Paralyzed by Perfection

I dream of the perfect room: floral chintz sofa, plump battenburg lace pillows, white rocking chair, wild flowers tumbling out of a milk glass vase, filmy white curtains billowing in the breeze, buttery yellow walls, Queen Anne table with a softy glowing Victorian lamp and me, sitting in this charming room, sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea.

Not so charming reality intrudes--shabby burgundy couch and chair, dining table turned school table, bookcase overflowing with books, heavy drapes, a filing cabinet and an old brass lamp. I haven't vacuumed in awhile and the school books are scattered carelessly across the table. The windows are streaky and the window ledges dusty.

Feeling defeated, I gaze around the room again--where do I start to turn this space into the room I dream of? Because it is so far from what I want it to be, so far from the perfect room I keep in my head, paralysis sets in and I'm unable to do anything. Even simply cleaning the room seems impossible. I'm paralyzed by the perfection I demand of that room.

Here and there, one can catch a glimpse of the vision I have for my living room: the teacup and teapot collection, silk flowers in a yellow and blue vase, a pastel quilt draped across the back of the couch, an antique end table topped with a crocheted doily and lace panels behind the drapes.

Encouraged by these little vignettes, I banish the books from the table, and thin out the bookcase. Brass cleaner soon has the lamp gleaming and Windex makes the windows sparkle. I drape a doilly over the lamp shade and replace a modern picture with an heirloom portrait. I tie one of the drapes back with a fluffy tassle and the sunlight streams in. The whistle of a teapot calls me and soon I am holding my cup of steaming tea. Maybe this isn't the room of my dreams but it is the room of my reality. Today, I'm ok with that. And tomorrow, maybe I will figure out what to do about that couch...

I Give Me Back to You

It's not that I don't want me,
In fact, I really do,
It's because my life isn't really mine,
Lord, I give me back to you.

You've provided all my worldly goods,
You gave me every friend,
Filled my life with deep-down joy,
And a love that will not end.

So I commit unto your will,
This body I once called mine,
Fill it with your Spirit, wholly,
And with a purpose divine.

Make me aware of each deed
That You would have me do
Of each word that I might say
To bring someone to You.

Lord,I pray You might reveal
Your perfect will for me,
And be with me, help me grow,
To be all You'd have me be.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Bear Lake

From the lake's dark depths
Boulders arise,
Like monsters with
Malevolent eyes.

By the water's edge,
Evergreen tree grows,
Dabbling in the lake
Brown and woody toes.

Jagged tooth mountains
Menacingly stand,
Guarding the lakeside
And snow-sprinkled land.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

The Sharecropper's Dream

Barely admitted,
Nonetheless there,
Dreams of ownership,
With vows of care.

Hope of her heart,
Work of her hand,
Crop of her own,
A dream of land.

Harvest the wheat,
Thresh it all down,
Load up the wagon,
Take it to town.

"Where's my share?"
The landlord cries.
And deep within her,
Something dies.

The truth hits hard-
There is no way.
Dreams last the night,
But wither by day.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

We Lost...

We lost...

The dismal echo
Fills my mind
But there's victory
Of another kind.

Victory over self,
Over one's fears
Victory in spirit
Lasts through the years.

There's pride involved
In a well-played game
Whether lost or won
It's still the same.

When you fought your hardest
And gave your all,
It matters not
who got the ball

The ache is there
Of course it's tough
To pick up the pieces
when the going gets rough.

Somehow victory
Seems to be more
Than beating a team
Running up the score.

When the game is over
When your best you've done
Though it might seem otherwise,
You really have won!

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Fall is Here

Fall's rustic footsteps
Are heard today.
She has arrived,
Decided to stay.

She brought her palette
And painted the trees
Ripened the grain
And sharpened the breeze.

The scent of leaves
Is in the air,
Yes, Fall has arrived,
She's found everywhere.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Spring Eve

The smell of violets in the dew,
Wet leaves with sunlight shining through;
Rainbow stretched from oak to pine;
Robins on wet insects dine.

Squirrel is scolding, his nest is wet,
Little spring flowers a soaking did get;
Trees lifting their arms to the sky;
Spring breeze sings a lullaby.

The sun is setting, red-gold hue;
The pond is calm and darkest blue;
The woods are settling down to bed,
Daffodil nods her sleepy head.

Blue black night without a sound;
Night-owl keeps a watch around.
Forest fresh and animals free
May you thus forever be.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

Possibilities--

A blank sheet of paper
a sharpened pencil
and me...


All sorts of wonderful possibilities
crop up

a poem
a story
a song

or an empty piece of paper.

(maybe I should make a paper airplane...)