I write in my basement where puffy cotton clouds dangle from the ceiling along with lines of raindrops cut from paint chips.
Through the window, I see the backyard where buckets and rags mingle with sticks jammed into grass and a makeshift drying bench for washed and cleaned horse chestnuts. By the raspberry bushes stands a lean-to made of bamboo sticks and pieces of old Christmas tree.
I just returned from lunch with my papa, and my stomach is full. We ate flavorful Cuban food and laughed and talked about childhoods, under the bright-colored artwork that made my heart ache with the good of that place and the hunger for another one where air smells of coconut and salt.
The house is so quiet in the moments before school pick-up, and the still stirs up memories of the me before children, the me that was daughter, wife, sister, friend — the one who felt like she was doing big things in the world.
There was the me that listened to grizzled mentally ill men talk about their pains and interviewed the community that lived under the bridge. The me that mentored and counseled girls over bowling and homework and hot cocoa, and when they got older, mochas.
Yesterday at Baskin-Robbins, my girls and I ate scoops of ice cream too close to dinner, and I overheard the conversation next to us between the woman in the plaid trench and the slightly disheveled girl wearing a red poly/rayon top and jeans riding low on her back side.
I couldn’t help but listen to their conversation, and when I tried to reply to J in a way that showed I was paying attention to her, I mixed up the details of her story with the one of the girl in the red top talking excitedly with her mentor.
I looked around the table at my girls and thought about how I don’t have all those questions to ask like I once did because I’m living the questions with them, working this out as we go along. So I asked them what they were most looking forward to about their weeks, thinking I probably had a pretty good idea what they’d say.
I feel on the brink of tears so often lately, but it’s not sadness, really. The longing just won’t leave me be, and it’s sometimes a fire like my friend Dana describes and sometimes like a mournful beauty echo.
On Saturday, my mama and I sat in a cafe for five hours and spoke of dreams and visions and what God is up to, all kinds of rapid fire tangents, and we could hardly stop. Last night, I talked with my friend Barb over beers about those things you know you must do, even if it doesn’t make sense, and how I know that feeling.
Yesterday Angela and I walked in the cold morning air, and the sky filled with pink and orange juice, and we were saying, “Oh!” and “Wow!” — not able to find words to put to the otherworldly call of it. And then I just yelled and jumped up and down, and we squeezed each other’s arms because what else can you do?
The longing remains as I help my girls work through conflict and tell time and find states on a map, while I smile at them and scramble eggs and snip baby hairs into a bob with pink-handled scissors.
The longing’s not beckoning me to go elsewhere, but it’s more like a Deep calling out to deep, and so I find myself listening, always listening to the ga-gung, ga-gung beating as I go about life business.
It brings me through everyday and back to those days and somewhere out there, mingling in blond curls on the bathroom linoleum and the stretch of fuchsia over roof tops.
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Linking with Jennifer and Heather.
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
Beautiful Ashley.
So full of the stuff of life…the longings, the dreams, the remembering when, the hopes and all splashed with bits of wonder.
Thank you.
Helen, so happy to see you here. And thank you for your words. They bless me.
The longing’s not beckoning me to go elsewhere, but it’s more like a Deep calling out to deep, and so I find myself listening, always listening to the ga-gung, ga-gung beating as I go about life business.- I feel right in the middle of this with you. Would love to pull up a chair in that coffee shop or cuban restaurant and talk about it all. Soon.
I hope for the day. Soon. And thank you for letting me know your heart in this, too. I can only imagine that after returning from Africa, life has taken on a deep, beating intensity. Can’t wait to read and hear more about where you are, friend. xoxo
Listening, always listening – yes, just how I want to live.
Me too, friend. Some days this feels easier than others.
You are the you of before, doing big things under those clouds and those fuschia skies! Let’s launch out together to that Deep and also, stay right where we are. Thankful for your words, Ashley.
Yes, Tresta! I’m in! Launching out to the Deep while staying right where we are. That’s just it.
Yeah girl. Deep unto deep. And your yelling and jumping up and down — it reminds me of driving through Rocky Mountain Nat’l Park – near Estes in Colorado – and yelling and laughing uncontrollably because WHO IS this stunningly creative, majestic HOLY God who intimately makes Himself known to my heart? I love you and I’m longing with you. And you are so kind, too. :) Really, just profoundly thankful you’re in my life.
Oh, Dana, I can see you there, filled with all your passionate enthusiasm and love for God, appreciation and wonder oozing from your pores. Nothing can cause me to recognize God’s power and intimate love at once more than being in his grand creation! Thankful for you.
I can relate to much of this. I find myself remembering times gone by and looking forward to things ahead…only to find myself drowning in guilt for not appreciating this season more. Because there was a time when this season was something for which I was desperately longing, and I know I’ll look back at it, someday, and miss it terribly. Hard to stay in the now, isn’t it?
