T-minus one hour and 13 minutes until Thanksgiving 2013, lovers.
I've been busy today, as is the rest of America.
Unconventionally busy, though. This year is decidedly different from years before. My family, for instance, is spending the holiday at the beach, and going out to eat to a nice restaurant instead of doing the big schabang with all of our extended relatives.
To be honest, folks, my family tree has seen its fair share of storms over the last 5 or 6 years.
Holding absolutely zero feet to the fire, let me just quickly (and honestly) say time has increasingly dwindled our numbers, there are few left to gather together.
My parents are tired of 40 years of large scale Thanksgiving dinners. I can't say that I blame them. The four of us (Moseby has adjusted nicely and is now a fully indoctrinated addition to our family) are headed to the coast for the holiday weekend, and I couldn't be more excited.
There's been a lot to reflect over, the past few weeks.
Particularly in the past few days, I've been pondering the meaning of the word 'unity', and probably for a myriad of different reasons. The word strikes me as suddenly beautiful, as though I've never heard it before. It rolls off my tongue as I sound it out phonetically on my way to work in the mornings.
The past year, as was the forecast, was indeed a year of solitude. Conversely, I'm beginning to hope and pray that the theme for next year will instead be one of unity, as I feel for some strange reason that God is laying this word on my heart in a touching, impacting manner.
Perhaps that's why I'm so excited to celebrate Thanksgiving away from home this year. There is a lonely sort of solitude in sharing someone's memories, but there is a deep unity that accompanies sharing new experiences, and that is what I'm looking forward to over the next few days.
New experiences.
Today I came home from work and I cleaned out my car, bathed the pup, watched Love Actually, packed the pup, packed myself, ironed some clothes, and ignored the paper I have due on Sunday that I haven't really started on yet. Papers are important, yes, but tonight was made for something different. This is a special night, the night before Thanksgiving. This is easily one of my favorite nights of the year, although emotional in many ways.
While I was increasingly busy tonight, and getting lots of intermittent lovins' from my pup, I couldn't help but think about the few things that are always on my mind on nights like this. My grandmother, thoughts of her are always near during the holidays; I feel her moving through my family with warmth and love. I thought back to Thanksgivings past.
Last year, I spent it with a beautiful family of co-workers as we weathered the rush-time shift between the hours of 6pm Thanksgiving evening and 2pm Black Friday morning. That was one hell of a night to be a barista at the top-grossing Starbucks in the entire state, but it is one of my most favorite holiday memories to date.
Also last year, I spent the Friday after Thanksgiving, celebrating the large meal with my family, circled around the dinner table, holding my 1-month old sleeping niece in my arms and daydreaming about the boy I loved at the time. It's funny now, how much my niece has grown in one year, and how that love has disintegrated into nothing but happy, distant memories. It's funny how things change.
The year before that my parents and I went out to dinner and came home to decorate the house for Christmas, while watching a campy horror movie my funny, lovely aunt got my dad for his birthday. I believe it was called "Motel Hell." I was emotional at the thought that in a few short weeks, just after New Year's, I would be starting a new adventure and moving to the beach to attend Ecola. I had no idea what God had in store for me.
Two years before that, my entire family was together. There were so many bodies, we needed three tables. I remember smiling until my mouth hurt. I remember hugs, and laughter, and such deep, everlasting warmth. A sheltering, comforting unity.
A unity that has since been put aside.
A unity that only God in his miraculous grace can restore.
A unity which sometimes, in moments of nostalgic remembrance, I deeply ache for.
Sometimes things happen in life that are neither expected or well-received. They are not desired, not intended, not understood, not accepted.
And the shame, the guilt, the anger, the frustration, the trenches of hurt and miles of regret are impossible to navigate.
But tonight, I am reminded that while the past breeds disunity, the future demands unity, a perfect unity comprised in the ultimate reign of our God and King.
The future demands unity. Unity is what this world is predestined for. As long as we have Christ, we are steeped in unity, and while the past may be painful or impossible to forget, we must remember that there is hope shining at the end of the tunnel, like a bright beacon, guiding us into that perfect unity with Christ. Let us look to the future, and live in the momentous blessing which is every minute of our lives.
These are the special times, lovers. Right now. Right in the midst of pain, entrenched in the heart of suffering, battered by the blows of age and regret, we are united in Christ.
These are the special times.
Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.
Tell somebody that you love them, tomorrow. Tell somebody that they are special to you.
I love you, and you, and you.
Goodnight.
Xx
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Awake, O Sleeper
"Awake, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you." -Ephesians 5:14
Well, lovers- I'm no longer dead.
I've alluded to an emotionally turbulent past few months in my recent posts, and I reaffirm that allusion here today.
I confess to you, lovers, that I have not been a shining example of that glorious, elusive Proverbs 31 woman as of late. I have not been clothed with "dignity, and righteousness," nor have I been "laughing without fear of my future."
I have lived the past few months trembling, in constant fear and distress, and wallowing in a sick ball of my own debilitating self-absorption. I have lost sleep and sanity over simple matters of the heart which I am not proud to say have unmasked the depth of my weaknesses. My heart found itself in a place it was not ready to be, and I have spent quite a few sleepless nights crying my hurt out to God.
But you see, I thought throughout all of my distress, that I was doing the right thing by leaning so heavily in the comforting arms of my Savior. I thought that constantly complaining to God during my morning and evening commutes, throughout lulls in my work day, and every night before bed was healthy. I thought that masking my discontent through prayers meant I was trusting in God to deliver me from my heartache.
Lovers, I was wrong.
Please don't misunderstand me. When we go through trials, and suffer losses or unexpected hurts, we are to lean solely on Jesus Christ as our one, everlasting comforter. This is an absolute truth. I cannot, and will not deny this.
However, there's a fine line between grieving and wallowing. My vulnerability in the eyes of my Lord gave way to crumbling selfishness and self-obsession, and I completely lost sight of my life, my purpose.
I forgot to focus on what brings joy in life. I forgot to focus on the care of and attention to others. I forgot to busy my mind with other things, good things- I forgot to strive to be a blessing to others and to be thankful for my current heart condition.
I forgot how to laugh. I forgot to "count it all joy."
The worst part of this, is the fact that I only just realized my predicament last night.
It might seem stupid to say, but I realized it while I was sitting in my local theater by myself, watching an early evening showing of Thor 2: The Dark World.
A simple line delivered from the ridiculously attractive (Seriously, it's not fair) Tom Hiddleston (cloaked as Loki in green with disgustingly suave greased hair... Yeah, okay, I'm not really sure I get my attraction to this character either... You learn something new about yourself everyday. I digress.)
anyway, this line was delivered during a heated argument with his brother, Thor, and it figuratively brought me before my knees as it drifted through my ears.
"Satisfaction is not in my nature."
Lovers, do you know what hasn't been in my nature over the past few months?
Satisfaction.
I have not been satisfied with the current situation in life that God has set before me.
I have been acting like a spoiled child, rolling around in their own ungrateful filth, upset that their desires have been refused, or postponed.
God, forgive my dissatisfaction. Forgive my selfishness. You are enough. You are enough.
The truth is, lovers, I have struggled with depressive anxiety for most of my post-adolescent life.
I go through good spells, and I go through bad spells.
Each bad spell gets progressively easier to go through, and my hope and prayer is that someday, I will no longer experience tailspins when things go awry as they tend to do every-so-often. It's a work in progress, and it's a process that humbles me before Christ in more ways than I can count, so perhaps my anxiety is actually one of my greatest blessings. Not sure I can let myself see it that way, yet, but who knows what the future will bring?
What I almost never seem to remember, however, through these bad spells, is that constant introspection is extremely unhealthy.
What I mean by that, is things are always at their absolute worst, when I spend most of my waking hours thinking about whatever it is I'm going through. Financial stress, emotional stress, relational stress. I tend to live my life constantly worrying about each of these areas, even when I am laughing, or seem happy.
I mask my stress extremely well, and thus most of those closest to me rarely know I'm on the brink of a break-down because I have auto-trained myself to be ridiculously self-sufficient and I turn people away when they try to get close.
This is horrendously wrong, and so is allowing myself to spend all of my internal thoughts on these forms of anxiety. To be constantly introverted and constantly thinking about myself and my hurts, my losses, my sufferings, my misfortunes, my predicaments is repulsive. It's absolutely repulsive and unfortunately it is one of my biggest tendencies and temptations in this life.
This pattern has caused me to be on various medications (albeit few prescription medications, mostly all-natural supplements in a variety of colors, size and lengthily-worded ingredients) over the past several years. This in and of itself is something else I tend to struggle with, as I dislike feeling reliant on pills. I feel weak as though I can't handle my own life, which in hindsight, isn't actually bad, thus being on pills for a relatively harmless life tends to make me feel like the worst sort of failure.
During the last bout I had with this depressive anxiety, I went to see my naturopathic doctor and she prescribed another series of supplements and vitamins. I took them for a few weeks until the world felt less dark, and my stomach bloat went away, and then I shoved them far back in my bathroom drawer, trying to forget my dependence on them and to guide myself into the ways of being strong and self-sufficient instead.
Well, you know what lovers? I can be real stupid sometimes.
Sure enough, a few months went by without the natural aids and as soon as the going got tough, my world went very dark and consequently I found myself in another tailspin, as I realized again last night while watching Thor 2.
This dep-anx bout has been going on (amazingly, it's escaped my knowledge until now) for the past several months. I have been completely absorbed in unimportant matters; real matters, which have caused real pain within my body, and heart, I grant that, but unimportant all the same.
The cycle always looks the same: I start to sleep restlessly, soon I begin waking up for hours in the middle of the night. I crave foods high in carb content and cut out natural proteins almost entirely (for the record, I almost never notice that I'm doing this). I become exhausted 24/7 and therefore have extremely low energy levels. I cease all forms of activity. I start to put on weight and my face begins to break out. I get nauseating headaches from a starving, yet always full, stomach and I tend to find 3 good reasons to cry daily.
I am a walking nightmare to be around, and the oddity of it all is I rarely notice it's happening to me, until I have one of those epiphanies (such as the one I had last night) and then things slowly start to fall back into their proper places.
I started taking my supplements again about five days ago. Already, the dark, suppressive cloud I've been living in seems to have lightened considerably. At some point, I've got to realize that my body needs these supplements. There's nothing I can do about it, and there's nothing wrong with it, either. Acceptance. Acceptance. Acceptance.
I'm sleeping through the night, and sleeping well.
I confess my sins of pride and overwhelming selfishness to God before you all as witnesses, and I deeply apologize to anyone who has been caught in the crossfire of my vicious cycle lately, particularly my family. I am sorry I am not easy to live with.
Christ is shining on me today, lovers- just like He's shining on all of you, as well.
Don't loose touch with yourself, the way I have the past few months.
It's just not worth it.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
(Also, go see the new Thor movie. It's eye-opening. ;) )
Well, lovers- I'm no longer dead.
I've alluded to an emotionally turbulent past few months in my recent posts, and I reaffirm that allusion here today.
I confess to you, lovers, that I have not been a shining example of that glorious, elusive Proverbs 31 woman as of late. I have not been clothed with "dignity, and righteousness," nor have I been "laughing without fear of my future."
I have lived the past few months trembling, in constant fear and distress, and wallowing in a sick ball of my own debilitating self-absorption. I have lost sleep and sanity over simple matters of the heart which I am not proud to say have unmasked the depth of my weaknesses. My heart found itself in a place it was not ready to be, and I have spent quite a few sleepless nights crying my hurt out to God.
But you see, I thought throughout all of my distress, that I was doing the right thing by leaning so heavily in the comforting arms of my Savior. I thought that constantly complaining to God during my morning and evening commutes, throughout lulls in my work day, and every night before bed was healthy. I thought that masking my discontent through prayers meant I was trusting in God to deliver me from my heartache.
Lovers, I was wrong.
Please don't misunderstand me. When we go through trials, and suffer losses or unexpected hurts, we are to lean solely on Jesus Christ as our one, everlasting comforter. This is an absolute truth. I cannot, and will not deny this.
However, there's a fine line between grieving and wallowing. My vulnerability in the eyes of my Lord gave way to crumbling selfishness and self-obsession, and I completely lost sight of my life, my purpose.
I forgot to focus on what brings joy in life. I forgot to focus on the care of and attention to others. I forgot to busy my mind with other things, good things- I forgot to strive to be a blessing to others and to be thankful for my current heart condition.
I forgot how to laugh. I forgot to "count it all joy."
The worst part of this, is the fact that I only just realized my predicament last night.
It might seem stupid to say, but I realized it while I was sitting in my local theater by myself, watching an early evening showing of Thor 2: The Dark World.
A simple line delivered from the ridiculously attractive (Seriously, it's not fair) Tom Hiddleston (cloaked as Loki in green with disgustingly suave greased hair... Yeah, okay, I'm not really sure I get my attraction to this character either... You learn something new about yourself everyday. I digress.)
anyway, this line was delivered during a heated argument with his brother, Thor, and it figuratively brought me before my knees as it drifted through my ears.
"Satisfaction is not in my nature."
Lovers, do you know what hasn't been in my nature over the past few months?
Satisfaction.
I have not been satisfied with the current situation in life that God has set before me.
I have been acting like a spoiled child, rolling around in their own ungrateful filth, upset that their desires have been refused, or postponed.
God, forgive my dissatisfaction. Forgive my selfishness. You are enough. You are enough.
The truth is, lovers, I have struggled with depressive anxiety for most of my post-adolescent life.
I go through good spells, and I go through bad spells.
Each bad spell gets progressively easier to go through, and my hope and prayer is that someday, I will no longer experience tailspins when things go awry as they tend to do every-so-often. It's a work in progress, and it's a process that humbles me before Christ in more ways than I can count, so perhaps my anxiety is actually one of my greatest blessings. Not sure I can let myself see it that way, yet, but who knows what the future will bring?
What I almost never seem to remember, however, through these bad spells, is that constant introspection is extremely unhealthy.
What I mean by that, is things are always at their absolute worst, when I spend most of my waking hours thinking about whatever it is I'm going through. Financial stress, emotional stress, relational stress. I tend to live my life constantly worrying about each of these areas, even when I am laughing, or seem happy.
I mask my stress extremely well, and thus most of those closest to me rarely know I'm on the brink of a break-down because I have auto-trained myself to be ridiculously self-sufficient and I turn people away when they try to get close.
This is horrendously wrong, and so is allowing myself to spend all of my internal thoughts on these forms of anxiety. To be constantly introverted and constantly thinking about myself and my hurts, my losses, my sufferings, my misfortunes, my predicaments is repulsive. It's absolutely repulsive and unfortunately it is one of my biggest tendencies and temptations in this life.
This pattern has caused me to be on various medications (albeit few prescription medications, mostly all-natural supplements in a variety of colors, size and lengthily-worded ingredients) over the past several years. This in and of itself is something else I tend to struggle with, as I dislike feeling reliant on pills. I feel weak as though I can't handle my own life, which in hindsight, isn't actually bad, thus being on pills for a relatively harmless life tends to make me feel like the worst sort of failure.
During the last bout I had with this depressive anxiety, I went to see my naturopathic doctor and she prescribed another series of supplements and vitamins. I took them for a few weeks until the world felt less dark, and my stomach bloat went away, and then I shoved them far back in my bathroom drawer, trying to forget my dependence on them and to guide myself into the ways of being strong and self-sufficient instead.
Well, you know what lovers? I can be real stupid sometimes.
Sure enough, a few months went by without the natural aids and as soon as the going got tough, my world went very dark and consequently I found myself in another tailspin, as I realized again last night while watching Thor 2.
This dep-anx bout has been going on (amazingly, it's escaped my knowledge until now) for the past several months. I have been completely absorbed in unimportant matters; real matters, which have caused real pain within my body, and heart, I grant that, but unimportant all the same.
The cycle always looks the same: I start to sleep restlessly, soon I begin waking up for hours in the middle of the night. I crave foods high in carb content and cut out natural proteins almost entirely (for the record, I almost never notice that I'm doing this). I become exhausted 24/7 and therefore have extremely low energy levels. I cease all forms of activity. I start to put on weight and my face begins to break out. I get nauseating headaches from a starving, yet always full, stomach and I tend to find 3 good reasons to cry daily.
I am a walking nightmare to be around, and the oddity of it all is I rarely notice it's happening to me, until I have one of those epiphanies (such as the one I had last night) and then things slowly start to fall back into their proper places.
I started taking my supplements again about five days ago. Already, the dark, suppressive cloud I've been living in seems to have lightened considerably. At some point, I've got to realize that my body needs these supplements. There's nothing I can do about it, and there's nothing wrong with it, either. Acceptance. Acceptance. Acceptance.
I'm sleeping through the night, and sleeping well.
I confess my sins of pride and overwhelming selfishness to God before you all as witnesses, and I deeply apologize to anyone who has been caught in the crossfire of my vicious cycle lately, particularly my family. I am sorry I am not easy to live with.
