In the dimly lit room, all I can taste is the shallow smokiness of your breath in the space between an exposed shoulder blade and my earlobe . . . I wonder if this might be what freedom feels like.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
It's funny how I started this all out saying things would not happen, moments would not escape my grasp, I wouldn't lose myself once the stale air hit my skin. I started out saying all of these things - so sure I was in control, so sure I knew what I was doing - seeing you, again, and ignoring the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I cannot say no to you, have never been able to say no to you, but here I stand - stomach beneath my feet, shredded pieces of a heart in my hands - no, no, no, no. . .
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
It started innocently enough; it always does, though, doesn't it? Quick, biting comments - picking at each other for the sake of passing words into the air in between us - for the sake of keeping air in between us. And what were you thinking in those silent moments before you put your mouth on mine? That you no longer wanted that unnecessary air standing guard? That you no longer saw any reason to pick at me because you simply wanted to be at me? Because I might have wanted the same things - before and in the moments of its existence - but here I stand - questions firing with the precision of a gun salute at a funeral. Maybe that's what this is - a funeral . . .
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
In the moments after, I recall your hand; it had found the small of my back and then slowly curled itself around my own hand once it had found it. Is that what coming home should feel like? There was no noise in the darkness - only your swift whispers, more like thoughts, and yet - I heard it. I heard them. I heard you. I think everything was heard in that time - every word bustling in and out of our memories; yes, everything was heard but what my heart knew at its very core.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
I decide I have you figured out - finally after all these years - and then you say something about my eyes. You say something about my eyes that is so raw and open it couldn't possibly be a fallacy. Where are you trying to fit me, I want to ask. Just what shelf, exactly, am I to rest upon? And then I remember that resting was never really a strong suit of ours - we believed only weakness to be in the resting.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. You are not my redemption.
I wonder if you're consumed by this in the same way I am - does it stutter your speech? Does it come near to infiltrating all your interactions? Can you breathe?
You are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out . . .
I don't think I ever permitted myself to bury this - reaction - between you and me. There was no mourning march, no dirt thrown over a box that once held a soul impassioned. This has never been buried - it just gets shoved to the side only to be brought back to life every "solitary" time we are eye to eye. There has been no burial.
You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room . . .
How are you still so gentle? After the fires you've passed through? And how am I so open to it? After being burnt? We are completely separate and then we are in proximity and then we are too close for comfort. But there is comfort - in the separation, the proximity, the ways in which we cannot avoid each other. You should not be this comfort.
You are not my redemption . . .
It's strange - how in a seconds time I can be in the darkness of those four walls, sensing your movement before it becomes an action, matching your breathing chest rise to chest fall. In just one second I can describe the smell of your skin - it's salty, with hints of lemon, and the deep inescapable truth that you are no longer that boy I thought I knew once, but a man I may never be familiar with. I'd like to think you think of me as a wine - a biting heat to swerve a bad day better. But who really knows if you think of me at all.
You are not . . .
Ain't no talking to this man . . .
We are grown now - and what will that ever mean for either of us when we are making decisions like young kids? I just know one thing and it is the same as what I knew then - I cannot say no to you - I've never been able to say no to you. And in that dark room - I swear I became light.
But, you are not my redemption.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
You're 25
Life is mystifying to me; I find that the older I get I am on a perpetual precipice of holding more clarity in my hands and fighting off multi-colored cloudiness. Each day I wake up and find myself thinking "you're 25 - where ya gonna go, girl? Whatchya gonna do?"
I am 25 and in the middle of the country - I am continually trying to figure just where my heart lies - in the country or in the city? And just what does that day about me, hmmm?
I stand before students with a desire to change a cycle that they're not even aware they are apart of yet and I'm asking them to attempt at definitions; are you city or country? Are you respectful or disrespectful? Will you be the change in the classroom that your teachers need you to be? And who am I even? Just where do I fit into all those requests. They know no more about how their hearts will come to define them than I do.
Control is something that has begun to wane more than wax lately - my need for it, my anxiety over it - which is remarkable. And horrifying. Without this need for control just where will my time be well spent? Perhaps in working on my very own defining.
I wake up each day and think a plethora of ideas and dreams and beg a multitude of questions, but it all seems to come down to this...
You're 25 and you live at home with mom and dad - it's not always ideal, but it is home. You still want your mom when you feel sick, you can't really cook all that well, but your baking skills aren't bad - perhaps this explains that self esteem issue you have. You believe in snail mail, you have a heart for The Lord and struggle with His timing and plans every single day. You live in the middle of nowhere and most of the time it's okay - except when you're filling your gas tank, again, for the third time in one week.
