Hometown Pride

I know this is going to sound redundant.

I don't really care.

Lovers,  I live at the beach.

I have lived at the beach now for one month and fourteen days.

Has it sunk in yet?  Not at all.

You know why?

Because the ocean changes every single day, and every single day I am absolutely positive it is more beautiful than it was the day before.

I don't ever want to leave.

Spring Break is coming up in a few short days, and I'll be back home in Portland for 18 days.  I was so excited at first to get back home and have routine coffee dates at Singer Hill with my soul sisters, visit Powell's and fall in love with another new book, work some more hours with people that I LOVE at Mi Famiglia and eat my good fill of that beautiful Spinach Chicken pizza that they make so well.  I was excited to get back to my church, Imago Dei.  I was excited to eat P-Town food because it's authentic, and gourmet, and sustainable, and organic and sexy and delicious and like foreign food-cart-porn-for-your-stomach.

I was excited to sleep in my own bed, and to get my fingers on those faded typewriter keys.  I was excited to wake up and make myself smoothies in my Vitamix.  I was excited to play many rounds of Scrabble with my dad.  Excited to run pointless errands and laugh with my mom.

I still am excited, trust me.

But I already miss the Ocean and I haven't even left yet.

I've begun this fiery inner prayer campaign to God to let me stay here over the summer.  I can't imagine leaving here for the three most beautiful months of the year just to go back to a summer of seating people at tables every weekend, wishing nonstop that I was back here in Cannon Beach.  This is my home.

This is my hometown, now.  I think from this moment on it always will be.

2012 will always be the year that I spent with God.  I know that already and it's only February 25th.  2012 will also always be the year that I found the one place that truly feels mine.  I own it.  It belongs to me.  I live here.  I breathe here.  I am restored here.  I don't want to leave here.

Not just yet, anyway.

I know I'm not meant to stay here forever, and I'm sure that next December when I finally complete my courses here, I'll be ready to leave, but next December is a long way off, and until then I would like to spend every waking moment possible in this place.


"I can't stop and catch my breath, and look no further for happiness.  And I will not turn again, 'cause my heart has found its home." -Dido

Abide

9:04 Wednesday Evening.

This is supposed to be my night off.  I find myself sitting in Coach House,  laptop on my knee, Bible opened to John 15 next to me, and a course assignment page in my notebook blaring the necessity for a 300 word essay on "WHAT IT MEANS TO ABIDE IN CHRIST."

Well, shoot.

To tell you the truth,  I don't really even know what it means to abide in Christ, except for that if you want to accomplish that, you just have to suck it up, keep trucking through life, giving thanks for every breath and living off of faith that He'll be faithful to you.  Which He will.  Because He's, you know,  Christ.

Okay.  So I lied.

I know a little bit more than that.

But knowing and explaining are two different things, and right now I just feel like curling up with Catcher instead of trying to define the pillars of my faith in a maximum of 300 words.

It seems pointless, really.  I mean, 300 words isn't even enough room to adequately describe what it means to abide in Christ.

Abiding in Christ means to rely solely on Him, I should think..  "I am the true vine and my Father is the vinedresser. .... Abide in me and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.  I am the vine, you are the branches."

Obviously we can't do much, or anything, by ourselves, can we?

Abiding in Christ is to rely solely on Him, putting all of our faith and trust in His timing, His mercy, His guidance, His salvation.  Only then can we be put to good use, and can bear fruit for Him on the vine.

Yes?  Yes.  Sadly, I need a few more words than that.

Well...  Okay.

Christ is the ultimate picture of redemption, yes?  Redemption has to do with forgiveness, and peace, yes? Yes.

So, if we are to abide in Christ, we should strive for peace, and never take our redemption lightly.  It is only by His redeeming love that we are saved from eternal suffering and damnation, therefore an attitude of unlimited thankfulness and reverence for His ultimate sacrifice should be present, always.

I should think, also, a state of abode in Christ would have something to do with obedience to Him.  Especially if peace is truly an aspect of redemption- it would thus only make sense that in order to abide peacefully in Christ's redemption, we should hold to the truths He presents to us, and obey them cheerfully and willingly.

"As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you.  Abide in my love.  If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in His love."

In order to obey what He has spoken to us, we must learn the chosen words, and must therefore read our Bibles, yes?

"If you abide in me and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish and it will be done for you."

So.  Recap.

What does it mean to abide in Christ?