Christ is shining on me today, lovers- just like He's shining on all of you, as well.
Don't loose touch with yourself, the way I have the past few months.
It's just not worth it.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
(Also, go see the new Thor movie. It's eye-opening. ;) )
Monday, November 4, 2013
It's A Monday.
Happy Monday evening to you, lovers.
For some of us, this Monday evening looks like blaring Billy Talent and Sum 41 while cleaning the bathroom after enjoying a bowl-full of homemade risotto (thanks, dad) and some red wine.
The Italians know how to relieve stress, no?
The following phrases have, admittedly, been uttered tonight by yours truly due to such Italian stress relievers.
"I'mma eat all these damn cookies." (Spoken to no-one in particular.)
"I deserve this, man." (.... Also spoken to no-one in particular.)
And my personal favorite ".... Stoppppp, you're being rude." (Spoken to my computer's automatic update task manager).
What can I say?
Risotto, Coppola and circus animal cookies make me feel pretty talkative.
As I'm sitting here, waiting for the bathroom cleaners to get nice and sudsy on all my bathroom surfaces, I decided to take a few moments to focus on thankfulness.
'Tis the season after all, right?
1. I am thankful, tonight, for the healthy sounds of punk rock streaming out of my laptop speakers. (Some things never change.)
2. I am thankful for the cool bathroom floor on which I am currently laying as I wait for the cleaners to perform their chemical magic. (I promise, this is merely because I am lazy. It has nothing to do with the wine. What kind of person do you think I am? It's a Monday, for crying out loud.)
3. Strange to say, I'm thankful for bathrooms which need cleaning.
4. I'm thankful for Italy.
5. I'm thankful for gym shorts and My Chemical Romance t-shirts and best friend group texts.
6. I'm thankful, tonight, that I'm single. (Take note of that, because I may never say that again.)
Life is always good, even when it seems really hard.
Wouldn't you agree, lovers?
I love you all.
Goodnight.
For some of us, this Monday evening looks like blaring Billy Talent and Sum 41 while cleaning the bathroom after enjoying a bowl-full of homemade risotto (thanks, dad) and some red wine.
The Italians know how to relieve stress, no?
The following phrases have, admittedly, been uttered tonight by yours truly due to such Italian stress relievers.
"I'mma eat all these damn cookies." (Spoken to no-one in particular.)
"I deserve this, man." (.... Also spoken to no-one in particular.)
And my personal favorite ".... Stoppppp, you're being rude." (Spoken to my computer's automatic update task manager).
What can I say?
Risotto, Coppola and circus animal cookies make me feel pretty talkative.
As I'm sitting here, waiting for the bathroom cleaners to get nice and sudsy on all my bathroom surfaces, I decided to take a few moments to focus on thankfulness.
'Tis the season after all, right?
1. I am thankful, tonight, for the healthy sounds of punk rock streaming out of my laptop speakers. (Some things never change.)
2. I am thankful for the cool bathroom floor on which I am currently laying as I wait for the cleaners to perform their chemical magic. (I promise, this is merely because I am lazy. It has nothing to do with the wine. What kind of person do you think I am? It's a Monday, for crying out loud.)
3. Strange to say, I'm thankful for bathrooms which need cleaning.
4. I'm thankful for Italy.
5. I'm thankful for gym shorts and My Chemical Romance t-shirts and best friend group texts.
6. I'm thankful, tonight, that I'm single. (Take note of that, because I may never say that again.)
Life is always good, even when it seems really hard.
Wouldn't you agree, lovers?
I love you all.
Goodnight.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Morning Song
Good morning, lovers.
I'm sitting at my kitchen table, sipping on a hot mug of Ethiopian blend from Water Avenue (There's that word 'Yirgacheffe' again)... Listening to the sounds of my father frying sausage and potatoes in a pan on the stove and the morning-banjo strums of the Avett Brothers singing us both into a fluid sort of calm.
It's currently 8:20am, even though my mind is certain it's really 9:20am, and I keep having miniature freak-outs every time I glance at the clock. Daylight Savings Time has never been a close friend of mine.
I don't actually have a lot to say on this lazy Sunday early morning, except I do want to keep up the tradition of thankfulness as best that I can.
So here we go.
1. Today I am thankful for the beautiful moments God sends our way, even though life is hard.
2. Today I am thankful for my orange coffee mug which recites Luke 1:47 "My spirit rejoices in God my Savior!"
3. Today I am thankful for the strength and grace of women like my mother.
4. Today I am thankful for mornings.
5. Today I am thankful for my church, which at the end of every week really does feel like a haven in a storm, which really reminds me of my purpose on earth as one of God's warriors and messengers.
6. Today I am thankful for the things which hurt our hearts, even if their sole purpose is just to remind us that we're human beings, not robots.
Finally, there are a few things that I'm 100% not thankful for, that I absolutely should be. I'm going to list them here as things you might consider praying about for me, on the off chance that I ever cross your mind. I can't tell you how much I would appreciate it, if you do.
1. I am not thankful for cancer.
2. I am not thankful for distance.
3. I am not thankful for math.
4. I am not thankful, sometimes, for the plan God currently has for my life. (This is another reason why I AM thankful for my church, because my convictions rise and my sins are forgiven every Sunday and throughout the week as well.)
5. I am not thankful for the way friendships change.
Alright, lovers.
That's all for today.
Thanks for reading, thanks for considering prayers, and enjoy your extra hour of worship. Whether that be used for sleeping, praying, reading your bible, kissing your babies, or cooking breakfast for a loved one.
I'm sitting at my kitchen table, sipping on a hot mug of Ethiopian blend from Water Avenue (There's that word 'Yirgacheffe' again)... Listening to the sounds of my father frying sausage and potatoes in a pan on the stove and the morning-banjo strums of the Avett Brothers singing us both into a fluid sort of calm.
It's currently 8:20am, even though my mind is certain it's really 9:20am, and I keep having miniature freak-outs every time I glance at the clock. Daylight Savings Time has never been a close friend of mine.
I don't actually have a lot to say on this lazy Sunday early morning, except I do want to keep up the tradition of thankfulness as best that I can.
So here we go.
1. Today I am thankful for the beautiful moments God sends our way, even though life is hard.
2. Today I am thankful for my orange coffee mug which recites Luke 1:47 "My spirit rejoices in God my Savior!"
3. Today I am thankful for the strength and grace of women like my mother.
4. Today I am thankful for mornings.
5. Today I am thankful for my church, which at the end of every week really does feel like a haven in a storm, which really reminds me of my purpose on earth as one of God's warriors and messengers.
6. Today I am thankful for the things which hurt our hearts, even if their sole purpose is just to remind us that we're human beings, not robots.
Finally, there are a few things that I'm 100% not thankful for, that I absolutely should be. I'm going to list them here as things you might consider praying about for me, on the off chance that I ever cross your mind. I can't tell you how much I would appreciate it, if you do.
1. I am not thankful for cancer.
2. I am not thankful for distance.
3. I am not thankful for math.
4. I am not thankful, sometimes, for the plan God currently has for my life. (This is another reason why I AM thankful for my church, because my convictions rise and my sins are forgiven every Sunday and throughout the week as well.)
5. I am not thankful for the way friendships change.
Alright, lovers.
That's all for today.
Thanks for reading, thanks for considering prayers, and enjoy your extra hour of worship. Whether that be used for sleeping, praying, reading your bible, kissing your babies, or cooking breakfast for a loved one.
Friday, November 1, 2013
November Blue
Lovers,
The first day of a new month is always minty-fresh, isn't it?
Winter is coming, and I'm excited for the stark newness it always seems to bring with it. The past three months have been rough, to say the least. I can't help but remember late last year, when I forecasted 2013's theme as being one of "Solitude."
Over the past few months, I've felt the reality of that word in a maddening sense. Solitude wasn't intended to mean isolation, but rarely do predicted emotions work out the way you intend them too. "So it goes, so it goes. "
October is over. It is done, it won't come around for another 12 months. With it, I also say goodbye to the crisp tear-stained nights spent hugging my pillowcase in quiet moments of frustration, and I say goodbye to the crinkly sounds of Nat King Cole teasing my tired heart to sleep only to wake suddenly a few hours later in the deadest hours of night, worrying about things I cannot control.
Goodbye, tiny hurts. November marks the beginning of a new season in which I plan to practice thankfulness and exaggerated amounts of prayer.
"Just a closer walk with thee, granted Jesus is my plea. Daily walking close to thee, let it be, dear Lord, let it be."
Life is spurring us all onward, lovers.
For me, this looks like new papers to write and new classes to enroll in and Christmas holidays to be spent in warm places. It looks like falling in love with my new puppy, Moseby. (Photographs to come soon after his arrival into my arms next weekend.) It looks like a few excruciatingly difficult conversations which God is prepping me daily for, despite my fears and hesitations on the changes those conversations might bring. It looks like unforeseen, exciting expansion at work, it looks like saying goodbye to life as I've known it over the past two years, and holding my own hands as I toddle carefully into the future. ( I can't hold your hand anymore, dearest, to keep me strong. I have to hold my own now. I am sorry. )
It looks like singing hymns in the shower. It looks like laughing again, really laughing. It looks like new journeys, previously known as adventures. It looks like dressing up my puppy in sunglasses and capes and driving with him to new places. It looks like making the distinctive shift from freely sharing to carefully guarding my precious heart. It looks like sipping Water Avenue coffee in my pajamas while perusing Pinterest and setting new personal goals for my life. (Such as: get a French Bulldog, marry a man with an impressive bearding ability, convince that man to build me my very own tree-house. For those of you wondering, I am 1/3 of the way there. Or I will be as soon as Moseby comes home next weekend.)
It looks like letting go completely of the past two years and all their overwhelming significance on my life. Yes, the past two years have changed me completely- I have come a strangely full 360 degrees since I left for Ecola two years ago. Those years were beautiful, and life-changing, and they swelled and surged as powerfully as the stormy ocean they were set by.... But they're over. They're over, just like the month of October is finally over, and I cannot cling to them as my buoy anymore.
I must stand on my own two feet from now on. My eyes cannot be turned over my shoulder, yearning for that one summer filled with those heartbreaking people anymore. My eyes are upward, forward. "My chains fell off, my heart is free- I rose, went forth and followed thee. "
It's freeing, and sharp, and scary, and sometimes I feel throttled by fear, but I know it is right. It is good. I am trusting the Lord, and that is all-consuming, as it should be.
Today I am thankful for the first day of a new month.
I am thankful for the emotional roller coaster this year has been.
I am thankful for hymns.
I am thankful for the word "yirgacheffe" even though I have no idea what it means.
I am thankful for this space and the words I choose to fill it with, words you are so loving and caring to receive.
Happy November, lovers.
The first day of a new month is always minty-fresh, isn't it?
Winter is coming, and I'm excited for the stark newness it always seems to bring with it. The past three months have been rough, to say the least. I can't help but remember late last year, when I forecasted 2013's theme as being one of "Solitude."
Over the past few months, I've felt the reality of that word in a maddening sense. Solitude wasn't intended to mean isolation, but rarely do predicted emotions work out the way you intend them too. "So it goes, so it goes. "
October is over. It is done, it won't come around for another 12 months. With it, I also say goodbye to the crisp tear-stained nights spent hugging my pillowcase in quiet moments of frustration, and I say goodbye to the crinkly sounds of Nat King Cole teasing my tired heart to sleep only to wake suddenly a few hours later in the deadest hours of night, worrying about things I cannot control.
Goodbye, tiny hurts. November marks the beginning of a new season in which I plan to practice thankfulness and exaggerated amounts of prayer.
"Just a closer walk with thee, granted Jesus is my plea. Daily walking close to thee, let it be, dear Lord, let it be."
Life is spurring us all onward, lovers.
For me, this looks like new papers to write and new classes to enroll in and Christmas holidays to be spent in warm places. It looks like falling in love with my new puppy, Moseby. (Photographs to come soon after his arrival into my arms next weekend.) It looks like a few excruciatingly difficult conversations which God is prepping me daily for, despite my fears and hesitations on the changes those conversations might bring. It looks like unforeseen, exciting expansion at work, it looks like saying goodbye to life as I've known it over the past two years, and holding my own hands as I toddle carefully into the future. ( I can't hold your hand anymore, dearest, to keep me strong. I have to hold my own now. I am sorry. )
It looks like singing hymns in the shower. It looks like laughing again, really laughing. It looks like new journeys, previously known as adventures. It looks like dressing up my puppy in sunglasses and capes and driving with him to new places. It looks like making the distinctive shift from freely sharing to carefully guarding my precious heart. It looks like sipping Water Avenue coffee in my pajamas while perusing Pinterest and setting new personal goals for my life. (Such as: get a French Bulldog, marry a man with an impressive bearding ability, convince that man to build me my very own tree-house. For those of you wondering, I am 1/3 of the way there. Or I will be as soon as Moseby comes home next weekend.)
It looks like letting go completely of the past two years and all their overwhelming significance on my life. Yes, the past two years have changed me completely- I have come a strangely full 360 degrees since I left for Ecola two years ago. Those years were beautiful, and life-changing, and they swelled and surged as powerfully as the stormy ocean they were set by.... But they're over. They're over, just like the month of October is finally over, and I cannot cling to them as my buoy anymore.
I must stand on my own two feet from now on. My eyes cannot be turned over my shoulder, yearning for that one summer filled with those heartbreaking people anymore. My eyes are upward, forward. "My chains fell off, my heart is free- I rose, went forth and followed thee. "
It's freeing, and sharp, and scary, and sometimes I feel throttled by fear, but I know it is right. It is good. I am trusting the Lord, and that is all-consuming, as it should be.
Today I am thankful for the first day of a new month.
I am thankful for the emotional roller coaster this year has been.
I am thankful for hymns.
I am thankful for the word "yirgacheffe" even though I have no idea what it means.
I am thankful for this space and the words I choose to fill it with, words you are so loving and caring to receive.
Happy November, lovers.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
An Adventure, Indeed.
Chapters end. Pages, warped and water-stained and dog-eared and smudged with chocolate crumbs, well-loved and well-remembered, fall shut. Books close.
You sit there, and you feel.
What do you feel? So much.
Car doors slam shut on countless belongings. The trunk is lowered. Hands slap together to brush off the imaginary road-dust as if you're trying to shake the memorial residue off your body as well.
New town. New faces. New memories unmade.
Forget this town. Forget what it means... But you can't. You won't. You couldn't, even if you damn well tried.
Adventures come so often in our lives, that we fail to even see them as adventures. Setting out on your daily drive to work, that's an adventure. Who knows what you'll see on your way, or who you'll meet by the end of the day, or what tragic or magical blessings will befall you?
When the dishwasher stops working: adventure.
When the sun comes out after a long period of rain and calls you outside: adventure.
When the McDonald's you're currently stuck in the drive-thru of is only serving breakfast and you just want lunch: adventure. Although, mildly regrettable, I will allow.
When the people you love start leaving, one-by-one, to far-away places and you don't know when you'll see them again next: adventure, although, it will knock you off your feet, at the least.
When you mop the floors: adventure.
When you go cosmic bowling with your best friends: Super adventure.
When you move somewhere no-one knows your name, and the temperature is roughly 1,000 degrees hotter than you're comfortable with: adventure. I promise.
When someone you love says they're pretty sure you should stick together, forever and for always: adventure.
"When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when you're feeling sad...." : Favorite-Things-Adventure.
So go on, lovers.
Live through all the little adventures that come your way.
Life is changing a lot for a lot of us right now. 2013 has been a journey, to say the least.
It has been long and short. High and low, so low. A lot of it has been really soft- and in its softness, there has been an incredible amount of sorrow. Hearts are aching all around me, and sickness, brokenness, gaping, awkward rifts have been sown aplenty. Lord, where do we go from here?
When you go through a myriad of goodbyes that take place in a few, short months- the last goodbye always feels the hardest.
I think it feels the hardest because it's the one you've been leaning on the most- because it was the farthest away for the longest stretch of time.
"Well I don't have to say goodbye yet. I still have so much more time."
But now it's come. It's gone. The imaginary road dust has settled. They're off- they're gone, they're on the start of a brand new adventure. Off to the races, as they say.
You're left. You're the last one left.
You look around wearily at the city-world around you. Knowing with the heaviest of hearts that you're not going anywhere with any of them any time soon, because your place is where you are. Even though your heart is thousands of miles away, split into several distant, faraway places.
I close my eyes and I remember a place of warmth, and laughter. A kitchen, full of soap suds and impossible-to-keep-clean-floors. A few candles in the dark-lit living room, due to the excess of busted lighting throughout the house. Guitar strumming from the corner of your kitchen counter- a body brushed against a light switch which keeps accidentally getting turned off. Another body sleeping soundly on a sofa much too small for his long legs. A best friend-love on her way home from work, ready to sit with a bag of baby carrots in her lap on the floor, reliving story after story about her day. A few more close friend-loves on their way from various locations to group together for a night of warm Bible study and long conversation. A pair of eggs in one pan, for the light-switch love who adds extreme amounts of sugar to his marinara, and a few slices of chicken in another pan, for the sleeping love who can't eat eggs.
