Rose Colored Glasses

We’re living in a different world. Every time I have a bipolar episode I need to reorient myself. But I just don’t know if I can get by in a world void of Whitney Houston. You know, void of the nineties. Is it just me, or are people less friendly?

A lot is just me. That’s my problem. I see this world through smoke colored glasses at times. At other times rose colored. I even smell the smoke and roses. That’s how real it is. I am the most blessed and the most afflicted of women.

The world is warming up to me. I can feel it. My husband isn’t the only one to give me kind looks. The black figure I used to see has almost faded away. Slowly the light spring sun is beginning to sweep over me. I am looking forward to days of warm colors and blessing.

I am still walking the edge of something. I am concerned but not alarmed. My face is relaxing and I haven’t had any ativan. On with the rose colored glasses.

Joyfully Yours

I stand on your shoulders

And extend you

I reach my arms up

To a wispy pink sky

I laugh barrels

When you catch me

You spin me

And I make you wide

Glee enraptures me

Not to speak of you—

The look on your face

We belong with each other

We belong

Frolicking

In the evening sky

Home

I am in a forest of thick shadow. The shadow is actually pressing down on me with strong hands. It looks like scary creatures. It feels unbearable. I want to go home.

This is a place of terror and dead ends. This is a place where my fears are vicious and unrelenting. This is a place where I feel my fate is sealed. But no matter how close the edge seems; no matter how close it seems, I am not alone.

I am not alone. If I tell the darkness to cover me, if my mind is strangled and starved, if I’m wandering and shuffling and bowed down, he is still there. And that’s a pretty awesome thought. Jesus is home.