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i’m trying to work it all out. to come to some conclusion about just what it means for me to live. to be okay with who i am- with all of my faults and deficiencies, yet not without strengths and beauties, as well. i’m tired of comparing myself to other people who always seem to be more than i am. more beautiful. more polite. more godly. more together. cleaner. more organized. sweeter. more thoughtful. a better wife. a better mother. what a disciple of christ really is. more healed. more. more. more. so much to try to live up to, knowing that you never really can. when is it enough to be satisfied with life as i know it? when can i settle for all that i really am. it doesn’t really seem like it should be this hard. for some, maybe it isn’t. i am extremely discontented with living for other people’s views of what my life should be. we all have our ideas, our convictions, our idealogoies, our codes. but in the end, that’s all they are...codes. we can live by them or not, but they don’t do much to change our true nature. so maybe i have a code that i need to live by, but that does not mean that i need to project my standards onto you, for whom they may be perfectly inadequate. we each have to live for that which we find imperative. we each have one life, one chance, one responsibilty; that is unto ourselves. if i focus on what is right for you, i fail to operate that which is mine. i therefore forfeit my life for one that is not my own. all such activity has become a real bore. i want to live for me, my life. the opinions and codes of others exist, but i must reconcile myself to a lifestyle that is worth living. no longer do others get to live for me. i remain responsible for myself. in a sense, we are all masters of the universe; modern day he-men, if you will. our destinies lie in our hands, if we will take charge of them. this is not a life absent of accountabliity, but, rather, a placing of that accountability into the most proper hands. in god i must abide. to god i must account. my conscience must be clean before him. to love him and to love others does not mean that others have permission to predetermine my life. it is my own. they must determine how they will carry out their own lives. mine is not their business. i anticipate the moments when this will be fulfilled in my life. when i can rise upon currents and soar in the sky. until then i must wait for the strength to find my wings against the parade of beckoners assuring me that i have no right to look for them, much less to fly.

welcoming to the stage: elijah gray winfield.

commonly referred to as:

elijah the gray

mister, mister

lijah bear

eli

lije

mr. wonderful

handsome honey

big business boy.

it's so much fun having a new addition. how did we ever manage without him?

new arrival

having a life inside of you for nine months is a beautiful, unexplainable gift. you begin to live for something other than yourself. you find that something ancient awakens in your soul. love in it's most unadulterated form springs forth from your being with luminescent purity so surreal that you wonder if you are suspended in some sort of a dream. motherhood is blissful, despite the physical demands a new life brings; overlooking the hormonal tidal waves you and those around you must endure. the wonder of motherhood can in no way prepare you, however, for unforeseen complications that may arise with your precious new arrival. before now we were completely unaware of the harrowing hardships that many struggle to face when their child is born in a less than perfect way. having the person so neatly united with you swept away is unimaginable. even though you know that the life of your child depends on the intensive care they are receiving, the ache, the hollowness does not dull in the absence of their presence, even if for their own good. it leaves you wondering if your perfect dream was only the beginning of a bitter nightmare with no end. reality fades into obscurity. you hope for the best whilst swallowing your biggest fears. so it is to have a birth with complications. you console yourself with the fact that somebody else has it worse than you do, but you can never deny the physical evidence that this less than blissful event is taking it's toll on your life. you try to carry on. keep it together. put one foot in front of the other. to survive. survival is the best you can do. you anxiously wait for reports that assure you of nothing. you plead inside yourself for any glint of good news. two things you may not have even known you have emerge as heroic figures that guide your day. faith and hope stand guard at the post of your failing heart. without them you would expire. they may be all that is keeping you alive.

syniki

I have been craving this dish for a while, particularly the last few days. At eight months pregnant I can't very well fly off to Moscow for a meal, so I began searching the internet. I couldn't find the name of the dish, Syrniki, since on the menu in Moscow we had only seen the words Russian Cheesecakes. Finally, through a blog, cheatingcook.wordpress, I found the name and a recipe to try. This morning I will attempt to make them. The only problem being that I do not have the Russian curd cheese, or even cottage cheese. Perhaps cream cheese will be a suitable substitute. I'm off to whip up a batch!

I feel as though I'm outgrowing this blog as a place for poetry only.

Time for a change. I really wanted to be more creative this year, but morning sickness derailed my attempts at craftiness. A few days left until Christmas, and I am lamenting the fact that I do not have a handmade Christmas. News flash: I am NOT Martha Stewart. A girl can still dream. On a more positive note, I have been cooking more. The only problem is that I end up eating most of what I make, since it is not gourmet enough for my family. The baby has been moving around more and more, which is awesome. The other day we had a Josh Nunez song on in the car, and the baby was really active throughout the entire song. I guess the baby is a fan! I am 20 weeks now, and I feel fat!!! I guess that's just part of pregnancy.

time.

such a mockery of everything perceived and achieved.

nothing can withstand this force.

no one is exempt.

we rant and race against the effects,

but there is no stopping this.

we hope that it's passing will lesson our sorrows.

often times they only increase with each painful moment.

we can run to the sun,

and find that we have only pushed ourselves further 

into the inevitable blackhole.

time.

little red riding hood

my cloak is fastened,

my basket full;

off to grandmother's house i go.

never wondering what may lurk 

in corners and shadows along the way.

i sing and skip and make my way,

innocently observing the wonders of the mysterious wood.

i was warned of diversions,

but this is such a pretty path.

the flowers intoxicate,

the colors entice,

this is certain harmony.

a new friend emerges.

i am eager to play.

this journey is long, 

my basket so heavy,

there can't be anything wrong with innocent conversation.

i always divulge too much.

it's my pure heart that gets the best of me.

the stranger scurries, leaving me alone,

taunting and challenging me in ways i am unfamiliar.

i accept.

i am no coward.

i race,

i burn.

i will not be undone.

i am strong, 

a natural fighter.

i rejoice at my accomplishment

as i enter the comfortable cottage.

sweet satisfaction tickles me,

i am among those that love.

eerie emotions pierce me

as i navigate about the room.

something is out of context.

incorrect.

grandmother.

where are you?

why am i suddenly chilled?

a flash of light,

a fearful cry,

i am swallowed,

consumed.

not so noble,

after all,

this trusting heart that betrays the mind.

how long will i linger

in the pit of one so eager to devour?

when will my rescuer set me free?