My heart swells and falls. Last summer was the most happy, most content, and most fulfilled I have ever felt in my life. Right there, in that cruddy kitchen, in the middle of that creaky, smelly old house. Cooking dinner for the blessed few people who have come to mean the most to me in my life.
All of those beloved souls are now flyaway souls, all in far corners of this continent. Away from my kitchen. Away from my eggs. Away from my arms.
And I remain. In my grey city of Portland.
It's overwhelmingly sad to me, at times, thinking of how we all used to live within moments and seconds of each other, these faces that I saw every single day for the guts of a year. Every single day.
One night, one of those same loves said to me, "This summer, I'm not even going to tell you goodnight, see you soon. I'm going to say see you tomorrow- because I just know that I'm going to see you every single day, no matter what. We're all going to be together. All summer long."
And he did. Every hug. "See you tomorrow." Plans, or not.
And we all were together. Always.
And the reason it's sad is because I don't see their faces every day anymore- in fact, I've seen one face only 3 times in the past year.
From every single day, to 3 times in one year.
But there's beauty in sadness, lovers. There always has been and there always will be.
Every one of those hearts holds one of the biggest parts of my own heart deeply in theirs, whether they're conscious of it or not. Those hearts have become a bigger part of me than I am, and for that I'm more than thankful.
I'll always have them- whether they are far or near, and in these adventures they've all been called to, I remain in Portland, miles away and possibly years apart from them, cheering and hooting and rooster-crowing in the rain, excited for them and proud of them and ready to support them in any way I can offer.
Content to remain in the dutiful prayers of someday, hopefully, being able to seat them all around my table again. Laughing and eating and holding each other tightly to the one Rock we all have as our Anchor.
What God has brought together, lovers, is a patchwork-quilted family. A miserably happy band of miscreants and jesters, fighters and flighters, scaredy-cats and adventure hogs, ride or diers, live and let livers, "all you need is love,"-ers.
And I would be crazy to go anywhere that I could not take them with me. But you know what I just realized? They feel the same as I do and I know, because they show me constantly. I realize then, that even though they've all left and I don't know when we'll all be together again, they're taking me with them- just like I'm keeping them all here.
Which, I feel is a line from a really cheesy movie- but I can't remember which. Wait. No. That's definitely the ending to Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. Awkward.
Oh, this life, lovers. What a crazy beautiful adventure, indeed.
Xx,
My loves,
My doves,
My eggs.
You sit there, and you feel.
What do you feel? So much.
Car doors slam shut on countless belongings. The trunk is lowered. Hands slap together to brush off the imaginary road-dust as if you're trying to shake the memorial residue off your body as well.
New town. New faces. New memories unmade.
Forget this town. Forget what it means... But you can't. You won't. You couldn't, even if you damn well tried.
Adventures come so often in our lives, that we fail to even see them as adventures. Setting out on your daily drive to work, that's an adventure. Who knows what you'll see on your way, or who you'll meet by the end of the day, or what tragic or magical blessings will befall you?
When the dishwasher stops working: adventure.
When the sun comes out after a long period of rain and calls you outside: adventure.
When the McDonald's you're currently stuck in the drive-thru of is only serving breakfast and you just want lunch: adventure. Although, mildly regrettable, I will allow.
When the people you love start leaving, one-by-one, to far-away places and you don't know when you'll see them again next: adventure, although, it will knock you off your feet, at the least.
When you mop the floors: adventure.
When you go cosmic bowling with your best friends: Super adventure.
When you move somewhere no-one knows your name, and the temperature is roughly 1,000 degrees hotter than you're comfortable with: adventure. I promise.
When someone you love says they're pretty sure you should stick together, forever and for always: adventure.
"When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when you're feeling sad...." : Favorite-Things-Adventure.
So go on, lovers.
Live through all the little adventures that come your way.
Life is changing a lot for a lot of us right now. 2013 has been a journey, to say the least.
It has been long and short. High and low, so low. A lot of it has been really soft- and in its softness, there has been an incredible amount of sorrow. Hearts are aching all around me, and sickness, brokenness, gaping, awkward rifts have been sown aplenty. Lord, where do we go from here?
When you go through a myriad of goodbyes that take place in a few, short months- the last goodbye always feels the hardest.
I think it feels the hardest because it's the one you've been leaning on the most- because it was the farthest away for the longest stretch of time.
"Well I don't have to say goodbye yet. I still have so much more time."
But now it's come. It's gone. The imaginary road dust has settled. They're off- they're gone, they're on the start of a brand new adventure. Off to the races, as they say.
You're left. You're the last one left.
You look around wearily at the city-world around you. Knowing with the heaviest of hearts that you're not going anywhere with any of them any time soon, because your place is where you are. Even though your heart is thousands of miles away, split into several distant, faraway places.
I close my eyes and I remember a place of warmth, and laughter. A kitchen, full of soap suds and impossible-to-keep-clean-floors. A few candles in the dark-lit living room, due to the excess of busted lighting throughout the house. Guitar strumming from the corner of your kitchen counter- a body brushed against a light switch which keeps accidentally getting turned off. Another body sleeping soundly on a sofa much too small for his long legs. A best friend-love on her way home from work, ready to sit with a bag of baby carrots in her lap on the floor, reliving story after story about her day. A few more close friend-loves on their way from various locations to group together for a night of warm Bible study and long conversation. A pair of eggs in one pan, for the light-switch love who adds extreme amounts of sugar to his marinara, and a few slices of chicken in another pan, for the sleeping love who can't eat eggs.
My heart swells and falls. Last summer was the most happy, most content, and most fulfilled I have ever felt in my life. Right there, in that cruddy kitchen, in the middle of that creaky, smelly old house. Cooking dinner for the blessed few people who have come to mean the most to me in my life.
All of those beloved souls are now flyaway souls, all in far corners of this continent. Away from my kitchen. Away from my eggs. Away from my arms.
And I remain. In my grey city of Portland.
It's overwhelmingly sad to me, at times, thinking of how we all used to live within moments and seconds of each other, these faces that I saw every single day for the guts of a year. Every single day.
One night, one of those same loves said to me, "This summer, I'm not even going to tell you goodnight, see you soon. I'm going to say see you tomorrow- because I just know that I'm going to see you every single day, no matter what. We're all going to be together. All summer long."
And he did. Every hug. "See you tomorrow." Plans, or not.
And we all were together. Always.
And the reason it's sad is because I don't see their faces every day anymore- in fact, I've seen one face only 3 times in the past year.
From every single day, to 3 times in one year.
But there's beauty in sadness, lovers. There always has been and there always will be.
Every one of those hearts holds one of the biggest parts of my own heart deeply in theirs, whether they're conscious of it or not. Those hearts have become a bigger part of me than I am, and for that I'm more than thankful.
I'll always have them- whether they are far or near, and in these adventures they've all been called to, I remain in Portland, miles away and possibly years apart from them, cheering and hooting and rooster-crowing in the rain, excited for them and proud of them and ready to support them in any way I can offer.
Content to remain in the dutiful prayers of someday, hopefully, being able to seat them all around my table again. Laughing and eating and holding each other tightly to the one Rock we all have as our Anchor.
What God has brought together, lovers, is a patchwork-quilted family. A miserably happy band of miscreants and jesters, fighters and flighters, scaredy-cats and adventure hogs, ride or diers, live and let livers, "all you need is love,"-ers.
And I would be crazy to go anywhere that I could not take them with me. But you know what I just realized? They feel the same as I do and I know, because they show me constantly. I realize then, that even though they've all left and I don't know when we'll all be together again, they're taking me with them- just like I'm keeping them all here.
Which, I feel is a line from a really cheesy movie- but I can't remember which. Wait. No. That's definitely the ending to Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. Awkward.
Oh, this life, lovers. What a crazy beautiful adventure, indeed.
Xx,
My loves,
My doves,
My eggs.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Annabelle.
Today is my grandmother's birthday.
I miss you, Grandma Annie.
Sometimes I still sneak over to your old hutch, in the corner of our entryway. I open up the cupboard doors, and take a gentle, deep inhale. Mom has lovingly left your favorite potpourri crouched in the corner of the cupboard for the past nineteen years.
It still smells just like you. When I close my eyes and breathe it in, I can just faintly see the corners of your stunning smile in my mind.
Your birthday, this 28th of August, is perched ever-so-faintly on the edge of Summer, in the outstretched arms of Fall.
When I think of my memories of you, they look like Autumn and fog. I feel your warmth when the pumpkin spiced candles are lit, and the smell of rain lingers on the still-heavy Summer air outside.
Some days I get frustrated, because I was so young when you died. I don't really have many memories to hold tightly to in these moments of overwhelming sentimentality.
I remember the cookies you used to make me and Kailey and Kelsey. I remember taking naps on your couch. I watched Dumbo on your tiny, old-fashioned television.
I remember the red coloring book and the basket of crayons in the cabinet under the TV.
I remember sitting on the floor of your empty apartment after you died.
I would go there for years after. Mom would free me from my schoolwork, and I would rush to play outside. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I would walk over to the little house you lived in, attached to our garage. I would open the creaky door. Inside, mostly empty. A few items remained in the cupboards in your kitchen. A table here, sometimes a leftover couch there, from when mom was re-decorating and re-arranging our own living room.
I'd sit there, on the floor, and soak up the scent and the heaviness. Even when I was just a little child.
One time I found a spider in your bathtub, and I was so angry that another living thing dared to invade your home and call it theirs. I ran the water, watching it drown with a solemnity only a child can pervade.
Do you remember how when I was a tiny child, I would gather flowers for you and toddle over to your house on extremely shaky legs and reach out my grubby, chubby little hands full of weeds and dandelions for you?
You always took them. You always put them in a vase. You always kissed me.
You were so sick. Your body racked with so much pain. So much cancerous poison.
You loved us all so much.
The only picture with you that I have is one of you cradling me in your weak arms when I was a very little baby.
Happy Birthday, Grandma.
If you were still alive today, things would be so different.
Sometimes I wonder how your heart would beat, if you were alive to see your family now.
There are so many different directions all of our lives have taken, just like any normal family experiences.
In some ways, I wonder if it's better that you're not around. Selfishly, I desperately wish that you were.
It swells and expands with the most intensity around holidays, and on your birthday- and I just wish you were still here so we could honor you in person. I wish that I was climbing into my car now, headed home from my workday, excited to sit at a full table, all of our family gathered around with candles lit and dinner simmering on the stove. I can see you sitting next to my mother, laughing with such mirth at something my father said, reaching out to grab the hand of my Aunt Missy- arms and eyes always outstretched for my Aunt Lynn, waiting in anticipation for the impending arrival of your only son.
My sisters and my cousins smile in the light of your warmth, your glow, your angelic atmosphere. As we each make our way to your side, for a hug. For a kiss. For a forehead-to-forehead blessing. A reminder of the love Jesus has for us, and the sacrifice He's made for us, alive in the love and sacrifices that you made daily in your time here on earth.
Those individuals who are fully grown and still have grandparents around that are deeply involved in their lives don't understand how truly lucky they are.
I know it's selfish to wish for your presence again on this uncertain earth, when you are so at home and at such final peace in the arms of our Savior in Heaven. I'm sorry I wish for it constantly.
Just know that, while they may not celebrate birthdays in Heaven anymore, we're still celebrating your birthday at home today. We miss you. We love you.
Thank you for watching over our family.
Thank you for the constant struggle and sacrifice which was the short, unfair span of your life.
You never complained. Never faltered. You shot praise up to our Lord and King at the beginning and end of every day. You created a legacy lasting long and healthy in our family. You have 4 grand-daughter namesakes, and 2 great-granddaughter namesakes as yet, and more will come, I promise.
Thank you for teaching our mothers how to set beautiful tables, and for teaching our mothers how to cook such warm, nourishing meals. Thank you for loving our fathers into the family as your own sons. Thank you for teaching our parents about sacrifice.
They've taught your lessons to us, in turn, and someday, when the rest of us have our own chance, those lessons will trickle down into our own homes and families as well.
I know that you're alive up there, and healthy. Young, and beautiful. You have all of the expanse of eternity to make breathtaking bouquets with all of the wildflowers in Heaven, and I know that brings your soul so much joy. Just know that you have given all of us that much joy, too, by allowing us to be born and created into your family.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
I'm always missing you.
Happy Birthday.
I miss you, Grandma Annie.
Sometimes I still sneak over to your old hutch, in the corner of our entryway. I open up the cupboard doors, and take a gentle, deep inhale. Mom has lovingly left your favorite potpourri crouched in the corner of the cupboard for the past nineteen years.
It still smells just like you. When I close my eyes and breathe it in, I can just faintly see the corners of your stunning smile in my mind.
Your birthday, this 28th of August, is perched ever-so-faintly on the edge of Summer, in the outstretched arms of Fall.
When I think of my memories of you, they look like Autumn and fog. I feel your warmth when the pumpkin spiced candles are lit, and the smell of rain lingers on the still-heavy Summer air outside.
Some days I get frustrated, because I was so young when you died. I don't really have many memories to hold tightly to in these moments of overwhelming sentimentality.
I remember the cookies you used to make me and Kailey and Kelsey. I remember taking naps on your couch. I watched Dumbo on your tiny, old-fashioned television.
I remember the red coloring book and the basket of crayons in the cabinet under the TV.
I remember sitting on the floor of your empty apartment after you died.
I would go there for years after. Mom would free me from my schoolwork, and I would rush to play outside. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I would walk over to the little house you lived in, attached to our garage. I would open the creaky door. Inside, mostly empty. A few items remained in the cupboards in your kitchen. A table here, sometimes a leftover couch there, from when mom was re-decorating and re-arranging our own living room.
I'd sit there, on the floor, and soak up the scent and the heaviness. Even when I was just a little child.
One time I found a spider in your bathtub, and I was so angry that another living thing dared to invade your home and call it theirs. I ran the water, watching it drown with a solemnity only a child can pervade.
Do you remember how when I was a tiny child, I would gather flowers for you and toddle over to your house on extremely shaky legs and reach out my grubby, chubby little hands full of weeds and dandelions for you?
You always took them. You always put them in a vase. You always kissed me.
You were so sick. Your body racked with so much pain. So much cancerous poison.
You loved us all so much.
The only picture with you that I have is one of you cradling me in your weak arms when I was a very little baby.
Happy Birthday, Grandma.
If you were still alive today, things would be so different.
Sometimes I wonder how your heart would beat, if you were alive to see your family now.
There are so many different directions all of our lives have taken, just like any normal family experiences.
In some ways, I wonder if it's better that you're not around. Selfishly, I desperately wish that you were.
It swells and expands with the most intensity around holidays, and on your birthday- and I just wish you were still here so we could honor you in person. I wish that I was climbing into my car now, headed home from my workday, excited to sit at a full table, all of our family gathered around with candles lit and dinner simmering on the stove. I can see you sitting next to my mother, laughing with such mirth at something my father said, reaching out to grab the hand of my Aunt Missy- arms and eyes always outstretched for my Aunt Lynn, waiting in anticipation for the impending arrival of your only son.
My sisters and my cousins smile in the light of your warmth, your glow, your angelic atmosphere. As we each make our way to your side, for a hug. For a kiss. For a forehead-to-forehead blessing. A reminder of the love Jesus has for us, and the sacrifice He's made for us, alive in the love and sacrifices that you made daily in your time here on earth.
Those individuals who are fully grown and still have grandparents around that are deeply involved in their lives don't understand how truly lucky they are.
I know it's selfish to wish for your presence again on this uncertain earth, when you are so at home and at such final peace in the arms of our Savior in Heaven. I'm sorry I wish for it constantly.
Just know that, while they may not celebrate birthdays in Heaven anymore, we're still celebrating your birthday at home today. We miss you. We love you.
Thank you for watching over our family.
Thank you for the constant struggle and sacrifice which was the short, unfair span of your life.
You never complained. Never faltered. You shot praise up to our Lord and King at the beginning and end of every day. You created a legacy lasting long and healthy in our family. You have 4 grand-daughter namesakes, and 2 great-granddaughter namesakes as yet, and more will come, I promise.
Thank you for teaching our mothers how to set beautiful tables, and for teaching our mothers how to cook such warm, nourishing meals. Thank you for loving our fathers into the family as your own sons. Thank you for teaching our parents about sacrifice.
They've taught your lessons to us, in turn, and someday, when the rest of us have our own chance, those lessons will trickle down into our own homes and families as well.
I know that you're alive up there, and healthy. Young, and beautiful. You have all of the expanse of eternity to make breathtaking bouquets with all of the wildflowers in Heaven, and I know that brings your soul so much joy. Just know that you have given all of us that much joy, too, by allowing us to be born and created into your family.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
I'm always missing you.
Happy Birthday.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Hugs.
"There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors." - Tennessee Williams.
Sometimes you just miss someone.
