong, gong… they ring over and over. The bells warn of the impending storm… a way to communicate to all within its earshot that they should be quick to pack up. People below me scurry to take in the washing off the line, to pen up animals in the yard; they scurry around finishing the tasks of the day before the impeding storm. Slowly, one by one, the people disappear indoors; doors and shutters are closed, and the village is quiet. The day seems dreary, and oddly silent after the bustle of morning activities. The clouds have now completely covered the sun, and the day is dark as night. Standing here on hill, observing the village below, I can see rain begin to fall in the village a few kilometers away. A flash of lightening suddenly brightens the clouds above and the ensuing thunder deafens my ears. The cathedral bells continue to sound… gong, gong, gong.

As I turn to make my own way indoors, I am suddenly blinded by darkness and my ears are covered. Fear grips my heart. Sulfur fills my nose. When I can see again, I am standing on top of the cathedral, my body is exposed and my belly is swollen with a child. My arms are held out straight from my sides and I cannot move. I am cold, standing there naked in the dark; in the rain. The lightening and thunder have intensified and the rain is pouring down my body. It has soaked my hair and I am unable to wipe it away. “OH GOD!!!” I scream, “What is happening to me?” I see an angel standing beside me…

Out of the dark night a beast flies at me, his gruesome face is carved deep with lines; his eyes are burning fire; his yellow teeth are bared. He flies directly into my face. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. He comes so close that his sulfurous breath fills my mouth. The angel lifts its staff and the demon is knocked away. My heart is pounding and I am thankful that this creature is standing next to me to protect me. From behind I feel a claw press deep into my flesh… cutting a wide gash across my naked back. I feel the warm blood pour out and the cold talons grip at my skin. As the angel turns to fend him off, another catches him from the side. The tail of the demon swats wildly at the angel and again the angel fends him off with his staff. Suddenly the skies are filled with the dark bodies of flying creatures. The air is filled with the stench of their bodies and their cries and screams are deafening. The demons are flying into my face, at my body from all directions; they are clawing their way across the roof towards my feet. My cheek is seared to the core as a sharp tail cuts deep into my flesh. I turn my head to watch the angel… Its white glow is scarred by the claws of the enemies… The demons have scratched him as much as they have scratched me. The angels face is worn with deep scars, his eyes show that his strength is waning. My body is bruised, scratched and bleeding and yet I still cannot move. The attacks continue, until there is nothing left inside me.

Then from somewhere in front of me, from under the cathedral emerges the huge scaly head of a dragon. His eyes are full of furry, and out of his mouth and nose spews the fire of hell… I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to get away, but I can not move. My blood runs cold with fear… my spine feels as though it will separate from my body, and I will be ripped apart. I try to pray, but the baby inside me screams so loudly that I cannot hear the answers. I try to call out, but my voice is not heard. I am alone. The angel beside me tries his best to stand in front of me… to protect the child. But what is one angel against the vast power of the dark Lord? What power do I have now? Everything inside me screams for freedom… screams out to God… but his voice, I cannot hear.

From somewhere out there, in the deep dark sky there comes a voice whose deep echoes shake the very earth… I hear the words… “Where is your warrior now?” I don’t know who said them…. But the words are soon picked up by the demons, who echo in taunting tones… “Where is he now? Where’s the warrior?” The air is filled with maniacal laughing… I hung my head down…. I could not hear the voice of God, I could not feel his presence… and my warrior… was nowhere to be found. I feel deceived… like I believed something that wasn’t true. I believed him to be the warrior… I prayed for him, as a warrior… where is he????? I call into question everything that I have heard from the Father until now. Was I imagining it? Could it be that the truth was skewed? That I just did not see it? I scream out to God to give me answers… but my ears are blocked and I cannot hear his replies. My eyes are covered and I cannot see the truth. I need my warrior to call out to him for me… to tell me what he hears… WHERE IS HE??? The screams continue... the taunting continues... "Where is your warrior now?", the maniacal laughing continues... I want to scream out... "HE'S COMING..." but I don't know where he is, I don't know for sure... I'm lost... or he is.

May your unfailing love come to me, O YAH,

Your salvation according to your promise;

then I will answer the one who taunts me,

for I trust in your word.

Psalm 119:41-42

The seed... this is the first paragraph... the inspiration for things that I hope will grow to more.
It has yet no title... the characters are merely sketches, and the plot is ever twisting in my head... and yet I believe that for all the theatre that has played before my eyes over the last couple of years, there deserves a tribute be paid, to the truth... to the players... and to the undying faith that fairy tales really do exist... and my warrior has never changed. For that I merely chose to look upon the false countenance and believe him to be the right man thereby missing the point... and the plan... and the bus... and very nearly my mind. And all the while, my warrior stood, awaiting the moment when I would have the veil taken from my eyes to see... but indeed... on with the story...

The truth is a wicked thing; a two sided sword that never sleeps. The harshness of truth ruins lives, speaks words that should never be spoken, and gives the illusion of relief to those who commit acts of unfaithfulness. The truth does not tell stories. As I sit here curled next to the fire that rages on the hearth against the bitter cold of the winter wind whistling outside my window, I find myself not searching for truth, but trying to forget it. I try to forget the acid heavy in my throat as I listened to a woman take a sword and cut the very heart out of my chest, lay it beating in the ashes to be burnt with the fiery embers and return it to me as charred remains of a life that could have been. It is not the truth I want to remember now, it is the dark tale coaxed from my imagination. The fire sparked by a series of horrible, life changing, tragic events that spurred forth a story worth telling. For a storyteller does not live by telling the truth, but by the regaling of a tale that captures a spirit and holds it deep within the treasure chest of time itself.

They say it is not good practice to write novels with characters based on real people because made up characters can not sue you and because inevitably, real people seem boring on paper. I think these people that say this, have never met the people in my life. It seems to me that for my friends benefit, I should write this stuff down so that they can at least grab a coffee or some popcorn. It has also occurred to me that in order for these people to sue me, they would have to prove their own guilt…

The sad part, I think, is that these people actually live their lives like they are characters in some B-list psychological thriller. It seems that such people are so busy living fake lives, that they never realize the thrill of the truth. They waste time making drama in their lives, and fail to appreciate the simple pleasures that come from appreciating what they already have.

He's figured out that music makes the soul dance... and the bum wiggle.