Abiding in Christ means to recognize His ultimate sacrifice in dying on the cross to atone for the sins of mankind, and to be overjoyed and overwhelmed at the fact that He would choose to do such a thing for such lowly sinners as we.  We must also obey His commandments, for they are ordained through Him by God the Father and indwelled in us through the Holy Spirit.  We must live faithfully and habitually in His word, familiarizing ourselves with the Inspired truths found in the Bible and committing them to our hearts and our memories.  We must strive to be peaceful, and thankful, living by faith through grace in the abounding love and mercy of our God and Savior. We must love the people around us, we must commit ourselves to spreading the gospel to all the ends of the world.  We must yearn for God to break our hearts with what also breaks His, that we be a compassionate race, content to sacrifice and give for others just as He sacrificed and gave so much for us, His beloved sons and daughters.

These things, I believe are bare bones of what it means to abide in Christ.

We must also recognize our fallen state, and our sinful, deceitful nature, and that without Christ we cannot do anything on our own.  We are completely dependent on God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit to do everything for us.  We are nothing on our own.  We must recognize that we will fall short of the glory of God every single time we try, but if there is sincere humility, and true repentance on our parts, He will be faithful in the remission of sins time and time again.  He will never turn His back on those whom He loves.


Okay. So maybe that wasn't so tough after all.

Funny How It Ain't So Funny, Funny Girl

"I never loved nobody fully.
Always one foot on the ground.
And by protecting my heart truly,
I got lost in the sounds.

I hear in my mind all of these voices
I hear in my mind all of these words
I hear in my mind all of this music
And it breaks my heart
And it breaks my heart."
-Fidelity- Regina Spektor


Again, I find it to be Saturday morning.

Rain is falling from a distant grey sky and the Coach House is humming.

Sweatpants and socks and a Columbia Sportswear rainjacket.  The epitome of weekend slumming in the Northwest.

Outside of the window I see two beautiful magnolia blossoms on an otherwise stillborn tree. Little deaths make life more meaningful.

Ray LaMontagne and gingerade Kombucha and Navel oranges messing up my fingernails and leaving a sticky residue over my hands, and now my keyboard, how reminiscent of a child am I.

I blink and I cry and I make sticky hot messes.  I stomp my foot and I cross my arms and I shriek for absolutely no reason at the very top of my lungs.  I demand to be fed.  I demand to be held.  I demand to be rocked and lullaby-ed and shushed and coddled and comforted.

Through it all I am determined to perceive myself as an adult.  Thus the great paradox of life.

See what I mean?  I am the ultimate definition of ridiculousness.

And so to come off of these moments of reflection and inquisitional delusion, I must laugh and I must write.
I must sing in the wrong key and I must make terrible jokes to remind myself that I am deeply human, and therefore should never take myself seriously because all humanity is folly.

It's funny how that never actually works.  Funny how it ain't so funny, funny girl.

"He Was No More Than A Baby Then..."

Lovers,  Stevie Nicks.

Today is a day for channeling her spirit, her glamour, her strength, her hardcore and her style.

I listen to songs from Bella Donna and I find the perfect sort of female strength to model.

Give me attitude and give me fire.

That I may overpower my manuscript and beat it into submission with my gravelly vocal inflections and my plunging lace necklines.

I will be Stevie Nicks today.  I will fight.  I will sing.  I will not give up, and I will win.

And this writer's block will be banished.

Just like the white-winged dove sings a song, sounds like she's singing, "ooh, baby, say ooh." 

Grand Canyon

WORD OF CAUTION: This video contains one solitary F word.

This morning I spent talking to Hallie, laughing and trying my hardest to persuade her to visit me soon.  The Oregon Coast calls you, sister.  I hear it every day.

I also spent it drinking drip coffee and snacking on a bran muffin from the bakery.  I walked.

I came back to campus and cuddled myself on a couch, falling in love again with the Arctic Monkeys and spending much time in Catcher, underlining and smiling, being inspired, loving the love which only Holden Caulfield offers.

I went on another walk.  The filtering sunlight would not be ignored.

I played on swings.  I closed my eyes and I soared high above land, high above ocean, high above cloud.  I opened my eyes.  Feet collided with ground and I kept walking to the soundtrack of 27 Ani DiFranco songs.

I bought cough syrup.

I went into the bookstore and I lusted after the usual round of lace-clad travel novels and exotic zen writing technique handbooks.  Be proud of me, I fell not to temptation, no  red devil temptresses came home with me.  Maybe with the right help, I can put my literary one-night-stands behind me.  It's a 12 step program.

I passed the playhouse.  Pink wooden sign blared "PERFORMANCE TONIGHT."