It sort of takes over your whole body.
Your arms are sore. It's like they remember what it feels like to be wrapped around that person, and they ache because they're empty.
Your head feels heavy. There is no tight chest-space for it to be squeezed against in big, encompassing hugs. No trunk-like shoulder to rest it on in moments of quiet exhaustion.
Hugs are the most beautiful invention of physicality that human beings share.
Sometimes when you are a hopeless cuddler, you just need a hug to make the world a little less loud.
Rarely does that special hug come your way right when you need it.
Every now and then, it does. I can remember a few specific moments in my life where hugs have literally shown up in the exact moment I needed them to, and changed life as I knew it from that point forward.
More often than not, though, you end up pacing the floor of your room back and forth, staring at old pictures and pulling at the sore muscles in your neck, wishing for a pair of hands to work out the knots that you work tirelessly to re-create time and time again, without meaning to.
You rub your eyes. You refuse to sleep.
There's books on your bedside table- you're tired of reading someone else's words.
Sometimes I take a look at my own life and I realize how hopeless I am. I complain all of the time. I wish for things I don't have. I waste so much effort and breath talking about how hard my own life is- and how tired my own body feels, and how restless my own mind gets at night.
How can I ever expect to love and serve someone else before myself?
I am so overwhelmingly selfish.
I complain constantly.
Contentment is a constant struggle.
How did I end up like this?
Why is it so hard to be comfortable and content with your own life?
Why is greed such an all-consuming temptation?
All of these questions just make me hug my pillow tighter, wishing for one of those hugs with all of my might- until I start to pray out my wishes, fears, temptations and lost battles.
Sometimes I talk to you through my prayers. Sometimes I talk to my grandmother. Sometimes I just lay here, asking God a million-and-one questions, all-the-while apologizing repeatedly for being so discontent with not knowing any of the answers.
I know several people in my life who would tell me this is a control problem that I have.
I know that they are all right.
Where do control problems come from? Where do they go?
How can I stop my head from spinning around and around like a merry-go-round?
I just want to get out of the psycho circus for awhile. So I lay my head down on my pillow and I let my tired eyes drift off into a white sort of slumber.
Tomorrow brings new possibilities of joy. Tonight I dream of my favorite embraces.
"God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts." -Sylvia Plath.
Sometimes you just miss someone.
It sort of takes over your whole body.
Your arms are sore. It's like they remember what it feels like to be wrapped around that person, and they ache because they're empty.
Your head feels heavy. There is no tight chest-space for it to be squeezed against in big, encompassing hugs. No trunk-like shoulder to rest it on in moments of quiet exhaustion.
Hugs are the most beautiful invention of physicality that human beings share.
Sometimes when you are a hopeless cuddler, you just need a hug to make the world a little less loud.
Rarely does that special hug come your way right when you need it.
Every now and then, it does. I can remember a few specific moments in my life where hugs have literally shown up in the exact moment I needed them to, and changed life as I knew it from that point forward.
More often than not, though, you end up pacing the floor of your room back and forth, staring at old pictures and pulling at the sore muscles in your neck, wishing for a pair of hands to work out the knots that you work tirelessly to re-create time and time again, without meaning to.
You rub your eyes. You refuse to sleep.
There's books on your bedside table- you're tired of reading someone else's words.
Sometimes I take a look at my own life and I realize how hopeless I am. I complain all of the time. I wish for things I don't have. I waste so much effort and breath talking about how hard my own life is- and how tired my own body feels, and how restless my own mind gets at night.
How can I ever expect to love and serve someone else before myself?
I am so overwhelmingly selfish.
I complain constantly.
Contentment is a constant struggle.
How did I end up like this?
Why is it so hard to be comfortable and content with your own life?
Why is greed such an all-consuming temptation?
All of these questions just make me hug my pillow tighter, wishing for one of those hugs with all of my might- until I start to pray out my wishes, fears, temptations and lost battles.
Sometimes I talk to you through my prayers. Sometimes I talk to my grandmother. Sometimes I just lay here, asking God a million-and-one questions, all-the-while apologizing repeatedly for being so discontent with not knowing any of the answers.
I know several people in my life who would tell me this is a control problem that I have.
I know that they are all right.
Where do control problems come from? Where do they go?
How can I stop my head from spinning around and around like a merry-go-round?
I just want to get out of the psycho circus for awhile. So I lay my head down on my pillow and I let my tired eyes drift off into a white sort of slumber.
Tomorrow brings new possibilities of joy. Tonight I dream of my favorite embraces.
"God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts." -Sylvia Plath.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Finished Business
Music is powerful, yeah?
I tend to be most impacted by music and people. Whenever I meet especially life-altering people, I have a tendency to immortalize them forever in my conscious and in my heart by creating mixed tapes or playlists that breathe their lives into music form.
I have a ridiculous history of doing this with past loves.
It's a very intimate experience, I think, creating a mix for someone who means a lot to you. The intimacy which goes into hand-picking a selection of songs tied to memories with this person, or tied inexplicably to this person's character, is very powerful. I feel that it creates a lot of vulnerability.
Somehow, with all of these mixes that I've made over the years for a myriad of different reasons, I found that I've been able to capture the essence of these humans strikingly well, in my opinion.
It's similar to treating people like movies. If this person was a movie, what would the soundtrack to their life be, if I was the one directing their movie?
Even though the circumstances surrounding your relationship with and to each other may change dramatically, and even though the pedestals you placed them ever-so-carefully upon may crumble for whatever reason, these people are still alive to you exactly as they were in the moment you made that playlist, every single time you listen.
That is magical.
That is powerful.
Sometimes, that can be dangerous as well as painful.
I experienced some of that spark and burn this morning on my way to work. Sometimes when this happens, you just have to write a letter. Sometimes that letter can feel like closure- and at other times, that letter can just simply say "I'm sorry."
This is my letter today. no background on the where or the why- I'm choosing to share this personal letter publicly, and therefore I don't feel the need to explain myself.
Your understanding is deeply appreciated.
I still run to you in my dreams.
I still run to you even when I'm not dreaming.
Despite the large amount of days that have passed since those moments we shared, I still remember how everything felt like magic with you.
With the numerous days, a tidal wave of change has brought closure to what happened, and new feelings for something and someone else, along with a newfound respect and appreciation for what took place between us, and the way it's been finished, completed- neatly folded into a box and delicately placed somewhere in the attic of our souls. It's over. No hard feelings. No more push and pull.
Even still, sometimes.... Sometimes, I escape to the quiet solitude of my car, and I hit the "play" button on a playlist of songs that represent so many experiences you and I shared. I sink below the surface, lost in the ocean of my memories with you, and I find myself wishing somehow that you and I... Whatever we were, whatever we had.... I wish it still had a pulse.
But that's wrong. And I know it's wrong. And I'm sorry.
I've been a little fragile lately- if I may take the time to explain myself.
Full of emotion at the revelation of deep, unforeseen feeling towards something else, something beautiful and good.... Something much, much better than you and I.
And also, I am full of shame.
Because you are a human being. I am a human being. And I cannot keep trying to control the way I feel toward you. I definitely cannot keep trying to control the way you feel toward me. I'm sorry that I ever thought I could try.
Not to mention I know full well that it is certainly and finally over. Which, if I can be totally honest, is a good thing. It wasn't healthy. It may have been organic, but it wasn't actually healthy. We learned. We grew. God knows we shouted- I shouted.
And then we tore. We ripped. It came down in glittering shambles around us- and that was it.
But the vulnerability was real, and it was raw, and I cannot thank you enough for that.
You have no earthly idea what that meant to me- how it changed me.
How I'm still recovering and adapting.
How this heart has been disfiguring and untangling itself from you, and how even though sometimes the reality of you and I never moving forward still makes me catch my breath and falter ever-so-slightly, I wake up each day thankful for the fact that we never will move forward.
I wake up thankful for the whole experience.
Thankful for your respect, though I'm not sure I deserve it.
Thankful for the faith you've always had in me.
Thankful for the openness of mind and heart you've always gifted to me.
Thankful for your sympathy, your sliding, your hugs, your hand and how it rested on my knee in a quiet moment of encouragement, your godforsaken pride and your damnable, unforgettable confidence.
Also, the walls you let down around me. I feel so honored by that.
Above all, I'm thankful for your silence, because that was the most gentle method for leading me into the truth that you could have ever used- even though I hated it at the time.
So maybe I'll start returning the respect and the faith.
Maybe I'll stop listening to those songs for awhile.
I used to think, many months ago, that you and I would always be unfinished business.
That's not true. The books have been settled, the transactions complete- the business is finished.
Thank God for that, right?
If I could leave a few words to you to guide you forward as lights along the way, I would leave these words, because they represent exactly what it is you taught to me- and I'd like to think I did somewhat of the same for you.
I'm not saying that we were soul mates- mostly because I can't honestly say that without bursting out into a loud, clap of laughter. Let's get real, here. But these words about soul mates smack me in the face everytime I read them, because I just picture your face... And I'm thankful for that, too.
"People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a true soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mate's purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in... and make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life."
-Elizabeth Gilbert
Thanks for filling that role for awhile, whatever the title is.
See you around sometime, maybe.
I tend to be most impacted by music and people. Whenever I meet especially life-altering people, I have a tendency to immortalize them forever in my conscious and in my heart by creating mixed tapes or playlists that breathe their lives into music form.
I have a ridiculous history of doing this with past loves.
It's a very intimate experience, I think, creating a mix for someone who means a lot to you. The intimacy which goes into hand-picking a selection of songs tied to memories with this person, or tied inexplicably to this person's character, is very powerful. I feel that it creates a lot of vulnerability.
Somehow, with all of these mixes that I've made over the years for a myriad of different reasons, I found that I've been able to capture the essence of these humans strikingly well, in my opinion.
It's similar to treating people like movies. If this person was a movie, what would the soundtrack to their life be, if I was the one directing their movie?
Even though the circumstances surrounding your relationship with and to each other may change dramatically, and even though the pedestals you placed them ever-so-carefully upon may crumble for whatever reason, these people are still alive to you exactly as they were in the moment you made that playlist, every single time you listen.
That is magical.
That is powerful.
Sometimes, that can be dangerous as well as painful.
I experienced some of that spark and burn this morning on my way to work. Sometimes when this happens, you just have to write a letter. Sometimes that letter can feel like closure- and at other times, that letter can just simply say "I'm sorry."
This is my letter today. no background on the where or the why- I'm choosing to share this personal letter publicly, and therefore I don't feel the need to explain myself.
Your understanding is deeply appreciated.
I still run to you in my dreams.
I still run to you even when I'm not dreaming.
Despite the large amount of days that have passed since those moments we shared, I still remember how everything felt like magic with you.
With the numerous days, a tidal wave of change has brought closure to what happened, and new feelings for something and someone else, along with a newfound respect and appreciation for what took place between us, and the way it's been finished, completed- neatly folded into a box and delicately placed somewhere in the attic of our souls. It's over. No hard feelings. No more push and pull.
Even still, sometimes.... Sometimes, I escape to the quiet solitude of my car, and I hit the "play" button on a playlist of songs that represent so many experiences you and I shared. I sink below the surface, lost in the ocean of my memories with you, and I find myself wishing somehow that you and I... Whatever we were, whatever we had.... I wish it still had a pulse.
But that's wrong. And I know it's wrong. And I'm sorry.
I've been a little fragile lately- if I may take the time to explain myself.
Full of emotion at the revelation of deep, unforeseen feeling towards something else, something beautiful and good.... Something much, much better than you and I.
And also, I am full of shame.
Because you are a human being. I am a human being. And I cannot keep trying to control the way I feel toward you. I definitely cannot keep trying to control the way you feel toward me. I'm sorry that I ever thought I could try.
Not to mention I know full well that it is certainly and finally over. Which, if I can be totally honest, is a good thing. It wasn't healthy. It may have been organic, but it wasn't actually healthy. We learned. We grew. God knows we shouted- I shouted.
And then we tore. We ripped. It came down in glittering shambles around us- and that was it.
But the vulnerability was real, and it was raw, and I cannot thank you enough for that.
You have no earthly idea what that meant to me- how it changed me.
How I'm still recovering and adapting.
How this heart has been disfiguring and untangling itself from you, and how even though sometimes the reality of you and I never moving forward still makes me catch my breath and falter ever-so-slightly, I wake up each day thankful for the fact that we never will move forward.
I wake up thankful for the whole experience.
Thankful for your respect, though I'm not sure I deserve it.
Thankful for the faith you've always had in me.
Thankful for the openness of mind and heart you've always gifted to me.
Thankful for your sympathy, your sliding, your hugs, your hand and how it rested on my knee in a quiet moment of encouragement, your godforsaken pride and your damnable, unforgettable confidence.
Also, the walls you let down around me. I feel so honored by that.
Above all, I'm thankful for your silence, because that was the most gentle method for leading me into the truth that you could have ever used- even though I hated it at the time.
So maybe I'll start returning the respect and the faith.
Maybe I'll stop listening to those songs for awhile.
I used to think, many months ago, that you and I would always be unfinished business.
That's not true. The books have been settled, the transactions complete- the business is finished.
Thank God for that, right?
If I could leave a few words to you to guide you forward as lights along the way, I would leave these words, because they represent exactly what it is you taught to me- and I'd like to think I did somewhat of the same for you.
I'm not saying that we were soul mates- mostly because I can't honestly say that without bursting out into a loud, clap of laughter. Let's get real, here. But these words about soul mates smack me in the face everytime I read them, because I just picture your face... And I'm thankful for that, too.
"People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a true soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mate's purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in... and make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life."
-Elizabeth Gilbert
Thanks for filling that role for awhile, whatever the title is.
See you around sometime, maybe.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Breath.
Sometimes it just feels like you can't even breathe.
Sometimes you find yourself sitting in your underwear on your bed, and you've pushed all the covers off.
The fan is blowing cool air toward you and your legs have goosebumps but you're too stubborn to get up and pull the blankets back on top of the mattress.
So you just lay there. Arms folded underneath your head, legs tucked as close to the center of your body as possible. You stare at the grey-blue wall. And even though your chest is rising and falling with the miracle of breath, and with every inhale and exhale your heart beats steadily onward- all you can think to your quiet, fragile self is, "I can't even breathe."
Home alone this week.
I'm finding out I'm much worse at being alone than I thought I was. I don't like being in this large, empty house by myself. All my childhood and early pre-adolescent daydreams of "FINALLY BEING ALONE" have died.
I don't look forward to the opportunity to have the house to myself. I wish I could fill it right now with the laughter of the people I love. I wish I could curl up next to _____ and fall asleep safe.
It's 10:19pm and I'm exhausted. I wanted to be asleep by now. I was almost asleep when I was downstairs on the couch, watching the latter half of Freedom Writers on TV, after spending a good amount of time cleaning the kitchen, watering the plants, and taking the garbage out. (Who says the Little Woman can't take care of herself?)
I thought to myself, "Sweet peaches, it's only 9:30. If I go to bed now, I can sleep for almost 9 hours before I have to wake up!"
As soon as I laid down in my big, empty white bed, I knew I had to write.
I went back and forth. "Sleep. Sleep is more important. You can write tomorrow."
"I've been in a funk for days. If I don't write, sleep won't matter. I'll still be forlorn tomorrow."
"Why don't you let tomorrow handle tomorrow and just go to bed?"
"I can't. I owe it to the art. I have to write. I have to."
So of course I turned over and pulled my laptop into my lap and now here I am.
Forlorn, quiet, alone and exhausted.
With that Royals song playing on repeat in my head, "We will never be royals, it don't run in our blood..."*
Sometimes it seems silly, but with all that's going on in the world, all I can really wrap my head around are the tiny, insignificant things.
The way I get really pensive when I'm tired.
The smell plants give off when hose water showers their petals and leaves.
The way Ryan Gosling looks in a vintage silk suit.
The word "shishigashira" to describe a Japanese maple tree.
The unfathomable depth and unpredictability of the wantonness of the human heart.
Why on earth Chuck Palahniuk thinks writing a sequel to Fight Club will be a good idea.
How it is that they make Frosty's look so damn good on Wendy's TV ads.
How much I would rather be camping than lying in my own bed right now.
How certain people in your life make it easier to breathe again, and how you wish you could just be sitting with them over coffee, or tucked inside their car, both sets of feet on the dashboard, or mindlessly perusing the shelves of the local bookstores, talking with them and being silent with them and sharing in multiple heartaches just by allowing yourself to be fragile with them, because they've allowed themselves to be fragile with you.
What are goosebumps?
Why and how and for what purpose it is that sometimes you can literally feel someone hugging you, even though they've been miles and miles away for a long time.
How many more days until I can see you again?
"We don't care, we're not caught up in your love affair."*
Sometimes I really hate how much better I am at writing than speaking my words in communication with other people.
10:44pm. My eyes are sore.
I think knowing I'm the only living thing in this house gives me insomnia.
Where's that mysterious memory-mind-hug phenomenon when you need it?
