black currant black tea. [missing him]

Jeremy is in South Carolina this whole week, as well as the weeks to come, doing stone masonry with Bill Gautsch, the stone mason he's worked with so many times before. He is to come home on the weekends, and return to the rock pile the following early Monday morning. This is the first week of my month of lonely, and I have to admit it has been rather trying. I do not enjoy climbing into a cold bed that is usually warmed by my space heater of a husband, and having to fall asleep knowing he's not beside me. It's hard, but I know it is necessary to aid our financial stability, and I know that Jeremy is probably having a harder time than I am. He's the one that gets up and is at the job site laying heavy rock a little after sun-up every morning, until sun-down every evening. He's working so hard for us, and I am so proud of his strength and diligence--he's an amazing husband, and I miss him so. Though this is hard, I know it is good for us in ways besides the financial. It strengthens our bond as husband and wife, and also helps each of us appreciate the other so much more. It has been hard not seeing him, but as corny as this sounds, our hearts have not be separated. Anyone who is married will understand what I mean. I miss his physically, but he never left me spiritually--and I take comfort in that.
Here is another poem that I wrote in lieu of his absence and my cold nature without him.

Cold Feet

No second guesses, just cold extremities
Lying alone in this bed for two.
Miles away, my love toils with rock and stone,
The way I feel when he’s away.
Stone cold without his warmth—
Though not nearly as stalwart.
Comforted knowing he thinks upon me,
Toiling with rock and stone for my sake,
For my comfort—he provides.
Hearts never separated, no matter the distance.
But the lack of his warm embrace still painfully tangible.
His strength keeps me strong, and his love keeps me able
To soldier on, to keep my head above the weighing water
Pressing heavy and menacing against my fragile demeanor.
Breathing deep, thinking of him—
I put on woolen socks to temper the chill
Until my love returns with his warmth,
Fortifying my fractured bulwark with his own stony strength.
The only remedy from my wintry solitude.



Missing my other half,

Caitlin

scottish breakfast tea. [onions]

I apologize ahead of time for this post not being as uplifting as some of my other ones have been. Being graduated from college and residing in "the real world"-- which is nothing like MTV's reality show I'll have you know--I am realizing how hard things really are. Trying to pay bills and make enough money to get by is something I thought I was used to--but apparently I wasn't. I'm not going to lay my soul out here on a public blog post, but I needed to post, and there's really nothing else to post about. I have another job now, at the Movie Gallery in Black Mountain--not exactly the job I imagined for myself post-graduation, but it's money and we need it. But we're still struggling. We'll survive I have no doubt about that, but it's exhausting being on this emotional rollar coaster of waiting for paychecks and paying bills.
Last night while I was making caramelized onions for part of dinner, I realized how much it was affecting me. Before chopping the onions, I lit a candle to quell the fumes that always berate my tears ducts, but this time the candle didn't do its job. The onion tears came, and before I could stop what was happening, they became true, sobbingly hot tears running down my face. As I thought about what I was doing and why I was crying this poem came to me. I transcribed from mind to paper this afternoon, and this is what my evening of caramelizing onions turned into.

Uncaramelized Onions

Onion tears turn to real tears as they fall, stinging.
Nobody said it was easy, everyone said it would be this hard.
Listening to The Scientist, the mellow notes do nothing to soothe,
A mere reminder of the tribulation.
Chopping, stirring, to caramelize my onions
Peeling away the layers, things look grim.
Rent, phone, credit cards, school loans—we’ll never have enough.
No amount of sugar can make these onions sweet,
The tears still come.
I burn a candle to stifle the fumes.
Burning a candle never helped anyone—for whom do we burn?
For whom do we burn the candle?
His hand is upon all this,
Why can’t I feel it?
The flame comforts me not, chopping.
Keep stirring the onions, they never stop stinging.
Or maybe I won’t stop weeping.
These tears weren’t supposed to be real.
They are.
Nobody said it was easy, I never thought it would be this hard.


On that note, as a disclaimer, I wanted to tell my readers that I'm okay. This poem is pretty dismal, but it's how I felt at the time. I know everything is going to work itself out, but I still needed my time to wallow. Thanks ahead of time for your concern--but really, I'm fine.

Caitlin

cranberry green tea. [upon request]

Upon the request of my lovely friend, Ellar, I will post a poem that I wrote recently--it's the only one I have, so I cannot completely fulfill her request and post a different poem, but we'll see what I can come up with in the coming weeks. The content of this poem is--surprise--in the same vein as my last two posts.

White Flag

Contentedness.
My mouth says, “I am.”
As my spirit throws itself
Against my wall of wishful thinking.
There I will be. So bonny and green.
What about now?
Here in my fruitless fruition.
I cannot loose my grasp.
What if He forgets?
In the hallway of my life
Glimpses of rooms unexplored.
A glimmer of contentedness.
Doors slam, tears fall.
Here. Now.
What am I doing?
Something. Nothing.
The voice whispers softly.
Find contentedness here.
Now.
“I will not forget,” He promises.
Blessing cannot come
Until I let Him take it.
Take me.
Let go, you selfish girl.
I’m not struggling against Him.
I’m struggling against myself.
Fruitless by choice.
Turn around, He is waiting.
Desiring to give true fruition.
Let Him come.
Here’s my white flag,
I surrender.
Please… Take me before I change my mind.


Caitlin B. Foreman

tension tamer ginger tea. [just a bit of my own, please.]

I find it quite ironic that after a seemingly definitive statement of contentedness in my last post, my thoughts have scarcely left the subject this whole week, and here I am again writing about it.
My mouth says "I want to be content. I am content." Yet my spirit is completely contradicting, and throwing itself against what I say I am. It is not that I am ill content with my marriage, nor really even my financial situation--though if I sat around dwelling on the negatives all day I could probably find reasons to be so with both, quite unjustly so when I think of my wonderful husband and all he does for me.
Jeremy and I were given a book for Christmas called A Year with C.S. Lewis. It's basically a devotional-like daily reading from any and all of C.S. Lewis' works. There have been many poignant readings thus far in the year, but one in particular this morning really put a clench in my chest. In an excerpt taken from The Weight of Glory, Lewis talks about how God doesn't demand a certain amount of our time and attention, or even all of our time and attention--but it's our whole selves that he demands. We must not try to keep a little part to ourselves, for if we don't let go completely there will be not enough room for him in our lives. Everything must be given up, trusted in God's hands, even the little things we think we can handle, or the dreams we must cling to so that they don't get too far away from us and are never attained.
I realized that is exactly what I am doing. I have this passion, this yearning to go live and serve in the UK, I know this is a passion given to me from God--but my dream to go and live there is something that I've had--and still have even after this conviction--a hard time releasing my grasp upon. I am terrified to let it go because I don't want to lose sight of it; I don't want it to get lost among the bustle of my life here and now and be forgotten until it's too late. That's a silly thought though, I must admit to myself. For if this passion and yearning is really from God, He will fulfill it in my life. He will bring it to fruition--just in his own timing, not mine.
I have to constantly remind myself of this. If it is God's will for my life, it will happen--and nothing I do or don't do, or forget or remember will change His plan for me. To give this up to Him, is to allow Him room to work--room to bless, and His blessings are always infinitely more than I could have hoped for. I cannot keep this dream to myself and hope that I, in my own strength, can achieve what must be left for the perfect time--of which who can know but He?
"For He claims all, because He is love and must bless. He cannot bless unless He has us. When we try to keep within us an area that is our own, we try to keep an area of death. Therefore, in love, He claims all. There's no bargaining with Him."
--C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

In an effort to give up the bit of my own,

Caitlin