I took out pen and paper a moment ago--I was going to write a poem. My mind is too full for that though.



Maybe not overflowing so much as disorganized; full of things I should've thrown out long ago. That's the mess that keeps me up at night. Some people say they can't sleep in a messy room. I can. There's laundry on the floor and ribbon and books, and I think that's a knitting needle under the pile of guitar music in the corner--the dog's corner so now he has to sleep somewhere else. But at least I know exactly which pair of jeans I left that ten dollar bill in: the stonewashed pair with barn-dirt on the hem. They're crumpled up near the ferret cage.



But in my cluttered mind I can't find Rest, and Simplicity is buried deep in there. If I could find that I'd remember where I left Freedom. Somewhere near Self-Forgetfulness--I've been looking for that for awhile now.



It keeps me awake--the looking--and some nights I wish I had someone to sing to me.



It's underestimated, the theraputic effects of a lullaby. At least I imagine so. I honestly can't remember ever having one sung to me, though I know my mom sang them when I was a baby.



Regression, most modern psychologists would say, but Freud would probably tell me that I never completely progressed past the Oral stage to begin with.



In a way, I think that would be right: lack of progression, as opposed to regression. It's not so much regressing as it is never having let go of the Simplicity of childhood. Or the longing for it. It is definitely gone now.



But it seems to me that it would come back a little, with being sung to.



When you've spent a long day waiting for words that will never be said--and maybe they're not supposed to be said--it seems a nice thought that one could curl up in bed with sheets that smell of the same fabric softener your mom used when you were a kid, face the wall close my eyes and hear a sweet but tired voice sing some sad-tuned lullaby; melancholy breaks and a little off-key. Human.



I know I've done it to myself in part, caused this lack of contact. I'm quite a hermit and that's alright with me, usually. Sometimes its not enough, though.



Like when I remember rediculous promises made as a littel girl and I wish I'd kept them.



'Let's never cut our hair; not till we're thirty! I'll swear if you will.'



'Next summer you can come back and we'll build a huge tree house, and it'll have a secret password and a rope ladder and we'll never let the stupid boys come up!'



'Let's promise to always tell each other everything, no matter what.'



'I'll never take this bracelet off; not even when I'm a grown-up.'



'Let's swear that both of us our favorite color will always be purple.'



Let's swear that things will always be this easy. Let's promise we won't ever lose this innocence, and we'll always believe that band-aids make the pain go away.



Even the unspoken promises, broken.



We had such big plans, didn't we--all of us? We really believed in them, too. Sometimes that's enough; just being sure you'll do something even if you never really do. Plans for the future, when you believe them, can be the bridge that gets you over those rifts that are just too wide to jump.



But I'm not sure of anything anymore.



I know I echo the sentaments of so many people. I know I'm not the only one. I don't presume to think that I've felt things no one else has; that I'm at all original in my words.



This is just laying it all out for me, sort my thoughts like sorting dresser drawers:



That goes there, that's for that, I'll keep this but this doesn't fit anymore so I'll throw it away with the one that's full of holes and--what the hell is that?! I didn't even know I had that. No, it isn't mine; someone must've left it. Oh well. Looks like I have to deal with it now.



The only difference is my brain recycles, so its all there forever and even if things change there will always be that vague essence attached to whatever--to a name, a campsite or a city, a certain food or book or a green guitar pick.



Some Tibetan Buddhist Lamas are able to reach a higher mental plane, one so far above forefrontal consciousness that the clamour fades and not only can he escape the anguished conflict his own thoughts create, but he evades physical pain as well.





The secret was taught to some outside the religion and they used it to be completely silent under torture. Their minds were at peace, and the pain was nowhere--just vague pressure, and the comforting warmth of blood as it flowed over cold, bare skin.





Because the body is only a body; just a dirty, tangible thing that rots in the earth when it stops working. A vessel. A windowed litter for the soul. To detach mind from body once in a while seems only right; to allow the mind some escape from the sinew-and-bone cage that can cause so much trauma, depending on what happens to it.



It sounds so safe, to exist in that kind of world where your body can be broken or abused or diseased and it doesn't affect the mind. When you've gathered your soul up from your toes and back from your fingers, pulled the residue from between muscle fibers, out of porous bones; when your soul is all together in one place high up, then it won't matter what the body feels because it is only a thing.



And then to take the next step--to escape not only one's body but one's own relentless thoughts as well--that would be the greatest reward.



I like the idea of Buddhism, or Hinduism. Religions of cerimony and dedication, of stillness and peace and contemplation--hush. Low chants in dead languages, temples with ceilings so high it doesn't feel like a stretch to imagine that God might reside there.





I know it is beautiful that God doesn't really require swaths of gauzy fabric and marble pillars and inscence and sacrifices. I do see the wonder of the fact that it is in Christianity I can find the Simplicity I crave: I already have all I need to come to Him.





My body is His grand temple--my bones the pillars, wrapped in the intricately-woven fabric that is flesh (1 Corinthians 6:19).


My prayers are the incense; all I need to set the atmoshpere for Him (Psalm 141:2).


