In case of ALCHEMY

At six, my body is a furnace.

I stoke it out of bed and coax up a flame in my eyes.

I send myself faithfully out.

I am the quiet priest of a quiet religion,

Cloaked in flannel and milk white fog.

At seven, I turn the key in the lock, brass to brass.

I fling wide the door,

Opening, open,

Before a morning has been sung hello,

Before a plank has been lifted or a nail driven,

Before a pen has touched a page.

My body is a furnace,

Opening, open.

By eight, I’ve already served bread to the jangling gypsy band,

Tea to the king’s mysterious wife,

Dark cups of blood to the usual ghosts.

I send myself faithfully out.

At noon, the sun is roaring with his golden mouth,

Opening, open.

I am tumbling in a sphere of metal and glass.

I measure ice and potion,

Weigh metallic heaps of dust,

Pour and chop and carry.

I coax up a flame in my eyes.

At three, I am a cog in the clock of time.

I’m pulling coffee from its dark bean fists,

Separating water from earth,

Sorting moons from stars.

More visitors cluster around to watch me work,

To trade their coins for cups.

I am the quiet priest of a quiet religion.

At six, the sailors come whistling in, homebound.

Beggar children stretch out their hands for hunks of cheese.

The king stops by to ask after his wife.

I kiss them all,

And turn them back to the door.

I am tumbling in a sphere of metal and glass.

By nine, I distill the day into night.

I float through the shop like a white moth in a cave.

The lamplighter comes by, singing,

Offering me his arm.

I turn the key in the lock, brass to brass.

I am a cog in the clock of time,

Opening, open.

In case of STARS

On January 19, I interviewed for a job at a commercial photography studio here in Monrovia.  

The position?  Marketing and Operations Coordinator.  

And what is that, you ask?  Well, it’s a real person’s job.  It’s half marketing and half running the studio on a day-to-day basis.  It’s something that involves business cards and travel and interactions with other real people.  In short, it’s a job for which I wasn’t remotely qualified.  I couldn’t imagine why they’d called me in for it and I didn’t feel like I interviewed very well.  But, surprisingly, they called me in for a second interview that Friday.

On January 26, they offered me the job.  I took it.

And I’ve been running to catch up ever since. 

Full-time work means that I can pay my bills.  It means food in the cupboard, savings in the bank, student loans dwindling month by month.  It means that I can settle into a routine, work during the day, come home, and write on my screenplay, industriously pursuing what I really want to be.  It means that I can put “Marketing and Operations Coordinator” on my resume and go from here anywhere that I want. 

And if that were all, it would be more than enough.

But, in this case, it also means that I can walk to work.  It means that I have the freedom to do my job independently, listening to music, without a hard ass boss breathing down my neck.  It means that I can take long lunches in the sunshine as long as I get my work done.  It means measurable progress, feeling fulfilled as I watch the company grow, and strategizing for myself a plan to make it grow even further.  It means that I get to spend my time with a crazy Bulgarian, a wonderful man that makes me laugh, a man that is thrilled to let me take vacations.

It means I get to go to Australia to see Michael.

Oh, life! 

And it’s not perfect; nothing is perfect.  Some days will be hard and I’ll come home tired or unhappy or both.  And this job won’t make me rich. 

But it will sustain me.  It’s a gift from God, after EIGHT INTERMINABLE MONTHS of silence, of scrambling around in the dark without coins enough even to buy a cup of coffee.  I feel stunned and smitten by this new chapter in my book.  I don’t – can’t – understand God’s overflowing blessings, the immeasurable grace that has followed me so long.

When I wake up now in the mornings, I have somewhere to go.  I have something to do.  I have someone to be.

God help me, I’m seeing stars.  

In case of 400 YEARS

I really love mornings at my apartment. 

I usually wake up around 8:30.  Not because I have to, mind you, but because I’ve been going to bed so early these days, I simply can’t sleep past 8:30 anymore.  And by 8:30, Beth and Jes are already gone.  So it’s not like there’s a line for the shower.

But Rachel is usually up.  On my favorite mornings, Rachel is already up and sitting at the kitchen table.  She’s reading.  A steaming mug of coffee sits in front of her.  I notice that there’s another inch or so of coffee in the pot. 

“Is that for me?”  I ask.

“Sure,” she replies.

I pour the coffee for myself and pad out into the living room (aka My Office).  Why do I pad, you ask?  It’s because I’m wearing my slippers.  Of course.  I’m also still in my pajamas.  Why?  Because I can be.  Work doesn’t start until the afternoon.

I take a minute to appreciate our beautiful view…

…and then plop down onto the couch (aka My Desk).  I set the coffee on the coffee table (FINALLY using that piece of furniture to its exact purpose!), open my laptop, and get to the day.  The day is inside the laptop.  The day is job hunting, paying bills, e-mailing people, getting e-mails back, watching LOST, and writing writing writing.  And if it’s a really good morning, there’s already something in my inbox from Michael waiting for me.

You know, I can bitch and complain about money all I want.  I can fret over not making my bills, bemoan the few hours I get at the after school place, and beat my brains out hunting for a job.

But there’s a simple joy in the mornings now.  A joy of stillness, of not rushing, of being able to open my eyes up slowly to every new day.  

Last night at church we talked about this.  About how, just before the New Testament and the birth of Christ, there were 400 years of NOTHINGNESS for the Israelites.  400 years of waiting.  400 years of the profound, empty silence of God.  That’s so long to wait for even the simplest word from the Almighty.  How many generations lived and died in that silence?

So, yes.  I really love mornings at my apartment. 

But here's hoping that there's a point to all this waiting.  Here's hoping that into the silence of my life here in California...God will finally speak.