My heart skipped a beat and I felt a familiar rush of excitement take over.  A small poster advertised a play called Gin Games, Saturday the 11th and Sunday the 12th.  Curtain rises at 8pm.  Tickets are 15 and 20 dollars.

"I'll take one fifteen dollar ticket please."

Tonight, for one night and one night only, I'm treating myself to history in the making.

A real play.  I cannot abide the anticipation!

I haven't fed my inner theater monster in far too long, and she's clamoring violently for a table scrap.

Fifteen dollars to support the local artist community is fifteen dollars well spent.  Especially because it garners me an evening to myself, dressed up and feeling glamorously cabaret, as if I'm lost in the script of a vintage French Noir film with no way to turn except towards the play house.

Sat in the wind on the beach for fifteen minutes, handwriting this all out.  Laptop began to siren call.  Tulips, A Perfect World, The Package, Eyes Wide Open.....  Writing for the rest of the day until 8pm tonight.

A date with myself.  Sultry and secret.

I'm infinitesimally blessed.

Today the ocean is grey.  The message is mischief and art.

Carpe Diem, lovers.

Tulips for Breakfast

Let it be known lovers that today, Friday the 10th of February, 2012, at 2:03 in the afternoon,  I have opened my manuscript.  I have the friend-edited paper copy sitting next to me, and the revision in progress on my computer as we speak.

I've just reread my first two pages.

I can't even explain the love.

It's not that I'm particularly proud of the verbage I've chosen, or the syntax in which the verbs and nouns and pronouns and adjectives all fall together.  I don't feel proud of her for the sake of pride.  I feel proud of her because she is my own.  I have birthed this precious baby from my own mind, and even though others may find her ugly or ungainly, to me she is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.

I love her so much.  I would sacrifice so much for this daughter of mine.  That's what she is to me.  She is my child,  I am her mother.  I love her with a sacrificial, unconditional love, and I will always strive to protect her, and nurture her.

Looking at her again, watching her grow and take on a life of her own, is breathing life into me.

I feel suddenly like I'm living life again, all the way to the fullest, just by looking at her.

I created her.   I created  her.

But really, I think sometimes our roles are secretly reversed, and in some ways, she's created me.

I have no words to describe the love a creator feels for her art, her work, her physical expression of a deep love that nobody else can truly know.

It is for this express purpose that I go on creating, I go on writing.  I can't stop.  I must forge ahead.  That love runs deep, and the gratification is soul healing.

One of my favorite quotes of all time is by one of my favorite playwrights of all time, Tennessee Williams.  I read in passing an excerpt from one of his personal diaries, and I fell instantly in love.  Underlined three times he boasted in capital letters at the end of a journal entry,  "I want to go on creating.  I WILL!!!"

He captures that fire, that need so well.  It's basic, it's primal, it's animalistic.

It's more than a desire, it's a lifetime of sheer will.  It's trial and error and inevitable heartbreak, but it's a lifetime of incomparable reward and I am so blessed to be living it.

On another note, I have a message for a few very important people.

-Mom, dad, I know you're reading this, and so I want you to do something for me.

I want you to take down the quotes on the fridge that are probably still up from the last time I was home, and I want you to put new ones up for me.

I want you to put that Tennessee Williams quote up.  (That one is for me)

I also want you to put up two more.

I want you to put up "Preach the gospel at all times.  And when necessary, use words." -St. Francis of Assisi (This is one is for dad)

And lastly, I want you to put this one up.  "A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave."- Mahatma Gandhi.  (This one is for mom)

I'm praying over these quotes for us this week.  I don't know why, it just seems like a good thing to do.

Now, I must sever all delays and get back to my baby.

Stay strong, lovers.  Never give up hope.

Wishing you all the creativity and freedom of expression in this world, along with an endless bounty of chocolate chips.

Xx,
Hannah

Colorshow

I don't think I could possibly be more in love with the place that I live in right now.

I wish I could convey exactly what it means to me to be able to walk out my door every day and be greeted by the ocean stretching before me, or to be able to write this and all my other thoughts sitting on a sandy log, staring at the surging, swelling force a few feet in front of me.  Alas, the words, for once, don't come easily.

That entity, that being, that life-force, the ocean, is the greatest love of my earthly life.

Today my love is grey.  He twists and barrels and angrily beats against the shore.  Frothy and furious.  I sit quietly and listen to his battle cry.  The roar of a thousand waves rolling in, harmoniously voicing their pain and resolution to forget the wrongs they've done.