Yes, it is! I resonate with the experience you describe, Brandee. Longing on every side, pulled and grateful at once. Prayers for grace to walk the every day…
I know this longing Ashley. It’s a pull, an ache I can hardly describe. You put beautiful words to this feeling. You sang my song. Always sweet comfort to know we are never alone.
And your words here help me to know that I am not either, Lisha. Thank you for that gift and the gift of your presence.
Oh girl… you know, I love these words, this heart of yours that is keeping beat and finding rhythm… and what is better than the smell of coconut and salt? March can’t get here soon enough!
Amen, sis. How I’d love to linger in a salty coconut paradise, but meeting you (finally) in Portland in March will be a slice of heaven, too. :-) Much love!
I feel this longing right along with you through your words…I remember the years with three little girls underfoot, and now, still longing for more all these years later, deep calling unto Deep.
Thank you for expressing the journey from your vantage point, Elizabeth. It truly blesses me.
Absolutely beautiful reflection on the beautiful mess of life…thank you for your honesty my dear friend!
Thank you, sweetheart.
my goodness! this is exquisite imagery! such vivid feelings, palpable memories carried by your words! There is something about Your words Ashley. I struggle a little to understand what it is. I think it may be this: Your words pulse Kindness. I could use a lot more words to try to describe it further, (and of course I want to) but in the end they wouldn’t add anything. Your words speak like your eyes. They are a “mournful beauty echo” -ing your own fathomless kindness.
Wow. Thank you, Mama. Such words. I love you.
The more I know you Ashley, the more I grow to love you. I love the way you think, the way your tender heart processes all of life with deep meaning. What a gift you and your words are . . .keep writing.
Shelly, your encouragement is a gift to me, and “keep writing” is sometimes just what I need to hear. Thank you, friend.
The longings, they come and go and looking differently as the season change. But the listening, it never gets old, it never changes, it only grows more skilled. I love your heart in this. You are a wonderful mom.
Thank you, sweet Diane. I like how you explained the difference in your longing and listening processes. That’s so helpful. I love being a mama….and am stretched by it continually. I suppose we all are. Love to you.
this lovely post got me in that poetry-artsy mood…i needed that right now as we are in the middle of another negative weather pattern {it was -2 when i dropped the little ones off to school today} and on the heels of recuperating from a family wide stomach bug. So thanks for the inspiration! Your words always brings to mind such true and noble and gentle images.
Cheers,
Leah
-2 and tummy bugs! Wow, Leah. That’s a lot for one day. I am so glad you were reminded of the good in this life amidst all that yuck. Blessings to you, dear one.
Ashley, this is so beautiful. It feels like poetry, this post. and I want to sit a while and listen to your words, and listen in general to what’s being whispered in between all the lines. Just lovely, my friend.
Thank you for your lovely words, Kris. I know what you mean about listening to the whispers between the lines. I desire that so often, in this life and in the beautiful writings of yourself and others. It’s so strange — this tension between these lives of so much noise and doing while longing for the quiet and the being. A big part of the mothering/writing journey for me. Thank you for understanding, friend.
Oh. There is such sweetness and beauty and ache and glory here, Ash. I agree with Kris, this whole things feels and moves like poetry and it paints the most gorgeous images that are both everyday life and otherwordly… you have a way of weaving those two, until it’s hard to separate them, and it makes me think and feel more deeply than I can put into words: yes, this is what life is. Here and not here. Love you, dear heart.
I love what you say: “Yes, this is what life is. Here and not here.” How I get that, and I feel life opening up as I’m just beginning to see the heavenly and mundane mingle together. Thank you for walking in these mysterious ways with me. I adore you.
You have captured it so well my friend…the ache and longing, the experience of life beyond words and phrases, not to be bottled up or labeled, but to remain free, untethered, raw……raw beauty, sorrow and JOY. Love you and thanks you for spinning the words around the words.
What freedom when we don’t feel the need to bottle and label every danged thing! And then, we can be surprised by joy, it seems. We didn’t need to see it coming, map it out, plan it…but right in the middle of this pain…oh, there joy is! There’s beauty! What a miracle.
Your eyes and ears are open to receive the blessings God brings to everyday life (not in a holding pattern, looking for a place to land in your life). You inspire me!
“Not in a holding pattern” — I love that, Deb. How easy it is to be in that state. I appreciate your words! xoxo
Catching up with your words and heart make my soul smile. In step Sis with the “longing” of drawing near to the everyday beauty, comfort and discoveries unique and tailor made by God for you and yours. There’s nothing like it…..
Love you!
Love you, V. This kind of specific love is tailor-made for sure. I am grateful. And for you, dear one. xoxo