You're 25 and are still finding out what true friends look, smell, and feel like - your familiarity of the type of friend you are to others becomes clearer in each passing moment and yet you find yourself looking out the passenger side window of that blue car wondering if you'll ever really get it right anyway... And while you're looking out the window hoping with a desperation that smells of baby's breath and bacon you see an X in the sky. Family defines you - at 16, at 18, at 25.
You're 25 and relationships have fallen by the way side and flourished beautifully with a different counterpart. The scars of your attempts of regaining your footing are deep and winding and still you are left wanting. Wanting and praying and waiting.
You're 25 and your eyes are still that same fiery color they were when you were three and your hair still pains you the way it did back before death stained the pages of prayer journals and your talks with Jesus.
You're 25, standing before a tall pine tree that's always been called yours wondering what is to come and what will become and all the while you're missing people you never thought you'd have to miss in the first place, but then it starts to feel normal... But who really knows what normal feels like anyway.
You're 25. And in what will seem like a few short hours you will be 26.
I am 25 and in the middle of the country - I am continually trying to figure just where my heart lies - in the country or in the city? And just what does that day about me, hmmm?
I stand before students with a desire to change a cycle that they're not even aware they are apart of yet and I'm asking them to attempt at definitions; are you city or country? Are you respectful or disrespectful? Will you be the change in the classroom that your teachers need you to be? And who am I even? Just where do I fit into all those requests. They know no more about how their hearts will come to define them than I do.
Control is something that has begun to wane more than wax lately - my need for it, my anxiety over it - which is remarkable. And horrifying. Without this need for control just where will my time be well spent? Perhaps in working on my very own defining.
I wake up each day and think a plethora of ideas and dreams and beg a multitude of questions, but it all seems to come down to this...
You're 25 and you live at home with mom and dad - it's not always ideal, but it is home. You still want your mom when you feel sick, you can't really cook all that well, but your baking skills aren't bad - perhaps this explains that self esteem issue you have. You believe in snail mail, you have a heart for The Lord and struggle with His timing and plans every single day. You live in the middle of nowhere and most of the time it's okay - except when you're filling your gas tank, again, for the third time in one week.
You're 25 and are still finding out what true friends look, smell, and feel like - your familiarity of the type of friend you are to others becomes clearer in each passing moment and yet you find yourself looking out the passenger side window of that blue car wondering if you'll ever really get it right anyway... And while you're looking out the window hoping with a desperation that smells of baby's breath and bacon you see an X in the sky. Family defines you - at 16, at 18, at 25.
You're 25 and relationships have fallen by the way side and flourished beautifully with a different counterpart. The scars of your attempts of regaining your footing are deep and winding and still you are left wanting. Wanting and praying and waiting.
You're 25 and your eyes are still that same fiery color they were when you were three and your hair still pains you the way it did back before death stained the pages of prayer journals and your talks with Jesus.
You're 25, standing before a tall pine tree that's always been called yours wondering what is to come and what will become and all the while you're missing people you never thought you'd have to miss in the first place, but then it starts to feel normal... But who really knows what normal feels like anyway.
You're 25. And in what will seem like a few short hours you will be 26.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Making No Apologies
I have a confession to make . . . my tongue gets me in trouble sometimes. You see, I'm mouthy; I open my mouth before I think of what might come out; I react in the heat of moments instead of taking a couple collective moments; I have no filter.
As I've grown older the filter hasn't been as wide - an occasional 'on the whim' thought will be caught before it leaves the confinement of my mouth. There is, however, the unavoidable truth that while the filter may be decreasing in accessibility, the dryness of my humor has only started to harden and crack.
And I've got to be honest, I've never seen it as a problem before. In fact, I've always somewhat prided myself on my quick wit, on my ability to make others laugh at my own expense, on being a smart, funny woman.
Until I wasn't.
Until I was being told my "sassiness" was difficult to handle. Up until this particular time I had never seen sassy as anything but a compliment. Turns out not everyone likes a quick tongued gal.
My apologies to all you men out there that haven't had the fortune of dating a sassy sister; I'm deeply apologetic about your boring choices.
Only, looking back, I wasn't acting sorry - I was acting retroactively; I found myself becoming apologetic about my humor, my wit, my self. I found myself attempting to become someone that I'd never known - I was looking at a girl in the process of being broken.
Days later this same person began to throw my insecurities at me like baseballs being pitched for the World Series; hot, stinging, fast accusatory balls of - wait for it - everything I had owned up to, and warned about, from the beginning.