"It's all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near-escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know. A quarter pounder with cheese, those are good. The sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle... And I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights, and I ride my own melt." **
Where are my favorite pair of eyes?
10:56 PM.
*Royals- Lorde
** Reality Bites
Sometimes you find yourself sitting in your underwear on your bed, and you've pushed all the covers off.
The fan is blowing cool air toward you and your legs have goosebumps but you're too stubborn to get up and pull the blankets back on top of the mattress.
So you just lay there. Arms folded underneath your head, legs tucked as close to the center of your body as possible. You stare at the grey-blue wall. And even though your chest is rising and falling with the miracle of breath, and with every inhale and exhale your heart beats steadily onward- all you can think to your quiet, fragile self is, "I can't even breathe."
Home alone this week.
I'm finding out I'm much worse at being alone than I thought I was. I don't like being in this large, empty house by myself. All my childhood and early pre-adolescent daydreams of "FINALLY BEING ALONE" have died.
I don't look forward to the opportunity to have the house to myself. I wish I could fill it right now with the laughter of the people I love. I wish I could curl up next to _____ and fall asleep safe.
It's 10:19pm and I'm exhausted. I wanted to be asleep by now. I was almost asleep when I was downstairs on the couch, watching the latter half of Freedom Writers on TV, after spending a good amount of time cleaning the kitchen, watering the plants, and taking the garbage out. (Who says the Little Woman can't take care of herself?)
I thought to myself, "Sweet peaches, it's only 9:30. If I go to bed now, I can sleep for almost 9 hours before I have to wake up!"
As soon as I laid down in my big, empty white bed, I knew I had to write.
I went back and forth. "Sleep. Sleep is more important. You can write tomorrow."
"I've been in a funk for days. If I don't write, sleep won't matter. I'll still be forlorn tomorrow."
"Why don't you let tomorrow handle tomorrow and just go to bed?"
"I can't. I owe it to the art. I have to write. I have to."
So of course I turned over and pulled my laptop into my lap and now here I am.
Forlorn, quiet, alone and exhausted.
With that Royals song playing on repeat in my head, "We will never be royals, it don't run in our blood..."*
Sometimes it seems silly, but with all that's going on in the world, all I can really wrap my head around are the tiny, insignificant things.
The way I get really pensive when I'm tired.
The smell plants give off when hose water showers their petals and leaves.
The way Ryan Gosling looks in a vintage silk suit.
The word "shishigashira" to describe a Japanese maple tree.
The unfathomable depth and unpredictability of the wantonness of the human heart.
Why on earth Chuck Palahniuk thinks writing a sequel to Fight Club will be a good idea.
How it is that they make Frosty's look so damn good on Wendy's TV ads.
How much I would rather be camping than lying in my own bed right now.
How certain people in your life make it easier to breathe again, and how you wish you could just be sitting with them over coffee, or tucked inside their car, both sets of feet on the dashboard, or mindlessly perusing the shelves of the local bookstores, talking with them and being silent with them and sharing in multiple heartaches just by allowing yourself to be fragile with them, because they've allowed themselves to be fragile with you.
What are goosebumps?
Why and how and for what purpose it is that sometimes you can literally feel someone hugging you, even though they've been miles and miles away for a long time.
How many more days until I can see you again?
"We don't care, we're not caught up in your love affair."*
Sometimes I really hate how much better I am at writing than speaking my words in communication with other people.
10:44pm. My eyes are sore.
I think knowing I'm the only living thing in this house gives me insomnia.
Where's that mysterious memory-mind-hug phenomenon when you need it?
"It's all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near-escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know. A quarter pounder with cheese, those are good. The sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle... And I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights, and I ride my own melt." **
Where are my favorite pair of eyes?
10:56 PM.
*Royals- Lorde
** Reality Bites
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Big.
I just keep thinking about this line, in the new Superman movie. It keeps on replaying over and over and over in my head.
"The world's too big, mom."
That's what today feels like, lovers. The world feels too big. No amount of mountainous drives lined with evergreen trees and back-splashed with golden fields will make it any smaller.
I spent my day giving my time to other people- people who really needed my time much, much more than I did. This time looked like wrapping dishes and glasses in newspaper and putting them into boxes and placing the taped, marked boxes in neat piles by the door, waiting to be loaded onto a large U-Haul truck. This time looked like delivering food for those familial few who were there to help as we were. This time looked like smiling and hugging beautiful little children, whose lives and rooms were currently being shifted and rearranged and packed up into more neat and tidy boxed piles while they giggled and spun in many noisy, glittering directions.
This time looked like getting strikingly lost with Nat as we made an hour-long coffee-and-packing-tape run to Fred Meyers in the middle of the afternoon, in a small town at the base of a very large mountain which neither of us were any good at navigating. (That specific time involved a lot of exhausted-by-the-weight-of-life sighs and frustrated expletives, often followed by a short outburst of overwhelmed, hysterical laughter.) This time looked like sun-dusted crop-fields, very old farmhouses, and very windy roads. It looked quiet. My eyes swept over the wild countryside, and I silently wondered to myself how best to take care of my friend who's so busy with the important task of tending to her own priceless loved ones in a time of unforeseen need. For once, I didn't have any words.
Clark Kent is right. Sometimes the world is just too big.
On the hour-long drive home, I thought a lot about that line.
Do you know what I used to do whenever the world felt too big? I had a coping mechanism for days like these, once.
I used to park my car on a knoll right above the ocean, roll down all the windows and open my sunroof. I would lean forward in my seat, fold my arms in front of me and rest my chin on my steering wheel. Watching the pelicans and the surf scoters flying, diving, floating on the restless waves, and the harbor seals cresting with their faces on the surface of the water didn't make the world seem smaller and myself seem larger, though.
Sitting by the ocean is never going to make you feel big.
But it made the world seem less impending under the mighty force of the waves. I felt like whatever the world had to throw at me couldn't be matched by the vast power of the seas. It made the ocean feel bigger than the world, and that was comforting.
There is no ocean here, lovers.
There are mountains like the one I traveled today, and there are valleys like the one I currently dwell in.
There are rivers, like the one half-a-mile from my house- and there are fields, like the ones I drive past everyday on my way to work.
All of them are stunning in their own right. The heron's nest on the top of the telephone pole in the field a block past my backyard. The waning light cast onto the mountain by the setting sun turns it a purplish sort of pale pink. The scent of the surrounding hay fields on a balmy Summer night, while I ride my penny board down the streets of my neighborhood.
Though they are beautiful, they only make the world seem bigger. My eyes can't rest on one thing- -and they move from sight to sight at an increasingly rapid pace until the patterns of contrasting light and color make my head hurt. I feel puny. Insignificant, tiny, helpless, waif-like and weak.
I have no ocean here- and I began to grow anxious without the scent of the sea constantly on the air.
Softly, I whispered to myself this afternoon as I traveled homeward to my valley and my maple trees and my wide neighborhood streets, desperately toying with the idea of instead driving all the way to the beach for the 3rd weekend in a row, just to get my fix- just to feel healed one more time- Hannah, this has got to stop.
Suddenly the world felt like it was breaking in two. I took a long, shaky breath- and on the exhale I shot up one equally shaky prayer, God, forgive me.
I no longer have the ocean- and I must learn to be okay with that.
I have to stop needing the ocean at some point. It's been almost one year since I moved home- and I need to move forward with my life.
The ocean can't fix my problems- it can't fix me the way I want it to.
The world is too big, lovers.
Maybe instead of trying to make it small again, I should just let it be big.
Maybe instead of making the ocean bigger than the world, I should just stop trying to alter sizes and implications altogether.
Maybe I should just remember that I'm not the one who's in control, here. And maybe I should remember how blessed I feel by the opportunity to help others like I did today- and maybe God can teach me how to help other people more often, because otherwise I grow selfish and anxious and reliant on an earthly element which cannot heal me no matter how desperately I want it to.
So the world is too big for me. God is much bigger than the world.
Sometimes, we can't keep our hearts from hurting, but maybe what we don't understand is that our hearts were made for hurting. Our compassion makes us strong- our sorrows change our direction. Our Savior breaks our hearts for what breaks His heart- and that makes us precious to the Great Creator who sent His one son to die in order to save the world because He loves us. Oh, how He loves us.
"The world's too big, mom."
That's what today feels like, lovers. The world feels too big. No amount of mountainous drives lined with evergreen trees and back-splashed with golden fields will make it any smaller.
I spent my day giving my time to other people- people who really needed my time much, much more than I did. This time looked like wrapping dishes and glasses in newspaper and putting them into boxes and placing the taped, marked boxes in neat piles by the door, waiting to be loaded onto a large U-Haul truck. This time looked like delivering food for those familial few who were there to help as we were. This time looked like smiling and hugging beautiful little children, whose lives and rooms were currently being shifted and rearranged and packed up into more neat and tidy boxed piles while they giggled and spun in many noisy, glittering directions.
This time looked like getting strikingly lost with Nat as we made an hour-long coffee-and-packing-tape run to Fred Meyers in the middle of the afternoon, in a small town at the base of a very large mountain which neither of us were any good at navigating. (That specific time involved a lot of exhausted-by-the-weight-of-life sighs and frustrated expletives, often followed by a short outburst of overwhelmed, hysterical laughter.) This time looked like sun-dusted crop-fields, very old farmhouses, and very windy roads. It looked quiet. My eyes swept over the wild countryside, and I silently wondered to myself how best to take care of my friend who's so busy with the important task of tending to her own priceless loved ones in a time of unforeseen need. For once, I didn't have any words.
Clark Kent is right. Sometimes the world is just too big.
On the hour-long drive home, I thought a lot about that line.
Do you know what I used to do whenever the world felt too big? I had a coping mechanism for days like these, once.
I used to park my car on a knoll right above the ocean, roll down all the windows and open my sunroof. I would lean forward in my seat, fold my arms in front of me and rest my chin on my steering wheel. Watching the pelicans and the surf scoters flying, diving, floating on the restless waves, and the harbor seals cresting with their faces on the surface of the water didn't make the world seem smaller and myself seem larger, though.
Sitting by the ocean is never going to make you feel big.
But it made the world seem less impending under the mighty force of the waves. I felt like whatever the world had to throw at me couldn't be matched by the vast power of the seas. It made the ocean feel bigger than the world, and that was comforting.
There is no ocean here, lovers.
There are mountains like the one I traveled today, and there are valleys like the one I currently dwell in.
There are rivers, like the one half-a-mile from my house- and there are fields, like the ones I drive past everyday on my way to work.
All of them are stunning in their own right. The heron's nest on the top of the telephone pole in the field a block past my backyard. The waning light cast onto the mountain by the setting sun turns it a purplish sort of pale pink. The scent of the surrounding hay fields on a balmy Summer night, while I ride my penny board down the streets of my neighborhood.
Though they are beautiful, they only make the world seem bigger. My eyes can't rest on one thing- -and they move from sight to sight at an increasingly rapid pace until the patterns of contrasting light and color make my head hurt. I feel puny. Insignificant, tiny, helpless, waif-like and weak.
I have no ocean here- and I began to grow anxious without the scent of the sea constantly on the air.
Softly, I whispered to myself this afternoon as I traveled homeward to my valley and my maple trees and my wide neighborhood streets, desperately toying with the idea of instead driving all the way to the beach for the 3rd weekend in a row, just to get my fix- just to feel healed one more time- Hannah, this has got to stop.
Suddenly the world felt like it was breaking in two. I took a long, shaky breath- and on the exhale I shot up one equally shaky prayer, God, forgive me.
I no longer have the ocean- and I must learn to be okay with that.
I have to stop needing the ocean at some point. It's been almost one year since I moved home- and I need to move forward with my life.
The ocean can't fix my problems- it can't fix me the way I want it to.
The world is too big, lovers.
Maybe instead of trying to make it small again, I should just let it be big.
Maybe instead of making the ocean bigger than the world, I should just stop trying to alter sizes and implications altogether.
Maybe I should just remember that I'm not the one who's in control, here. And maybe I should remember how blessed I feel by the opportunity to help others like I did today- and maybe God can teach me how to help other people more often, because otherwise I grow selfish and anxious and reliant on an earthly element which cannot heal me no matter how desperately I want it to.
So the world is too big for me. God is much bigger than the world.
Sometimes, we can't keep our hearts from hurting, but maybe what we don't understand is that our hearts were made for hurting. Our compassion makes us strong- our sorrows change our direction. Our Savior breaks our hearts for what breaks His heart- and that makes us precious to the Great Creator who sent His one son to die in order to save the world because He loves us. Oh, how He loves us.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Flighty Little Birds, Jagged Around the Edges
I have this candle that smells like one of my most favorite people in the world.
I'm not sure how it's possible that this came to be. One day, about a month ago, I was milling around Sesame and Lilies, the home decor store I used to work at when I lived in Cannon Beach, and I picked up a large candle in a grey, hobnail jar. I brought it to my nose. I wondered for a moment what "Ambergrass" was supposed to smell like, and then I took a whiff.
Instantly, familiarity washed over me. I knew that scent very well. It smelled like wishes, right before they are granted. It was the same smell that used to follow me around while grocery shopping, or riding in that car. It smelled like being held in a warm, tight hug. It smelled mildly like peaches, but earthier than that. It was the same smell that accompanied the voice which soundtracked my Summer, to quote that crazy-good Boys Like Girls song from 4 years ago.
I don't know if I bought the candle because the smell reminded me of this person, or if I bought the candle because the familiarity of the smell was comforting- but somehow, it ended up coming home with me that day.
And right now it's perched next to me, lit. One small beam of light to combat a world of darkness.
Lovers, sometimes we forget how precious life is.
Sometimes, we forget that death is a constant and inescapable part of our lives.
One of my dearest friends, Natalie Trust, writes about this very topic in her blog. It's titled, "Death's Waiting Room," and you can read it here. Please do so.
Lovers, there is a story behind all of this to share- but it is not mine to tell. And so I will not tell it today. But I will write a few vague sentences- even if just for the sake of personal catharsis.
There are many thoughts in my brain that do not align in a logical pattern. Mostly they are whirring around like flighty little birds, jagged around the edges. They are afraid to settle in one place for too long, because they might become stagnant. They might become flightless, and by loosing their wings, they might grow even more scarred.
Memory, that rose-tinted creature, flies from one branch to another restlessly bringing up images and nostalgia with every fluttered movement- Fact, that cold-hearted mistress screeches from the tops of her tiny little lungs unforgivable curses as she flies in endless circles- Hope, that bedraggled white dove, coos softly in the midst of the squalor. Often her voice is overpowered- but it is still present. Her patient heart is still beating steadily.
What do you do when someone you've always known as a permanent fixture in your life suddenly becomes frighteningly temporary?
All I have floating around in my brain are words- and words are so blatantly empty today.
Words have the power to break people- and yet, rarely do they actually possess the power to bring comfort. Where is the comfort to be found in a violently angry murderess that lives and grows within our very bloodstreams? Where is the hope to be found in a pungent blackness that devours from the inside out?
My words are muted, today. My arms are tired from wrestling with angels, like Jacob in the book of Genesis.
My heart is heavy. This small hammock of tragedy in which I sit today is cradling me so carefully, so effortlessly. I wonder if I could just lie back and let it carry me, how far would we travel together?
It's strange, watching your beloveds go through the motions of realizing they might loose someone beloved to them. It makes that person, while still a familiar, cherished, loved and more-than-welcomed part of your own life, all that more special and precious to you.
I realized today just how sacred every breath is.
Sacred.
Every breath.
Human life is the most priceless thing on this planet, my own best friend reminded me today. How careless of me to have forgotten.
Through it all, I continue to ask my Heavenly Father where He is in all of this.
Father, God. Where are you?
I know your sovereignty. I know your omniscience. I just don't have the Kingdom eyes to see your plan; I am made of bone and sinew and my weak heart is full of doubt and I lack understanding.
Still, Lord- I stand. Just as all of those around me and all of those involved and all of those grieving alongside each other tonight are standing. In the light and hope of our God and Savior- knowing that He is also standing for us. Knowing that He is not absent, or removed, or uncaring, unfeeling.
Knowing that He is full of healing, and mercy and miracles and undying love for each one of His earthly children, and that His heart is also breaking under the extreme weight of this recent news.
How blessed are we.
To have a Savior who's heart breaks over the tragedies which befall His prized children. To know that not only does He have all control of the situation, but He also understands and comprehends exactly how these tragedies make us feel.
He is breath-taking, and we are all made in His image. When I envision the face which this tragedy belongs to, I see the beautiful Imago Dei bursting forth from those grace-filled features, clothed in dignity and righteousness.
So tonight, the tears may fall.
But the Almighty is still good.
This grief-laden hammock is comfortable, but it is not permanent.
