Tidbits

Snowy morning here at the Coast.  I woke up to engorged snowflakes quietly cascading from the sky.  They came and went, and the blue sky broke through, and then was overtaken once again by grey.  Now outside is a dismal parade of dripping branches and silent puddles.  In the distance, the sound of waves.  Always, always the sound of waves.  I'm not complaining.

Yesterday I found myself seated at a compelling restaurant called Lazy Susan's Cafe.  I went by myself at my roommate's urging, and as soon as I walked through the door I knew I had made a very wise choice.  I was greeted by a beautiful Indian woman with a vibrant smile and ushered up a small, narrow staircase to a quaint upper level large enough only to support four tables. I sat at a table overlooking the lower level through age-old oak spindles.  There were teacups and seashells and pioneer bonnets all over the walls, along with art festival posters from years long gone by.  There was housemade jam in small glasses on every table, and small bowls of sugarcubes in place of the usual splenda assortment.  The carpet was a faded cerulean blue.  Rain splattered and greeted the windows.  The smell of fresh coffee, oranges and sliced mushrooms sauteed with spinach greeted me and made me feel so quickly at home. I took a deep breath in and felt an overwhelming rush of thankfulness surround me.

I ordered the plain oatmeal waffle, served with a side of fruit and topped with housemade orange syrup.  Also, a side of thinly sliced fried ham.  I sat and I read Writing Down The Bones and had a quiet conversation with the waitress for a few moments.  She asked if I was part of the writing group that was currently in town.  I told her sadly I was not,  instead I was a student at Ecola.  She smiled and said, "Well at least for you, the teaching at Ecola is much more theological, rather than epicurean.  That writers' group is from a much more worldly background."  I smiled at her usages of the words theological and epicurean in literal everyday conversation.  I thought to myself, "These are my people."  In my quiet contemplation and observation of the couples seated around me, I heard the word decadent used by two different men, seated at two different tables.  Wonderment.

I can only recall all of these details because I wrote them down as they were happening.  Writing Down The Bones has officially penetrated my entire being.  In a frenzied desire to improve and rehearse my writing skills, I have taken to writing down almost everything that has been happening to me since I arrived here a week ago.  I love it.  I haven't written this much by way of practice and habit in a long, long, long time.  It feels good.  It feels good to remember that I don't always have to be working on a project or a blog in order to write.  I can literally just write down experiences, remembrances, moments,  thoughts as they're happening, and open my eyes to the world of infinite detail around me.

I'm experiencing a lot of conviction, here.  Conviction in my character,  with the goal to improve my personal desires and habits in my walk through life.  Conviction in my faith, with the urgent need to become more responsible and active in a working relationship through prayer, trust, faith and reverent fear in God with my Holy Father.  Also, a conviction in my writing, to deeply challenge myself to new heights and new depths, and to be okay with the process, even if it produces some seriously bad writing results.  That's okay.  Be gentle with yourself, Hannah.  It all takes time.

I read something in Writing Down The Bones that hit me pretty hard.  With a newly found conviction to be less prideful, I'm going to share it with you, even though I don't want to admit my weaknesses.

"Writers get confused.  We think writing gives us an excuse for being alive. We forget that being alive is unconditional and that life and writing are two separate entities. Often we use writing as a way to receive notice, attention, love. 'See what I wrote. I must be a good person.' We are good people before we ever write a word."

Ouch.  I've been there.  I was sort of the mayor of there.  In fact, I don't think I've even left yet.

Hopefully in my time here, and with this amazing book beside me, I will gather the courage and the pluck to pick up and settle somewhere new, far away from this place of confused excuses, and the pathetic desire to find love through scripted words.

Being a writer doesn't define me.  It doesn't make me a good person.  I can't hide behind it, even though I try so hard to let it tower over me, protect me, hide me and give me excuses to be full of deceit, ignorance, pride and instability.

I am not to be defined by anything of this world.

How deeply I have fallen from my roots, and how much I have forgotten by way of convictions.

I can't be defined by love, either.  I can't be defined by relationship status or by the amount of people who are tripping over their shoelaces to come and visit me.  I can't be defined by my possessions, not even my banjo, or my typewriter.

I could be defined, possibly, by forgiveness.

Something I desperately need to ask from God for my slothfulness, my wickedness, my many attempts, subconscious or not, to run far, far, far away from His sheltering care.

I've come here with many preconceived notions and selfish purposes and I'm finding out very quickly that I  have come with all the wrong intentions.  But I am here, and with God's help, I will remain.  I will learn and grow and repent and seek and fall again and again and again, but at least it's happening.

It's happening, and I'm aware.  I'm quivering, I'm luminescent, I'm fearful and I'm radiant all at the same time.  I'm terrified of what it all means, but I know it's the best possible place for me to be right now, or else I wouldn't be here.  I wouldn't be going through these things.

I am not a fan of transitions, we all know this, but I am a fan of changes, and I am also a fan of processes, no matter how long they take.

And this process, scary and tumultuous as it might be, is loved.  I love it.  I welcome it and I accept it.  I thank God for bringing it into my life, and to my blurred attention.

"A Christian is not a man who never goes wrong, but a man who is enabled to repent and pick himself up and begin over again after each stumble- because the Christ-life is inside him, repairing him all the time, enabling him to repeat (in some degree) the kind of voluntary death which Christ Himself carried out."

Thanks for being here for me, lovers, day in and day out.

Wishing you all the caressing sea breezes, vanilla soy lattes and inspiring C.S. Lewis quotes in the world,

Love,
Hannah.