Even in anger and wrath my love is dignified.  He is regal and I respect him.  I admire his power, his command. He is the officer of innumerable battalions of frozen, colorless, overwhelming murderers.  I am struck with a consuming fear, yet even as I tremble and retreat to higher ground, I am filled with inescapable reverence and awe.  I turn my head over my shoulder quickly, unable to look away.

  He is my Sodom and Gomorrah.  I am a pillar of salt.

Such is the power of his aggression and danger over me.

Some days my love is blue.

He is calm.  His battle cry is done away with.  He purrs thunderously, like a gargantuan feline, sleepy and full of ambrosia and milk.

He is beautiful and striking and I am made giddy with love, drunk off happiness.  I twirl and leap and sing songs of praise to the Creator who has made my love for me.  In which He has mirrored so much of His divine sovereignty and majesty.  God smiles upon my love no matter what the weather.  In turn my love smiles blue at me, and tickles my toes playfully.  I shriek and laugh.

He whispers my name and my heart stops.

My favorite days are when my love is green.

Those days I have come to find are rarer than most.  When my love is green, all is right in my small but turbulent world.

I am comforted beyond measure by that deep, oceanic emerald hue that shines and sparkles whether in sunlight or clouded haze.

The waves are always monumental, but they are quiet.  They are almost transparent- I find myself straining to gaze through them into that mysterious, mythological water world beyond the walls of seafoam and S-barrels.

There is a mischievous twinkle in my love's midst when he is green.  As if to say,  "Keep your eyes on me.  You never know what I will bring to you."

Often on these days, he brings me love.  Not the joyous, delirious kind.  Instead, the deeply rooted, encircling, soul-speaking kind of love.

He also brings dreams to me on days of emerald and tide pool.

Dreams of future, dreams of present.  Memories of fire and ash he leaves for days of grey, not to besmirch the bounty of hope brought on green days.

My favorite things that my love brings to me on these days are messages.

He is a messenger of hope, an ambassador of love and dreams and wishes.  When I find myself playing near the water's edge on days of green,  he sends me greetings.  Greetings and whispers from loved ones, from strangers, from future selves, from angels, from God.

Whispers and wishes and directions and hopes, inspirations, secrets.

What do I do with these ethereal blessings?  I close my eyes, prepare a few words, and I send them right back.

And so, if you are around a watery manifestation of my love, and you feel you have received one of these messages of light and warmth, be comforted in the knowledge that I have sent them on the fins of Poseidon's mermaids with great haste and love.

If you are not around water, and you still feel these beacons surrounding you, let it be known that the messages continue on the wings of angels, with great godspeed.

I'm waiting for your reply, always.

I love you, love you, I love you.

Goodbye.

Lost In Translation

Tuesday afternoon.  Been sick for a week now.  What started off as a fever, morphed into an extremely sniffly nose and sore throat, and has now graduated to an extreme smokers' cough and a crackly, manly, broken voice.

I have taken theraflu, mucinex, dayquil and robitussin and nothing really seems to be working.  I'm convinced I'm dying of pneumonia.  It's okay, though.  Death by illness definitely enhances my role as an author; I only regret that I haven't published anything yet.  I don't have much finished to publish posthumously, either.  I thought I had finished my fairytale back in December, only to realize I was far from finishing and in fact discovered I need to expand, expand, expand the entire story into a small book.  Joy and rapture.

I haven't worked on Tulips since this past summer.  I thought I would get lots of time to focus and work on it while I'm here, but it's been a month already and I haven't looked at it once.  She's been playing at the back of my mind for the past two weeks, however, and so I know I'll be picking the manuscript up again, soon.  I know it sounds terribly macabre, but I can't help feel she's my greatest life's work, and that no matter what I do after, I'll never be able to top her. Even though I haven't come close to finishing her yet, she still haunts my every thought. She hangs over me like a giant scarlet letter, invisible to everyone but me. I can't escape her.  Fiction is a tricky business, full of deceit and coldhearted misery. She will churn, and burn and cast me out a thousand times over and over again, and yet I crawl back to her every day. Moments seem like years and every second of my life is spent in slavery to her mastery. God, how I love her, and also, how I deeply burn with hatred for her.

This is the road I have chosen.

You may begin to doubt my sanity now.

I've given up on my sanity.  It's quite nice, really.  Let the multiple personalities take root.

I'm off for a walk, now.  The sky has turned grey, and I would put money down on the fact that the ocean has turned from calm to threatening. This is the absolute best time to seek inspiration.

Wish me luck.