Tomorrow is a new day, and for those of us who live to see the morning light- there will be so many moments in which to give thanks throughout the day. Don't let the opportunity to thank God for the sacredness of breath pass you by.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I'm not sure how it's possible that this came to be. One day, about a month ago, I was milling around Sesame and Lilies, the home decor store I used to work at when I lived in Cannon Beach, and I picked up a large candle in a grey, hobnail jar. I brought it to my nose. I wondered for a moment what "Ambergrass" was supposed to smell like, and then I took a whiff.
Instantly, familiarity washed over me. I knew that scent very well. It smelled like wishes, right before they are granted. It was the same smell that used to follow me around while grocery shopping, or riding in that car. It smelled like being held in a warm, tight hug. It smelled mildly like peaches, but earthier than that. It was the same smell that accompanied the voice which soundtracked my Summer, to quote that crazy-good Boys Like Girls song from 4 years ago.
I don't know if I bought the candle because the smell reminded me of this person, or if I bought the candle because the familiarity of the smell was comforting- but somehow, it ended up coming home with me that day.
And right now it's perched next to me, lit. One small beam of light to combat a world of darkness.
Lovers, sometimes we forget how precious life is.
Sometimes, we forget that death is a constant and inescapable part of our lives.
One of my dearest friends, Natalie Trust, writes about this very topic in her blog. It's titled, "Death's Waiting Room," and you can read it here. Please do so.
Lovers, there is a story behind all of this to share- but it is not mine to tell. And so I will not tell it today. But I will write a few vague sentences- even if just for the sake of personal catharsis.
There are many thoughts in my brain that do not align in a logical pattern. Mostly they are whirring around like flighty little birds, jagged around the edges. They are afraid to settle in one place for too long, because they might become stagnant. They might become flightless, and by loosing their wings, they might grow even more scarred.
Memory, that rose-tinted creature, flies from one branch to another restlessly bringing up images and nostalgia with every fluttered movement- Fact, that cold-hearted mistress screeches from the tops of her tiny little lungs unforgivable curses as she flies in endless circles- Hope, that bedraggled white dove, coos softly in the midst of the squalor. Often her voice is overpowered- but it is still present. Her patient heart is still beating steadily.
What do you do when someone you've always known as a permanent fixture in your life suddenly becomes frighteningly temporary?
All I have floating around in my brain are words- and words are so blatantly empty today.
Words have the power to break people- and yet, rarely do they actually possess the power to bring comfort. Where is the comfort to be found in a violently angry murderess that lives and grows within our very bloodstreams? Where is the hope to be found in a pungent blackness that devours from the inside out?
My words are muted, today. My arms are tired from wrestling with angels, like Jacob in the book of Genesis.
My heart is heavy. This small hammock of tragedy in which I sit today is cradling me so carefully, so effortlessly. I wonder if I could just lie back and let it carry me, how far would we travel together?
It's strange, watching your beloveds go through the motions of realizing they might loose someone beloved to them. It makes that person, while still a familiar, cherished, loved and more-than-welcomed part of your own life, all that more special and precious to you.
I realized today just how sacred every breath is.
Sacred.
Every breath.
Human life is the most priceless thing on this planet, my own best friend reminded me today. How careless of me to have forgotten.
Through it all, I continue to ask my Heavenly Father where He is in all of this.
Father, God. Where are you?
I know your sovereignty. I know your omniscience. I just don't have the Kingdom eyes to see your plan; I am made of bone and sinew and my weak heart is full of doubt and I lack understanding.
Still, Lord- I stand. Just as all of those around me and all of those involved and all of those grieving alongside each other tonight are standing. In the light and hope of our God and Savior- knowing that He is also standing for us. Knowing that He is not absent, or removed, or uncaring, unfeeling.
Knowing that He is full of healing, and mercy and miracles and undying love for each one of His earthly children, and that His heart is also breaking under the extreme weight of this recent news.
How blessed are we.
To have a Savior who's heart breaks over the tragedies which befall His prized children. To know that not only does He have all control of the situation, but He also understands and comprehends exactly how these tragedies make us feel.
He is breath-taking, and we are all made in His image. When I envision the face which this tragedy belongs to, I see the beautiful Imago Dei bursting forth from those grace-filled features, clothed in dignity and righteousness.
So tonight, the tears may fall.
But the Almighty is still good.
This grief-laden hammock is comfortable, but it is not permanent.
Tomorrow is a new day, and for those of us who live to see the morning light- there will be so many moments in which to give thanks throughout the day. Don't let the opportunity to thank God for the sacredness of breath pass you by.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
"With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels."
This post is for my dear friend, Allen.
Happy Birthday, kindred soul. I know I promised this to you eons ago- I sincerely hope I do it justice, since we've both talked it up enough by now for it to potentially move mountains and siphon rivers, end world hunger and... Make a lot of soap.
I also hope it beats the 1984 collectible Star Wars plastic cup I bought you last year. (I think it was '84. I have a horrible memory for these things.)
Love you so much. Here's to many more years of mind-blowing scripts and the conversations they spark for hours on end. And also, many more years of Beatles lyrics trivia. "No-one, i think, is in my tree, I mean, it must be high or low- that is, you can't, you know, tune in- but it's alright, that is, I think it's not too bad."
Over a year ago, now, Allen introduced me to my very first encounter with the pop culture enigma, Fight Club.
Amused, he sat across the room from me on the opposite couch, beside a gurgling tank which housed two oversexed box turtles, and he watched my eyes grow wide, glued to the screen, and my hands as they tightly clenched the pillow I was holding- I was alive with wonder and inspiration. He just sat there, privy to my creative undoing and he smiled, knowing full well that someday I would come to alternately loving him and hating him for introducing me to this cosmic and earth-shattering film.
Never had I ever seen anything before quite like this brutally, chemically, forcefully poignant revelation on the human psyche and its' electric thirst to escape the jaded fatigue within which we inevitably find ourselves situated.
I.
Was.
UN-EARTHED.
And paralyzingly impacted. I wanted to scream so loudly- and I wanted to write one-million words that started with the same letter. I was exhausted. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to launch headfirst into the Ocean and keep swimming until the adrenaline wore off.
From that moment on, I knew something very crucial had happened there that night. I became aware. I'm not sure I can really describe it in any other way.
From the introduction of Marla Singer, "Marla, you big tourist.... The little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can't."
to the ultimation of the sync between Tyler Durden and the insomniac Jack, I had reached an uncharted island of awareness. I had plateaued into a heightened sense of clarity; and yet, instead of catapulting me in a peaceful, Ghandi-like state, that same heightened breed of clarity only fostered a deep unsettling and frustration within my tense frame. I was as un-Ghandi-like as Attila the Hun.
I was frustrated because I knew that it had changed me. But I didn't know how it had changed me. And because of that, I knew that I wouldn't be getting any sleep that night, and I really hate loosing sleep over anything.
"If you wake up at a different time and in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?"
"On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero."
"I don't want to die without any scars."
These three sentences alone could take me days to unpack. I think the thing I love most about Fight Club is that every time I re-watch it, or re-read the book, all-too-familiar lines will pop out of the background like tiny, machine-gun pellets, wounding and changing me in a different way than they did before. It's like every time I watch it, I'm experiencing it again for the very first time.
I wouldn't want to die without any scars, either- and I think the scariest thing about this movie and how much it moved me, was the way I found myself identifying with the characters. I mean, there's so much truth to Tyler Durden's arrogant, jaded cynicism, isn't there?
Nobody wants to die unscathed. Wound us. Change us. Hurt us. Knock us off our feet. Make us feel alive again.
It's disgusting, and despicable, the way that self-destruction is deified in this story. It's horrific, but it's intriguing all the same. I felt like vomiting. I didn't dare take my eyes off the screen for one, single moment. I couldn't move. I didn't want to move.
"A generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is the answer we really need."
Fight Club is no friend of the female sex. I can't tell you how many times I felt like I should be bitterly (and righteously) offended by its blatant sexism. And yet, you read the statement above and you can't help but think: "Yeah. Where did all the fathers go?" For me, this aspect of the movie was like, inception, dude. I didn't realize I felt that way until I saw the movie, and then I realized this seed of dissension and turbulence had been planted there long, long ago. I was only beginning to unravel the threads of discord and chaos. The movie was far from over.
"Fight club wasn't about winning or losing. It wasn't about words. The hysterical shouting was in tongues, like at a Pentecostal church. When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered."
Is it terrible that I wanted to feel that? Even if only for a moment. The sheer brutality took me by force. It all seemed so glamorously instinctual- I mean, it was overwhelmingly Hollywoodized, I knew that- but I didn't feel like Hollywood was lying to me, either. I kind of felt this nirvana-esque ambiguity to it.
The primal idea of fighting to feel one's own worth. Not prove one's worth, no. Fight Club never was a competition. It wasn't a sport. These guys were self-healing their lifelong traumas. The era of prescription drugs was over. Self- medication had taken over in it's basest form.
"I got right in everyone's hostile little face. Yes, these are bruises from fighting. I'm comfortable with them. I am enlightened."
See what I mean? And for a moment, a dangerously scandalous moment, I toyed over whether or not I wanted that, too. Enlightenment. Gosh, that's so enticing, isn't it? I almost believed it. I stand before you today, in full admittance and bearing no shame in the fact, that I almost believed it was possible. That Fight Club in itself was a probable answer to a lot of society's problems.
Is that possible?
"Ancient peoples found their clothes got cleaner if they washed them at a certain spot in the river. Why? Because, human sacrifices were once made on the hills above this river. Year after year, bodies burnt. Rain fell. Water seeped through the wood ashes to become lye. The lye combined with the melted fat of the bodies, till a thick white soapy discharge crept into the river. The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes. Like the first monkeys shot into space. Without sacrificing, without death, we would have nothing."
.... And then, ladies and gentlemen: the chemical burn scene.
"The pain you're feeling is premature enlightenment. This is the greatest moment of your life and you're off somewhere, missing it. Shut up. Our fathers were our models for God. And, if our fathers bailed, what does that tell us about God? Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God doesn't like you, he never wanted you. In all probability, He hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen... We are God's unwanted children, with no special place and no special attention, and so be it. You can go to the sink and run water over your hand. Look at me. Or you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn, but first you have to give up. First, you have to know that someday, you are going. to. die. Until you know that, you will be useless."
Now, I don't for one second believe the above statement. I'm sorry, I know disclaimers can sometimes ruin really good writing, but I feel like I have to make the distinction here. I don't believe that God hates anyone.
I don't believe that God sees anyone of us as "unwanted."
Regardless of my disclaimer, this is pretty brilliant writing in and of itself, I have to say. It's all in the way the sentences are built. Ground-up. The good, old-fashioned way. First you start with an idea, and then you build off that with an example- followed by a consideration, and then you unpack the consideration and build another level of seemingly persuasive credibility. And then you finish with a slam-bam power-packed sentence that really leaves the witness reeling in a world of cyanide and spirituality. This is a fiction writer's porn-like demographic. This is a literary ultimatum.
I've probably watched this chemical burn scene about 6 times in my life, and each time I get chills. Still, after all this time, I'm not really sure I can explain why I get these chills.
"We are the middle children of history, with no purpose or place. We have no great war, or great depression. The great war is a spiritual war. The great depression is our lives. We were raised by television to believe that we'd be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars- but we won't. And we're learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. We are the quiet young men who listen until it's time to decide."
I think, deep down, in the very core of every human being, is a tiny little facet of radicalism. We as a human race are born to revolutionize. That's what we've been doing since the dawn of time, right? Fire, the wheel, electricity, plumbing,submarines, rocket launches, nuclear war, cloning devices. We organize to revolutionize. We revolutionize to radicalize. It's been abused, and easily so. I'm not encouraging it. I'm just revealing it.
I just think it stands to reason that there's a switch within all of us that can be radically flipped over one thing or another in our lives. Maybe in unconventional ways, maybe it doesn't have to be political radicalism, or religious radicalism. It could be the radical decision to quit social networking. You could refuse to be a part of the United Postal System. You could stop eating gluten.
"Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessel's life. His breakfast will taste better than any meal he has ever eaten."
Warped- but you get it, don't you? It's about taking things for granted. Shouldn't every breakfast be the best meal we've ever eaten, just because we're alive? Shouldn't life continue upwards and forwards in a nebulous reach for the expansive, elusive future?
And then, Fight Club begins to spiral out of control.
Vandalism becomes rampant. The commissioner's held under threat of castration, "The people you're after are everyone you depend on. We do your laundry, cook your food and serve you dinner. We guard you while you sleep. We drive your ambulances. Do not fuck with us."
Jack almost kills the Angel Face character in hand-to-hand-combat.
"I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every Panda that wouldn't screw to save it's species. I wanted to open the dump valves on oil tankers and smother all the French beaches I'd never see. I felt like destroying something beautiful."
And even though I knew it was all going horribly, horribly wrong- I hated myself for finding such a terrestrial sort of poetry about it all. That cliche, about finding "beauty in the breakdown?"
That is Fight Club. It's a beautiful, disgusting, unforgettable, poignant, violently unforgivable breakdown.
It's a revolutionary idea which could never be accomplished in a pure manner- because man would inevitably screw it up every single time.
It's like world peace- the most desirable and beautiful concept in the entire existence of humanity, but as long as man is in control, we will never, ever, EVER attain world peace. It's impossible. We cannot handle such purity. We will stain it. Our fingers are smudged with tar and asphalt.
It's a conundrum.
"This does not belong to us. We are not the leaders. We are not special. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. We are all part of the same compost heap."
And then, after a confrontation, a struggle, a diffusion and an acrid argument between Marla and Jack, several very large explosions and one ringing gunshot later- it's all over.
The credits roll.
Tyler and Jack are one and the same. The clues are written all over the story-line.
And how do you feel?
How did I feel?
To be totally honest, I'm still trying to figure out how Fight Club makes me feel. I'm still contemplating and discovering new facets and eccentricities of the psychological warfare this movie has brought to my life.
I think it's abundantly extremist. I think Tyler Durden is the ultimation of a very lonely, very entitled and unhappy man's cry for help in all the wrong places.
Do I think Jack was a victim of temporary insanity?
No.
I don't for one second believe that Jack was a victim of mental instability. I don't think Jack was a victim of a consumer, materialistic society by-producing spoiled, angry children in mass quantities like a meat packaging plant, or the Apple Inc. factory.
I think Jack was human. I think Jack was weak. He was the tiny, frail match that ignited a spark- and Tyler was a tank of gasoline thrown in to keep the fire burning.
I think the movie in some aspects is ridiculous and overdone. I sometimes think to myself as I watch it, "Chuck Palahniuk was trying too hard to make a point."
At other times, I wring my hands over the fact that I don't have the same grappling hold on the English language that Chuck P. has. And I do honestly think that Fight Club has defined an entire generation of misfit, IKEA-addicted nobodies who are dead tired of all the endless drudgery which the middle working-class has to offer.
I don't doubt that for a moment.
What does this movie mean to me?
Everything. This movie and this book and this entire franchise means everything. It's a reminder of who not to be, and how to strive for excellence all at once.
It's the single, solitary, most revealing and challenging fictional movie I've ever watched on a deeply personal level.
I'm not sure if that means I have an entire host of demons that I struggle with that I wasn't even aware of, or if it just means I share a sympathetic bond with writers and people like Chuck P.
I understand their messages. I get where they're coming from. I validate their disaffection and disillusionment. Their frailty is compacted within their social martyrdom. I can respect that.
And I owe all of this dogma and life criterion to Allen Barber. Who knew from the very beginning that I was the kind of soul who would love this movie, and how it changes people. He could sense the Fight-Club-Lovin' Vibes all over me.
So he gave me a gift that day.
A gift that, occasionally, can actually be a pretty big curse, too, but a gift which, altogether I couldn't imagine my life without.
So thank you, Allen. Here it is, 11:24 PM on 6/19/2013. Just moments before your 25th birthday.
I hope this year is a blessing for you, dear friend.
Happiest of birthdays.
May the force be with you, you rebel-alliance-tattoo-bearing-friend-of-mine, you.
(funny note, I almost wrote, "may the odds be ever in your favor," just because. I really have no idea why. I just thought you might appreciate the fact that apparently I'm starting to quote The Hunger Games for no valid reason. Mmmkay. Night-night.)
Happy Birthday, kindred soul. I know I promised this to you eons ago- I sincerely hope I do it justice, since we've both talked it up enough by now for it to potentially move mountains and siphon rivers, end world hunger and... Make a lot of soap.
I also hope it beats the 1984 collectible Star Wars plastic cup I bought you last year. (I think it was '84. I have a horrible memory for these things.)
Love you so much. Here's to many more years of mind-blowing scripts and the conversations they spark for hours on end. And also, many more years of Beatles lyrics trivia. "No-one, i think, is in my tree, I mean, it must be high or low- that is, you can't, you know, tune in- but it's alright, that is, I think it's not too bad."
Over a year ago, now, Allen introduced me to my very first encounter with the pop culture enigma, Fight Club.
