So now that I am no longer hypomanic, the big question is will I continue to write? Where will I get my inspiration without the push of manic thoughts and my need for catharsis?

The Window

The Window
Years ago my father-in-law made this gorgeous stained glass window to fit a port-hole window in our house. We’ve moved a few times since with that window boxed up and stored for later resurrection. This past August, I decided it was time to frame and hang it. I ordered a custom frame from Northern Hardwood Frames, a Minneapolis, Minnesota custom stained glass frame shop. Perfect, I thought, since my father-in-law met his wife, married, and started their family in Minnesota.

When visiting my in-laws in early September, I told him about the window and the frame I had ordered. He mentioned that he was thinking of selling his glass and supplies. I jumped at the chance to carry on his craft and bought a bunch of gorgeous glass he had collected over the years.

When the frame I had ordered arrived, my father-in-law was in the intensive care unit fighting sepsis. I pulled out the window hoping to frame and hang it for my husband, but a piece was broken and the lead stretched. The window was a metaphor for his state. Still beautiful, but needing repair. Fragile. Life and health, like this stunning window, are fragile. As I love and pray for my father-in-law, I cherish his window, and look forward to some day repairing it, framing it, and hanging it in a place of honor in our home. It represents for me the beauty, vibrancy and creativity of my father-in-law, the love he freely and generously gave, and the love he inspires.

Writing History Trashed

At one point in the past year, in an attempt to de-clutter a hopelessly cluttered house, I tossed all of my letters, journals, papers, and essays into the recycling. Later I regretted it and went to retrieve them from the recycling bin, but the papers had gotten wet and dirty, so I left them. Some of it was probably worth keeping.

I feel like I’ve left the best of my brain behind. Like I will never again be as sharp or as brilliant. I’ve grown accustomed to my brain on valproic acid. Sluggish, forgetting words. Maybe someday I’ll revive it, and once again be creative and thoughtful. Or, not.

Luckily I saved my seminary papers to a back-up drive, so I will be publishing edited versions of those under About God.