F.U.T.U.R.E

Sometimes I wonder about my life. Where is it all leading? What will become of me? Will I ever make it as a writer? Will I lead a comfortable life? Do I even care? The point of the matter is, we're all scared about where life will take us. We all worry about whether we'll be successful at this, or will we just settle for that, will we fall in love or will we be alone forever? To be honest with you, throughout my life I've always trusted that God is enough to get me through. That whatever happens to me, he will be there. And to be quite honest, that's the way I enjoy living. Not knowing. It means I can focus entirely on Him, and enjoy the quiet fulfillment. Of course, sometimes it's not quiet: our relationship sways loudly from side to side. One minute we're up and nothing could be more perfect. The next moment I can't stand the fact I'm a christian and want to rebel against everything he's ever taught me. But I could never leave him. He gives me everything I need, and in return I give him everything I can. I want him to have my whole life, I really do. Sometimes I find it hard. Sometimes trusting him is hard (though I don't know why because all he's ever done for me has brought me out of trouble. It's always me who gets myself into the mess, he just rescues me as and when it is necessary). I've never quite understood how the world began, or why he loves me so much that he sent Jesus to die so that I could get to know him. I know I'm not all that, and I can be so stubborn at times. But he reckons I'm worth it. Thinking about it, he's always been there for me to chat to, to help me when I've felt like the floor had fallen from my world. He was there through my first heart break, my first betrayal of a best friend, he was there when things got rocky at home, he has been there throughout my 'unique' river rapid ride of a uni course. He has let me fall in love, and be loved, and I know he has a future for me. I don't really care where that future is. I change my mind as to what I want so often, it's pretty miraculous he's kept up. He's allowed me to indulge in the things I think I want, but when I've thought about it, he's always then said "now Rachel, think about it and tell me what you want." Nearly all the time, I answer with "To be honest, I have no idea." And that's precisely the point when he says to me "Ok, try this." And every time I 'try this' it works for me, and I would never have thought about it had he said nothing. I'm so amazed that I've fallen in love in the best way possible, to someone I never ever thought I'd fall in love with. And it's changing me in ways that would never have been possible with anyone else. I'm discovering more about who I am. But I'm so grateful that, through it all, God's there bringing me hope and happiness and support when I need it. The next thing that bothers me is this; what is possibly worthy that I can give back to him? The answer? I have no idea. I guess he's just satisfied with having my love in return. But surely there's got to be something else I can give him? More time? More money? Offering more of my life to people who need it? Who knows. All I know is that I love him with all my heart and I don't care what happens, so long as we are in this together, I say bring it on.

Fairy seeds and dirty bugs

On the drive home I ran over a rabbit. It was either his life or mine, and I was taught not to swerve for an animal. All the same I won't forget the look of terror in his eyes in those final seconds before a cloud of fur was the only thing visible in my rearview mirror. I felt awful. On the same drive I was surrounded by dancing fairy seeds and dirty bugs. It amazed me that something so beautiful could be tangled with something so disgusting. I guess that's how life can be. You find something so pure and valuable, something that might need work but still amazes you every time you're near it, yet something's always lurking in the background to just niggle and nag until you find you're on the inside of a white jacket. That's what bugs me about bugs. They're always around, especially this time of the year, when the Sun is up at 5am and doesn't sleep til 10pm. And they fly into your windscreen, over your mirrors, in through your window. Some little buggers even get into your mouth, which then means you're sat choking for ages trying to spit it out. It's moments like those I wish he was there to pat me on the back in that determined way of his to make me spit out the bug. Because until I do, I go round in circles and he knows that.

