Tamara Jorell

Writing life and the neighborhood

Writing life and the neighborhood

 

Stuck

I frittered away two hours on the phone last night, struggling to communicate with a customer service person. English was her second language, and I tried to follow the important string of numbers she rattled off. I asked again, but still missed it. Could she repeat it a third time? We were disconnected, and I called back. This time, a new person came on the line. English wasn’t his specialty either.  

Stuck.

Garbage was strewn around the alley this morning again. More bills for co-pays arrived, reminding me we’re healthy in spite of our eight doctor visits in the past six weeks. Today the grocery list by the fridge spilled over, even though I shopped yesterday. A damp bath towel skulked around that one kid’s room—never mind my reminders over the years to not let damp bath towels skulk around her room.

Stuck.

My manuscript has its own special folder for rejections. “You’re an excellent writer, but we’ll have to pass”, “Don’t let this particular ‘no’ discourage you, and please consider us for your future stories”, “Your work is clever and has merit, but it’s not quite what we’re looking for at this time.”

Stuck.

My companion since high school—the pain in my back in that little spot under my right scapula—reminds me I’m made of flesh. And I clench my teeth at night, my dentist says. Probably because I can’t control my life during the day.

Stuck.

For years, I’ve battered the throne room of heaven for certain people I love, begging for their financial freedom, spiritual transformation, physical healing. On this side of eternity, though, I don’t see anything new.

Stuck.

But each new day has new mercies, so I sit with my French Roast now, asking for a reset, a fresh outlook. An unstuck attitude.

And then comes the soft reminder: it’s not what it looks like.

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.

 

 

*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.

© 2014 Tamara Jorell. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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