Amused, he sat across the room from me on the opposite couch, beside a gurgling tank which housed two oversexed box turtles, and he watched my eyes grow wide, glued to the screen, and my hands as they tightly clenched the pillow I was holding- I was alive with wonder and inspiration. He just sat there, privy to my creative undoing and he smiled, knowing full well that someday I would come to alternately loving him and hating him for introducing me to this cosmic and earth-shattering film.
Never had I ever seen anything before quite like this brutally, chemically, forcefully poignant revelation on the human psyche and its' electric thirst to escape the jaded fatigue within which we inevitably find ourselves situated.
I.
Was.
UN-EARTHED.
And paralyzingly impacted. I wanted to scream so loudly- and I wanted to write one-million words that started with the same letter. I was exhausted. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to launch headfirst into the Ocean and keep swimming until the adrenaline wore off.
From that moment on, I knew something very crucial had happened there that night. I became aware. I'm not sure I can really describe it in any other way.
From the introduction of Marla Singer, "Marla, you big tourist.... The little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can't."
to the ultimation of the sync between Tyler Durden and the insomniac Jack, I had reached an uncharted island of awareness. I had plateaued into a heightened sense of clarity; and yet, instead of catapulting me in a peaceful, Ghandi-like state, that same heightened breed of clarity only fostered a deep unsettling and frustration within my tense frame. I was as un-Ghandi-like as Attila the Hun.
I was frustrated because I knew that it had changed me. But I didn't know how it had changed me. And because of that, I knew that I wouldn't be getting any sleep that night, and I really hate loosing sleep over anything.
"If you wake up at a different time and in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?"
"On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero."
"I don't want to die without any scars."
These three sentences alone could take me days to unpack. I think the thing I love most about Fight Club is that every time I re-watch it, or re-read the book, all-too-familiar lines will pop out of the background like tiny, machine-gun pellets, wounding and changing me in a different way than they did before. It's like every time I watch it, I'm experiencing it again for the very first time.
I wouldn't want to die without any scars, either- and I think the scariest thing about this movie and how much it moved me, was the way I found myself identifying with the characters. I mean, there's so much truth to Tyler Durden's arrogant, jaded cynicism, isn't there?
Nobody wants to die unscathed. Wound us. Change us. Hurt us. Knock us off our feet. Make us feel alive again.
It's disgusting, and despicable, the way that self-destruction is deified in this story. It's horrific, but it's intriguing all the same. I felt like vomiting. I didn't dare take my eyes off the screen for one, single moment. I couldn't move. I didn't want to move.
"A generation of men raised by women. I'm wondering if another woman is the answer we really need."
Fight Club is no friend of the female sex. I can't tell you how many times I felt like I should be bitterly (and righteously) offended by its blatant sexism. And yet, you read the statement above and you can't help but think: "Yeah. Where did all the fathers go?" For me, this aspect of the movie was like, inception, dude. I didn't realize I felt that way until I saw the movie, and then I realized this seed of dissension and turbulence had been planted there long, long ago. I was only beginning to unravel the threads of discord and chaos. The movie was far from over.
"Fight club wasn't about winning or losing. It wasn't about words. The hysterical shouting was in tongues, like at a Pentecostal church. When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered."
Is it terrible that I wanted to feel that? Even if only for a moment. The sheer brutality took me by force. It all seemed so glamorously instinctual- I mean, it was overwhelmingly Hollywoodized, I knew that- but I didn't feel like Hollywood was lying to me, either. I kind of felt this nirvana-esque ambiguity to it.
The primal idea of fighting to feel one's own worth. Not prove one's worth, no. Fight Club never was a competition. It wasn't a sport. These guys were self-healing their lifelong traumas. The era of prescription drugs was over. Self- medication had taken over in it's basest form.
"I got right in everyone's hostile little face. Yes, these are bruises from fighting. I'm comfortable with them. I am enlightened."
See what I mean? And for a moment, a dangerously scandalous moment, I toyed over whether or not I wanted that, too. Enlightenment. Gosh, that's so enticing, isn't it? I almost believed it. I stand before you today, in full admittance and bearing no shame in the fact, that I almost believed it was possible. That Fight Club in itself was a probable answer to a lot of society's problems.
Is that possible?
"Ancient peoples found their clothes got cleaner if they washed them at a certain spot in the river. Why? Because, human sacrifices were once made on the hills above this river. Year after year, bodies burnt. Rain fell. Water seeped through the wood ashes to become lye. The lye combined with the melted fat of the bodies, till a thick white soapy discharge crept into the river. The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes. Like the first monkeys shot into space. Without sacrificing, without death, we would have nothing."
.... And then, ladies and gentlemen: the chemical burn scene.
"The pain you're feeling is premature enlightenment. This is the greatest moment of your life and you're off somewhere, missing it. Shut up. Our fathers were our models for God. And, if our fathers bailed, what does that tell us about God? Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God doesn't like you, he never wanted you. In all probability, He hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen... We are God's unwanted children, with no special place and no special attention, and so be it. You can go to the sink and run water over your hand. Look at me. Or you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn, but first you have to give up. First, you have to know that someday, you are going. to. die. Until you know that, you will be useless."
Now, I don't for one second believe the above statement. I'm sorry, I know disclaimers can sometimes ruin really good writing, but I feel like I have to make the distinction here. I don't believe that God hates anyone.
I don't believe that God sees anyone of us as "unwanted."
Regardless of my disclaimer, this is pretty brilliant writing in and of itself, I have to say. It's all in the way the sentences are built. Ground-up. The good, old-fashioned way. First you start with an idea, and then you build off that with an example- followed by a consideration, and then you unpack the consideration and build another level of seemingly persuasive credibility. And then you finish with a slam-bam power-packed sentence that really leaves the witness reeling in a world of cyanide and spirituality. This is a fiction writer's porn-like demographic. This is a literary ultimatum.
I've probably watched this chemical burn scene about 6 times in my life, and each time I get chills. Still, after all this time, I'm not really sure I can explain why I get these chills.
"We are the middle children of history, with no purpose or place. We have no great war, or great depression. The great war is a spiritual war. The great depression is our lives. We were raised by television to believe that we'd be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars- but we won't. And we're learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. We are the quiet young men who listen until it's time to decide."
I think, deep down, in the very core of every human being, is a tiny little facet of radicalism. We as a human race are born to revolutionize. That's what we've been doing since the dawn of time, right? Fire, the wheel, electricity, plumbing,submarines, rocket launches, nuclear war, cloning devices. We organize to revolutionize. We revolutionize to radicalize. It's been abused, and easily so. I'm not encouraging it. I'm just revealing it.
I just think it stands to reason that there's a switch within all of us that can be radically flipped over one thing or another in our lives. Maybe in unconventional ways, maybe it doesn't have to be political radicalism, or religious radicalism. It could be the radical decision to quit social networking. You could refuse to be a part of the United Postal System. You could stop eating gluten.
"Tomorrow will be the most beautiful day of Raymond K. Hessel's life. His breakfast will taste better than any meal he has ever eaten."
Warped- but you get it, don't you? It's about taking things for granted. Shouldn't every breakfast be the best meal we've ever eaten, just because we're alive? Shouldn't life continue upwards and forwards in a nebulous reach for the expansive, elusive future?
And then, Fight Club begins to spiral out of control.
Vandalism becomes rampant. The commissioner's held under threat of castration, "The people you're after are everyone you depend on. We do your laundry, cook your food and serve you dinner. We guard you while you sleep. We drive your ambulances. Do not fuck with us."
Jack almost kills the Angel Face character in hand-to-hand-combat.
"I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every Panda that wouldn't screw to save it's species. I wanted to open the dump valves on oil tankers and smother all the French beaches I'd never see. I felt like destroying something beautiful."
And even though I knew it was all going horribly, horribly wrong- I hated myself for finding such a terrestrial sort of poetry about it all. That cliche, about finding "beauty in the breakdown?"
That is Fight Club. It's a beautiful, disgusting, unforgettable, poignant, violently unforgivable breakdown.
It's a revolutionary idea which could never be accomplished in a pure manner- because man would inevitably screw it up every single time.
It's like world peace- the most desirable and beautiful concept in the entire existence of humanity, but as long as man is in control, we will never, ever, EVER attain world peace. It's impossible. We cannot handle such purity. We will stain it. Our fingers are smudged with tar and asphalt.
It's a conundrum.
"This does not belong to us. We are not the leaders. We are not special. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. We are all part of the same compost heap."
And then, after a confrontation, a struggle, a diffusion and an acrid argument between Marla and Jack, several very large explosions and one ringing gunshot later- it's all over.
The credits roll.
Tyler and Jack are one and the same. The clues are written all over the story-line.
And how do you feel?
How did I feel?
To be totally honest, I'm still trying to figure out how Fight Club makes me feel. I'm still contemplating and discovering new facets and eccentricities of the psychological warfare this movie has brought to my life.
I think it's abundantly extremist. I think Tyler Durden is the ultimation of a very lonely, very entitled and unhappy man's cry for help in all the wrong places.
Do I think Jack was a victim of temporary insanity?
No.
I don't for one second believe that Jack was a victim of mental instability. I don't think Jack was a victim of a consumer, materialistic society by-producing spoiled, angry children in mass quantities like a meat packaging plant, or the Apple Inc. factory.
I think Jack was human. I think Jack was weak. He was the tiny, frail match that ignited a spark- and Tyler was a tank of gasoline thrown in to keep the fire burning.
I think the movie in some aspects is ridiculous and overdone. I sometimes think to myself as I watch it, "Chuck Palahniuk was trying too hard to make a point."
At other times, I wring my hands over the fact that I don't have the same grappling hold on the English language that Chuck P. has. And I do honestly think that Fight Club has defined an entire generation of misfit, IKEA-addicted nobodies who are dead tired of all the endless drudgery which the middle working-class has to offer.
I don't doubt that for a moment.
What does this movie mean to me?
Everything. This movie and this book and this entire franchise means everything. It's a reminder of who not to be, and how to strive for excellence all at once.
It's the single, solitary, most revealing and challenging fictional movie I've ever watched on a deeply personal level.
I'm not sure if that means I have an entire host of demons that I struggle with that I wasn't even aware of, or if it just means I share a sympathetic bond with writers and people like Chuck P.
I understand their messages. I get where they're coming from. I validate their disaffection and disillusionment. Their frailty is compacted within their social martyrdom. I can respect that.
And I owe all of this dogma and life criterion to Allen Barber. Who knew from the very beginning that I was the kind of soul who would love this movie, and how it changes people. He could sense the Fight-Club-Lovin' Vibes all over me.
So he gave me a gift that day.
A gift that, occasionally, can actually be a pretty big curse, too, but a gift which, altogether I couldn't imagine my life without.
So thank you, Allen. Here it is, 11:24 PM on 6/19/2013. Just moments before your 25th birthday.
I hope this year is a blessing for you, dear friend.
Happiest of birthdays.
May the force be with you, you rebel-alliance-tattoo-bearing-friend-of-mine, you.
(funny note, I almost wrote, "may the odds be ever in your favor," just because. I really have no idea why. I just thought you might appreciate the fact that apparently I'm starting to quote The Hunger Games for no valid reason. Mmmkay. Night-night.)
God Loves Me And My Bikini
First of all: I try to stay out of trending Facebook fads and popular discussions- this is for personal reasons, not because I find them petty or out of place. I don't mean to sound preachy or judgy and if I come across that way, I sincerely apologize: that is not my intention.
However, something is trending right now that is laying heavily on my conscious and I have a thought to share in regards to the recent articles traveling all over my mini-feed about Christian women and two-piece bathing suits. It may not come as a surprise to some of you that I frequent the bikini swimsuit style. I find them comfortable, cute, modest and they result in easier tan lines. That's pretty much it. I can personally vouch for the modesty of certain two-piece bikinis. Really. Not all of them are as skimpy as they are made out to be. I try not to put anything I deem immodest or inappropriate on my body. Sometimes I fail, but hey, we all do that every now and then, don't we?
Coming from this side of the spectrum, I would just like to state that I am not a lesser Christian because of the swimwear choices I make. Nor are those of you women who are brave enough to commit to choosing one-pieces, or tankinis, or board shorts, or whatever you find comfortable and pleasing to the Lord, better Christians than those of us who choose to spend beach and pool-time in two separate articles of clothing.
I'm sure it was not the intention of the original authors or bloggers or researchers of these articles to make women like me feel this way, but the reality is that after reading and watching these recent articles and videos: I feel alienated, as though my feminine motives are constantly being morally questioned. I feel really harshly judged. And that has moved me to response.
The female body is an intensely attractive creation. God made it to be intensely attractive and beautiful. Hips, midriffs, and thighs are not the only parts of our bodies that men find attractive. Arms, collarbones, shoulders, knees, calves, ankles and feet (yes, bare feet) are all found equally as sexy and pleasing to the male psyche, because that is how we were created to be found.
If that is to be the basis for an argument representing why two-pieces are sinful, because they cause men to lust uncontrollably, where are we going to draw the line on what else we should omit because it might cause our Christian brother to stumble? This frightens me. Not because of the legalism it suggests for women, but for the blatant disrespect it shows to our Christian men.
Men: you are strong, capable, dependable, intellectual leaders. You are not slaves to your lust. I would like to apologize on behalf of my female sex for deeming you as slobbering, mindless, uncontrollable tail-chasers who simply can't help themselves when something they find attractive is placed in front of them. You are not animals. You are so much better than that.
Women: You are beautiful. You were made to be beautiful. Modesty is undeniably the most beautiful attribute you can possess. Modesty is synonymous with virtuousness, and you cannot be of high virtue unless you possess humility as well. I would like to apologize on the behalf of popular culture which lies to you on a daily basis by telling you that sex sells, and that exploiting your body will bring you happiness. That is horrendous, and wrong. You are not possessions. You are better than that.
I would also like to apologize to you, women, on the behalf of the members of our fair and gentle sex who forget that humility and grace are the two most virtuous attributes of modesty we are capable of possessing. They forget that modesty of character is of equal import to modesty of body, and of mind. They forget that the battle is not to be waged against the bikini, but that the battle is to be waged against The Enemy, who has used self-righteousness and slander to manipulate us into fighting pettily amongst ourselves over who is better for wearing more fabric and who is worse for allowing more hair follicles and skin pores to breathe in the sunlight.
Women, we are all better than that.
Modesty is beautiful. So is humility. The two are so rarely intertwined, when they should constantly be found hand-in-hand. Let's focus on changing that within ourselves first, before focusing on trying to change what other people choose to put on their bodies.
Remember: God loves us bikini-wearers, too.
However, something is trending right now that is laying heavily on my conscious and I have a thought to share in regards to the recent articles traveling all over my mini-feed about Christian women and two-piece bathing suits. It may not come as a surprise to some of you that I frequent the bikini swimsuit style. I find them comfortable, cute, modest and they result in easier tan lines. That's pretty much it. I can personally vouch for the modesty of certain two-piece bikinis. Really. Not all of them are as skimpy as they are made out to be. I try not to put anything I deem immodest or inappropriate on my body. Sometimes I fail, but hey, we all do that every now and then, don't we?
Coming from this side of the spectrum, I would just like to state that I am not a lesser Christian because of the swimwear choices I make. Nor are those of you women who are brave enough to commit to choosing one-pieces, or tankinis, or board shorts, or whatever you find comfortable and pleasing to the Lord, better Christians than those of us who choose to spend beach and pool-time in two separate articles of clothing.
I'm sure it was not the intention of the original authors or bloggers or researchers of these articles to make women like me feel this way, but the reality is that after reading and watching these recent articles and videos: I feel alienated, as though my feminine motives are constantly being morally questioned. I feel really harshly judged. And that has moved me to response.
The female body is an intensely attractive creation. God made it to be intensely attractive and beautiful. Hips, midriffs, and thighs are not the only parts of our bodies that men find attractive. Arms, collarbones, shoulders, knees, calves, ankles and feet (yes, bare feet) are all found equally as sexy and pleasing to the male psyche, because that is how we were created to be found.
If that is to be the basis for an argument representing why two-pieces are sinful, because they cause men to lust uncontrollably, where are we going to draw the line on what else we should omit because it might cause our Christian brother to stumble? This frightens me. Not because of the legalism it suggests for women, but for the blatant disrespect it shows to our Christian men.
Men: you are strong, capable, dependable, intellectual leaders. You are not slaves to your lust. I would like to apologize on behalf of my female sex for deeming you as slobbering, mindless, uncontrollable tail-chasers who simply can't help themselves when something they find attractive is placed in front of them. You are not animals. You are so much better than that.
Women: You are beautiful. You were made to be beautiful. Modesty is undeniably the most beautiful attribute you can possess. Modesty is synonymous with virtuousness, and you cannot be of high virtue unless you possess humility as well. I would like to apologize on the behalf of popular culture which lies to you on a daily basis by telling you that sex sells, and that exploiting your body will bring you happiness. That is horrendous, and wrong. You are not possessions. You are better than that.