Paint Strokes In The Sky

Sitting on a bus
The soundtrack to my life
Travelling to and fro
Zombies shy from morning light
A cross in the sky
A man in the moon
Dying trees blossom full
There is no escape
Trapped
Restless
Sitting here
Alone
All alone
No one can see
No one can hear
Angels whisper
Words of safety in my ear
A ladder of doubt
A quilt
Knitted with the wool of worry
Bees
Dance and buzz inside
I cannot get out
They will not leave
I shake my head
They will not leave
My footseps
Followed by a shadow
The maze does not end
Monsters lurk in every corner
I will not buckle
I will not give in
The lamp is faded
The path is unclear
Owls swoop
Lions roar
The bees still buzz
A dove soars
High above the clouds it flies
Like a saviour in the sky
A pen and paper
A rainbow drop
Paint strokes in the sky

The Stories

There was a story developing in her mind, unfolding as flowers do. But she couldn't quite reach it. The blossoming bulb of her subconscious swept in front of her, taunting her. The puzzles and characters lingered but moments and then vanished. How frustratingly horrible it was! Her own imagination playing tricks on her. And how ironic: that she'd concluded herself the writer, the authoress, the inventor of the stories, when all the time (she realised) the stories didn't just captivate and entrance the reader (as intended) but they also manipulated her, their creator, so that she too felt their pain, their anguish, their joy, their love, their conquests. Flailing emotions just waiting to be held. The readers she manipulated to feeling the stories. But the stories manipulated her into riding them too.

Let It Snow

The icy breath froze as it entered my lungs. Exhaling was difficult, the temperature somewhere between -6 and -9. The newly fallen snow clung to the pavement, willing itself to shield pedestrians from the sheet of ice beneath it. Armoured with two pairs of gloves, three jumpers, a coat and a hat, my top half still shivered. My toes and legs, covered in jeans, one pair of socks and barely snow-proof trainers, slowly got used to the numbness that had begun creeping its way upwards. My 10 minute walk to the car (God bless Ford and all other car makers!) felt like an arctic tunnel, getting ever further away from warmth and light. What breath I could muster rose in front of me and danced to Jack Frost's music: a cold hard melody. I hurried my pace: thoughts of turning on the heating (that would begin as icy blasts but eventually carry some warmth) beckoned me on. But as I turned into the park something changed; the hum of traffic faded, the week-old snow crunched as it became easier to walk on, and something sparkled as the Winter sun hung in the air, laughing at people complaining of the cold, and smiling at those who recognised her gift to turn even the frostiest of afternoons into gorgeous glittering dance floors. Two girls attempting to walk on the frozen lake. A dormant river hibernating from the bitter cold. Snow flakes floating lazily before my very eyes. Yes, the snow is inexpressibly cold. But how indescribably beautiful it is! I wonder how God thought of it?

Gridlock!

Ok, I'll admit I set off a little later than I'd anticipated. My stomach kept niggling to be fed, and my newly bought sandwich ingredients looked just a tad too appetizing. So I set off at, not 4.15 as I'd intended, but 4.35. It takes 45 minutes to get to Alton, which is where I was going for my bonfire night and firworks display. I obviously knew I wouldn't get there by 5.00, but I was in the state of mind where you know you're late but you make yourself think that you won't be late after all, even though you're going at exactly the same speed as you would if you were on time. It's kinda like when you want Jerry to stop hitting Tom over the head with the dustbin lid and let him catch him this time, even though you know the plot and have seen that episode a hundred times before!
Anyway, I was in this state of mind, convinced I would be on time, so I duly texted Dad to let him know I was on my way. I turned off the A38 and onto the A50 in, I think, record time (though I promise I wasn't speeding, time was just on my side!) I passed a long line of traffic going the other way at a very slow rate, and I thanked God I wasn't one of them. Well we all know what comes next. Sod's law, you think one thing and immediately the exact same thing happens to you, only worse.
We ended up in that state of gridlock for three hours.
Cars were turning their lights and engines off, people were getting out of their cars and into the darkened rain to see what had happened. There was no point: the accident must have been a LONG way off.
Nope. The accident actually happened at the roundabout less than a mile away. The whole time I was just 15 minutes away from Alton!
Once traffic started moving, I'd recieved a text off my brother saying the bonfire and fireworks was over. I laughed, I cried, I screamed, I kicked my legs in some form of adult tantrum at the seeming hopelessness of the situation. But I did thank God I wasn't involved in the accident.
If you've ever been in gridlock, whether the driver or the passenger, you'll know how bloody frustrating the whole thing is. Cars and lorries just don't seem to move more than 50 yards in a half hour slot. If you've been, like me, in gridlock in the dark it's ten times worse. But it's just one of those things, and I guess you just have to be thankful you're only stuck in traffic, not in hospital.