And I don't even need to bring anything to sacrifice. All He asks is that I soften my heart toward Him; tell Him that I am tired and broken and I need Him because I just can't do it anymore--was never really getting along to begin with (Psalm 51:17).





It is hard to comprehend that that's all it takes. Just As I Am; that coming to Him is the important part--not what I do or what I have.


Especially because I've always been one for cerimonies; for grand, complex recognitions.


When I was eleven years old, a friend and I indulged in this romanticism.


It ocurred, of course, at midnight--as those things always do. From the kitchen we'd sneaked a package of cold-cut turkey from Price Chopper and a large metal strainer. We already had the candles--we were experienced enough at cerimonies that both of our rooms were always full of them.


This particular night, we were in my bedroom, surrounded by all of our traditional cerimonial ware: a pale-gold blanket, journals, favorite stuffed animals, pictures. And of course, we were dressed for the occasion in tacky hand-me-down negligees; the classic little-girl formal wear of basement boxes and grandmothers' attics.



We scripted flowery--and misspelled--prayers to send up with the smoke of our burnt sacrifice. While we held the turkey-filled strainer over a candle-flame, we prayed that one day we would be granted artistic abilities.



We gave up eventually. The meat refused to burn and only bubbled a little at the bottom, and mom's good strainer already had a dark smoke-stain flowering from where the fire touched it. With a last quick prayer that we wouldn't get in too much trouble for the discolored colendar, we went to sleep.



Now we are aware of how odd our cerimony was, considering how, under the New Covenant, God no longer desires those kinds of sacrifices. So we laugh about that story, Abby and I, like we laugh at how I used to pray every night for a giraffe when I was six.



But the fact is that Abby and I didn't get in trouble over the strainer, or even over the entire package of meat we ruined by forgetting to put back in the fridge.



The fact is that we did indeed become somewhat skilled artistically.



Of course, those things could easily be seen as coinsidence. Mom was probably too overcome with silent laughter to punish her silly, Old-Testament-minded charges. And we obviously wanted to be artists--that might have been accomplished to an extent whether or not we prayed for it.



But here is another fact: nearly two years ago, I was presented with the opprotunity to get my own real live giraffe.



About a year after I was diagnosed with lupus, my parents and doctors conspired to have the Make A Wish Association--a volunteer organization benefitting children under eighteen who suffer from chronic illnesses--grant a wish for me.



To pass the months until I would be able to meet with a MAW team, I researched them extensively and read as many wish-stories as I could find. I discovered that Make A Wish could, and would, do very nearly anything a child--or wildly imaginitive teen--could think of.



One boy wished for an elephant. The Make A Wish team located a willing zoo-like facility near the boy's home and secured a tame elephant for their purposes. They were able to make the boy the honorary owner of the elephant, and after throwing a party during which he rode his new pet all around the outdoor location, they informed him that he could not only go and visit his elephant whenever he liked, but also pet, feed, and ride it, providing there was a staff member available to supervise.



For several minutes after reading that story, I sat frozen and stared unblinking at the picture of the boy on the back of his elephant that glowed on the desktop monitor. I couldn't believe it.



Even as a child when I began praying for a giraffe, there was a subtle challenge in my mind. I had grown up hearing that God could do anything, and that He answered prayers (of course, to a six-year-old, 'He answers prayers' means 'He always gives you everything you pray for'). I didn't even particularly want a giraffe. What in the world was I going to do with it? I had no idea. It would be amazing, of course, to have such an exotic pet, but I knew that in reality I would rather have a horse to ride. I was really just experimenting, trying to find out exactly what insane things God would do for me if I asked.



Over the years I had forgotten about that childish challenge. I'd thought about it a few times, when thinking about how at that time I also prayed for a lizard (of which I eventually aquired four), a cat (God gave me twelve), a turtle (I was granted three of those), and a horse (and I was given two of my very own, and surrounded with dozens of others to pet and ride at my whim). I would remember that and think to myself, "He gave me everything I asked for except a giraffe", and I would smile in a wave of faith because in my mind the giraffe didn't really count. I knew that, though I would have loved one, I wasn't truly asking for it like I was all of the other animals.



And the story of the boy and his elephant caused me to recall everything once again. I was absolutly stunned as one thought ran on a loop in my mind: I could get a giraffe. The elephant story wasn't even close to the most complicated wish the association had granted. If I asked for a giraffe, they could make it happen. Eleven years later, God presented me with the opprotunity to recieve the most rediculous thing I'd ever asked for. He had answered my forgotten challenge, and not with an iron fist to remind me of how I am less than dust compared with Him and how dare I challenge the God of the universe, but to remind me of His love and faithfulness with this exciting blessing that made me feel as if I had the world laid out at my feet.



I didn't use the opprotunity to get a giraffe. I considered it, but ended up going to Hawaii to swim with dolphins (originally I requested to go to Africa, but due to political unrest their resources there were disabled). It was utterly amazing, and I'll never forget it. But I have a feeling I'll remember the weird and wonderful faith-story just a little bit better.