I would also like to apologize to you, women, on the behalf of the members of our fair and gentle sex who forget that humility and grace are the two most virtuous attributes of modesty we are capable of possessing. They forget that modesty of character is of equal import to modesty of body, and of mind. They forget that the battle is not to be waged against the bikini, but that the battle is to be waged against The Enemy, who has used self-righteousness and slander to manipulate us into fighting pettily amongst ourselves over who is better for wearing more fabric and who is worse for allowing more hair follicles and skin pores to breathe in the sunlight.
Women, we are all better than that.
Modesty is beautiful. So is humility. The two are so rarely intertwined, when they should constantly be found hand-in-hand. Let's focus on changing that within ourselves first, before focusing on trying to change what other people choose to put on their bodies.
Remember: God loves us bikini-wearers, too.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Working from Home
I have been blessed enough to be working from home this week, lovers.
I slept in this morning, went for a walk with my coffee-cup in hand to admire the shade-soaked Lavender and to feel the impending clouds as they began to circle and crowd out the warm sun.
And I still have time to sit here, in my bed, with my new yellow bedspread and my contrasting heavy black laptop on my knees to write this. My windows are open, blinds closed. I can hear the birds calling and feel the breeze, and yet I am sheltered inside my ivory and espresso bedroom.
My mind wanders.
Last night, I dreamed about a man that I don't know.
He was a promising, young, marine mammal paleontologist with a natural affinity and distraction towards environmental law practice. In my dream, I teased that he would need the fountain of youth in order to have all the time in the world to pursue these lifelong-career paths. His smile was electric.
We were living in England. He had come from there, in one of those many familiar-yet-unknown counties, such as Suffolk, Norfolk, Essex, Sussex, Wiltshire, Hampshire, etc.
His schooling was from the James Cook University in Australia. He was working on staff for Newcastle University, in the paleontology department- they were conducting research on prehistoric marine mammals.
I had taken a teaching job at Newcastle University- Aquarium Science 122.
I was working on my PhD in shark behavioral science and species conservation.
He had a mess of black curls resting on his crown and a pair of brilliantly blue eyes. He was smart, and funny, and sexy and his laughter was infectious. His dancing was incredible. His name was James.
This is not the first time I have dreamed about James- this unfamiliar and yet so beloved face and name and character.
I had several prominent dreams about him when I was fifteen. Last night was the first time in over four years that he's shown up in my subconscious since then.
Although, back then, he sure as hell wasn't a marine mammal paleontologist with a promising career and an obnoxiously extensive vocabulary.
Back then, he was a mysterious and flirty neighbor to me and my friends' in the ridiculously large, communal house we lived in. He was the boy-next-door, with a great accent, an adorable sense of humor and he played the oboe. (Because when I was fifteen, that was all I wanted.)
It's funny how our minds can create something totally original. And somehow, we channel that creation in our dreams. I've never seen James' face before, at least not that I know of, in my waking hours. He doesn't look like anyone that I know.
When I was fifteen, I was certain these uncontrollable dreams I was having about a total stranger must have meant something.
When I was fifteen, I was more than hopelessly in love with this figment, this character.
I had almost forgotten about this strange experience until last night, when it happened again.
I briefly wondered as I walked this morning if dreams can really be prophetic?
But then I thought about the many times I've accidentally dreamed of you.
And then the John Mayer song, "Friends, Lovers or Nothing," floated across the tide of my subconscious.
"There can only be one."
Suddenly, the possibility of my dreams about you as being prophetic causes me to stop walking. Lord, give me strength.
The scent of that shade-soaked Lavender made my heart swell like a rolling wave this morning. I don't understand the mystery of dreams and the meanings, prophecies, promises, metaphors, legends and deceptions they hold.
But I don't really believe we're meant to. They're kind of other-worldly, and the reason we experience them at our most vulnerable, is because we're not meant to fully comprehend their weighty resonance. If we were able to use our full capacities of reasoning and understanding to process the dreams as they were taking place, I honestly think it would drive the most even-keeled and logical of us to the brink of insanity.
It's not for us to know. We only are allowed to catch minuscule glimpses of them, and then are left alone to interpret as much as we can on our own.
It's strange, and confusing, but I kind of like it this way. It makes me feel like dreams, in their own right, are similar to fairy tales.
I think they're God's way of letting us know that magic is real, and He uses a little bit of it every night to accompany us on our REM cycle journeys.
What will I dream of tonight, I wonder?
I slept in this morning, went for a walk with my coffee-cup in hand to admire the shade-soaked Lavender and to feel the impending clouds as they began to circle and crowd out the warm sun.
And I still have time to sit here, in my bed, with my new yellow bedspread and my contrasting heavy black laptop on my knees to write this. My windows are open, blinds closed. I can hear the birds calling and feel the breeze, and yet I am sheltered inside my ivory and espresso bedroom.
My mind wanders.
Last night, I dreamed about a man that I don't know.
He was a promising, young, marine mammal paleontologist with a natural affinity and distraction towards environmental law practice. In my dream, I teased that he would need the fountain of youth in order to have all the time in the world to pursue these lifelong-career paths. His smile was electric.
We were living in England. He had come from there, in one of those many familiar-yet-unknown counties, such as Suffolk, Norfolk, Essex, Sussex, Wiltshire, Hampshire, etc.
His schooling was from the James Cook University in Australia. He was working on staff for Newcastle University, in the paleontology department- they were conducting research on prehistoric marine mammals.
I had taken a teaching job at Newcastle University- Aquarium Science 122.
I was working on my PhD in shark behavioral science and species conservation.
He had a mess of black curls resting on his crown and a pair of brilliantly blue eyes. He was smart, and funny, and sexy and his laughter was infectious. His dancing was incredible. His name was James.
This is not the first time I have dreamed about James- this unfamiliar and yet so beloved face and name and character.
I had several prominent dreams about him when I was fifteen. Last night was the first time in over four years that he's shown up in my subconscious since then.
Although, back then, he sure as hell wasn't a marine mammal paleontologist with a promising career and an obnoxiously extensive vocabulary.
Back then, he was a mysterious and flirty neighbor to me and my friends' in the ridiculously large, communal house we lived in. He was the boy-next-door, with a great accent, an adorable sense of humor and he played the oboe. (Because when I was fifteen, that was all I wanted.)
It's funny how our minds can create something totally original. And somehow, we channel that creation in our dreams. I've never seen James' face before, at least not that I know of, in my waking hours. He doesn't look like anyone that I know.
When I was fifteen, I was certain these uncontrollable dreams I was having about a total stranger must have meant something.
When I was fifteen, I was more than hopelessly in love with this figment, this character.
I had almost forgotten about this strange experience until last night, when it happened again.
I briefly wondered as I walked this morning if dreams can really be prophetic?
But then I thought about the many times I've accidentally dreamed of you.
And then the John Mayer song, "Friends, Lovers or Nothing," floated across the tide of my subconscious.
"There can only be one."
Suddenly, the possibility of my dreams about you as being prophetic causes me to stop walking. Lord, give me strength.
The scent of that shade-soaked Lavender made my heart swell like a rolling wave this morning. I don't understand the mystery of dreams and the meanings, prophecies, promises, metaphors, legends and deceptions they hold.
But I don't really believe we're meant to. They're kind of other-worldly, and the reason we experience them at our most vulnerable, is because we're not meant to fully comprehend their weighty resonance. If we were able to use our full capacities of reasoning and understanding to process the dreams as they were taking place, I honestly think it would drive the most even-keeled and logical of us to the brink of insanity.
It's not for us to know. We only are allowed to catch minuscule glimpses of them, and then are left alone to interpret as much as we can on our own.
It's strange, and confusing, but I kind of like it this way. It makes me feel like dreams, in their own right, are similar to fairy tales.
I think they're God's way of letting us know that magic is real, and He uses a little bit of it every night to accompany us on our REM cycle journeys.
What will I dream of tonight, I wonder?
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Summer Reads:
I need a reading list, lovers.
It's June 5th and if I don't have a stack of books in list form to read over the next few months, I won't read anything.
I mentioned something about it on Facebook and have received a few helpful suggestions.
I'm thinking the list will look something like this:
I also need to just work on the books on my bookshelf in the meantime.
I like falling in love with reading again. It feels good.
I hope I accomplish much reading this summer- last summer I read one book. Last summer was not meant for reading, though.
This summer feels like words.
Many, many wonderful words.
It's June 5th and if I don't have a stack of books in list form to read over the next few months, I won't read anything.
I mentioned something about it on Facebook and have received a few helpful suggestions.
I'm thinking the list will look something like this:
- Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card - Only because I managed to promise my best friend if I read this book, he'll read Gatsby.
- Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald - been reading this online on my lunchbreaks. Fitzy is always fab.
- Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury - recommendation
- Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn - recommendation
- Silver Linings Playbook, Matthew Quick - I've been afraid for months now that reading the book will somehow ruin the perfect profundity that the movie held. I'm willing to take that risk, now. Beyond ready.
I also need to just work on the books on my bookshelf in the meantime.
I like falling in love with reading again. It feels good.
I hope I accomplish much reading this summer- last summer I read one book. Last summer was not meant for reading, though.
This summer feels like words.
Many, many wonderful words.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Brand new pillow
Brand new pillow.
First dreams on it, tonight.
What a reach of unfathomable, infinite possibilities.
The purity of this virgin-like moment is staggering. It's almost holy.
Almost.
Remembering last summer.
I also have a new duvet cover and new pillowcases. They're yellow. Yellow is a happy color.
Remembering that the chosen theme for this year of 2013 was solitude. Realizing how true that has been over the past 6 months.
I'm considering going full recluse.
Just me and my virtuous, chaste pillow and my happy colored bedspread.
A book. Some paper. It's way past Lent and I'm feeling a strange desire to sacrifice something that I love in a spiritual manner.
A notebook. A pen. I'm slipping, slipping, slipping into another realm.
And as I begin to slip away- my dreams take over.
That was almost poetic.
Love me gently, brand new pillow. Tender is this night, and vulnerable.
Open the shades. Let me watch the stars as if I could touch them with my hands.
Lord, my prayers are many. But tonight I have just one: take this beating heart- make of it what you will. Allow my soul to take leaping flight- far above my windowsill.
And let this be my prayer tonight as I drift quietly into my dreams.
Remembering a quote.
"A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages." -Tennessee Williams.
"I was never insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched." -Edgar Allan Poe.
You're up, brand new pillow.
This is your moment to shine.
Monday, May 20, 2013
If Grace is an Ocean, We're All Sinking
Lovers,
What are the lies in your life?
The lies that you tell yourself- to make yourself believe that you're unworthy?
Make a chart. List the lies. Combat those with the truth.
This was an assignment for me today- in preparation for community group this week, reflecting over the sermon topic given on Sunday.
Spiritual warfare is used mentally and emotionally to crowd out the resounding cheer of love and salvation and mercy given to us by our Heavily Father, daily.
And we are too preoccupied to hear because of the overwhelming amount of lies that we are drowning in moment-to-moment.
"This should be simple enough," I thought- I am fully aware that I lie to myself often, and I know exactly what those lies are.
So I sat down and began writing.
LIES:
These are just a few of the lies that I carry around with me on a day-to-day basis.
I know that they're lies. I recognize that they don't hold an ounce of truth.
And yet, as I stared at the second column, under the heading "TRUTH", I realized I had nothing to write.
The truth.
What is the truth?
Sure- I know what the truth is. I know the truth is that God already has forgiven me for every sin I've committed-past, present and future- and I know that I am created in His image, therefore I am beautiful and His Holy Spirit indwells me and therefore, I am of His royal bloodline, His royal priesthood, and should count myself as His holy daughter as well.
I am set apart. I am chosen. I am elect. I am loved.
I am forgiven, and I am sought after, and I am redeemed, and His grace is sufficient for me.
Even after all of that, I still stare at that blank column on my yellow sheet of notebook paper and I feel a lump form in my throat.
There's a huge difference between knowing the truth and understanding the truth, lovers.
An even bigger difference lies between those two things and believing the truth.
So where am I today, lovers?
I am much further behind than I ever comprehended.
My whole life has been a battle. I have been caught in spiritual warfare for the entire course of my humanity and I've only just begun to realize how many times I have let the enemy enter in. I've only just understood how many battles I've let him win- how many battles I have surrendered to him before they even began.
The first lie on my list of devilish persuasions is this: "I am unworthy."
I know what my first truth shall be.
Directly across the page from the lie, I write in small, quivering letters:
"I still feel unworthy, even though I know I am not."
This might not be a blazing, thundering, trumpet-shout of confident truth, lovers.
Maybe I have misunderstood the assignment.
But this statement is my truth today.
I am transitioning from "being" to "feeling," and while that may not seem like a large victory to you, (or even to me), I know that it's still a victory regardless.
I have to learn to receive the love and the grace that He gives with an open heart. I have to learn to forgive myself as He has forgiven me- I still have to learn these things, even though I already know the answers.
I have to learn the "how" in order to live my way into the truth.
And that all looks really humbling, and I feel like I have been brought to my knees today.
But that's okay, because even though I'm bad at accepting His love- He will never stop loving me unconditionally.
And that is all the comfort I could possibly need at this moment.
"He is jealous for me
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy
When all of the sudden, I am aware
Of these afflictions eclipsed by glory
And I realize just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.
Oh, how He loves us so.
Oh, how He loves us.
How He loves us, so.
So we are His portion,
And He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking.
Heaven meets earth likes a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way
That He loves us
Oh, how He loves us.
Oh, how He loves us.
Oh, how He loves."
What are the lies in your life?
The lies that you tell yourself- to make yourself believe that you're unworthy?
Make a chart. List the lies. Combat those with the truth.
This was an assignment for me today- in preparation for community group this week, reflecting over the sermon topic given on Sunday.
Spiritual warfare is used mentally and emotionally to crowd out the resounding cheer of love and salvation and mercy given to us by our Heavily Father, daily.
And we are too preoccupied to hear because of the overwhelming amount of lies that we are drowning in moment-to-moment.
"This should be simple enough," I thought- I am fully aware that I lie to myself often, and I know exactly what those lies are.
So I sat down and began writing.
LIES:
- I am unworthy of anyone's time.
- The people I care most about in my life don't care about me at all.
- I am unforgivable.
- I am forgettable.
- I am unwanted.
- I am ugly. Inside and out.
- I am unlovable.
- I am incapable.
- I am fat.
- I am insufficient.
- I am insignificant.
- I am responsible for fixing the sins of my family.
- I will never, ever, ever measure up.
- I will never achieve anything in this life.
- I am alone.
- I am always going to be alone.
- I must try harder.
- I will never be able to try hard enough.
These are just a few of the lies that I carry around with me on a day-to-day basis.
I know that they're lies. I recognize that they don't hold an ounce of truth.
And yet, as I stared at the second column, under the heading "TRUTH", I realized I had nothing to write.
The truth.
What is the truth?
Sure- I know what the truth is. I know the truth is that God already has forgiven me for every sin I've committed-past, present and future- and I know that I am created in His image, therefore I am beautiful and His Holy Spirit indwells me and therefore, I am of His royal bloodline, His royal priesthood, and should count myself as His holy daughter as well.
I am set apart. I am chosen. I am elect. I am loved.
I am forgiven, and I am sought after, and I am redeemed, and His grace is sufficient for me.
Even after all of that, I still stare at that blank column on my yellow sheet of notebook paper and I feel a lump form in my throat.
There's a huge difference between knowing the truth and understanding the truth, lovers.
An even bigger difference lies between those two things and believing the truth.
So where am I today, lovers?
I am much further behind than I ever comprehended.
My whole life has been a battle. I have been caught in spiritual warfare for the entire course of my humanity and I've only just begun to realize how many times I have let the enemy enter in. I've only just understood how many battles I've let him win- how many battles I have surrendered to him before they even began.
The first lie on my list of devilish persuasions is this: "I am unworthy."
I know what my first truth shall be.
Directly across the page from the lie, I write in small, quivering letters:
"I still feel unworthy, even though I know I am not."
This might not be a blazing, thundering, trumpet-shout of confident truth, lovers.
Maybe I have misunderstood the assignment.
But this statement is my truth today.
I am transitioning from "being" to "feeling," and while that may not seem like a large victory to you, (or even to me), I know that it's still a victory regardless.
I have to learn to receive the love and the grace that He gives with an open heart. I have to learn to forgive myself as He has forgiven me- I still have to learn these things, even though I already know the answers.
I have to learn the "how" in order to live my way into the truth.
And that all looks really humbling, and I feel like I have been brought to my knees today.
But that's okay, because even though I'm bad at accepting His love- He will never stop loving me unconditionally.
And that is all the comfort I could possibly need at this moment.
"He is jealous for me
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy
When all of the sudden, I am aware
Of these afflictions eclipsed by glory
And I realize just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.
Oh, how He loves us so.
Oh, how He loves us.
How He loves us, so.
So we are His portion,
And He is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in His eyes
If grace is an ocean, we're all sinking.
Heaven meets earth likes a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way
That He loves us
Oh, how He loves us.
Oh, how He loves us.
Oh, how He loves."
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