When I think back to that conversation I am reminded of a quote I found the other day:
I'm quirky, silly, blunt, and broken. My days are sometimes too dark and my nights are sometimes too long. I often trip over my own insecurities. I require attention, long for passion, and wish to be desired. I use music to speak when words fail me, even though words are as important to me as the air I breathe. I love hard and with all that I have . . . and even with my faults, I am worth loving.
I wish I could say that what I said was as eloquent as that, but the premise was similar. I am not easy. I have baggage. I am insecure - ridiculously so, sometimes.
And still I received accusations flagged with what seemed to be surprise.
Here is my big question, though. At what point, as injured, struggling people did we have to start making justifications for our own human-ness? When, exactly, did the fulfillment of the human condition stop being, quite possibly, the most beautiful pieces about ourselves and start being the weapons used against us?
I think about the people who have become a daily part of my life and just what it is that makes me so damn wild about them; let me tell you, friends, it is absolutely, unequivocally never because they are perfect or easy to love every single minute of every day. It is almost always because they've been injured, they've been a witness to struggle, they've owned up to being flawed.
Because that's just it, isn't it? We are struggling every day - each one of us - we're fighting for something, we're standing up against something, we are being broken down. Every. Day.
I don't want perfection. I don't even want near it. I am hard and calloused and needy and scarred - and if we can't find the beauty of the pain in each other, what in the hell are we doing, anyway?
I am mouthy, my tongue gets me in trouble - I am opinionated, I am deeply insecure, I have been knocked down. And I make no apologies.
I am a broken girl, but by no means will I allow anyone to break me.
Emma Lazarus wrote a sonnet once called "The New Colossus" and it ends like this:
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .
the homeless, the tempest-tost to me . . ."
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .
That sounds perfectly imperfect to me . . . Are you in?
As I've grown older the filter hasn't been as wide - an occasional 'on the whim' thought will be caught before it leaves the confinement of my mouth. There is, however, the unavoidable truth that while the filter may be decreasing in accessibility, the dryness of my humor has only started to harden and crack.
And I've got to be honest, I've never seen it as a problem before. In fact, I've always somewhat prided myself on my quick wit, on my ability to make others laugh at my own expense, on being a smart, funny woman.
Until I wasn't.
Until I was being told my "sassiness" was difficult to handle. Up until this particular time I had never seen sassy as anything but a compliment. Turns out not everyone likes a quick tongued gal.
My apologies to all you men out there that haven't had the fortune of dating a sassy sister; I'm deeply apologetic about your boring choices.
Only, looking back, I wasn't acting sorry - I was acting retroactively; I found myself becoming apologetic about my humor, my wit, my self. I found myself attempting to become someone that I'd never known - I was looking at a girl in the process of being broken.
Days later this same person began to throw my insecurities at me like baseballs being pitched for the World Series; hot, stinging, fast accusatory balls of - wait for it - everything I had owned up to, and warned about, from the beginning.
When I think back to that conversation I am reminded of a quote I found the other day:
I'm quirky, silly, blunt, and broken. My days are sometimes too dark and my nights are sometimes too long. I often trip over my own insecurities. I require attention, long for passion, and wish to be desired. I use music to speak when words fail me, even though words are as important to me as the air I breathe. I love hard and with all that I have . . . and even with my faults, I am worth loving.
I wish I could say that what I said was as eloquent as that, but the premise was similar. I am not easy. I have baggage. I am insecure - ridiculously so, sometimes.
And still I received accusations flagged with what seemed to be surprise.
Here is my big question, though. At what point, as injured, struggling people did we have to start making justifications for our own human-ness? When, exactly, did the fulfillment of the human condition stop being, quite possibly, the most beautiful pieces about ourselves and start being the weapons used against us?
I think about the people who have become a daily part of my life and just what it is that makes me so damn wild about them; let me tell you, friends, it is absolutely, unequivocally never because they are perfect or easy to love every single minute of every day. It is almost always because they've been injured, they've been a witness to struggle, they've owned up to being flawed.
Because that's just it, isn't it? We are struggling every day - each one of us - we're fighting for something, we're standing up against something, we are being broken down. Every. Day.
I don't want perfection. I don't even want near it. I am hard and calloused and needy and scarred - and if we can't find the beauty of the pain in each other, what in the hell are we doing, anyway?
I am mouthy, my tongue gets me in trouble - I am opinionated, I am deeply insecure, I have been knocked down. And I make no apologies.
I am a broken girl, but by no means will I allow anyone to break me.
Emma Lazarus wrote a sonnet once called "The New Colossus" and it ends like this:
"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .
the homeless, the tempest-tost to me . . ."
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .
That sounds perfectly imperfect to me . . . Are you in?
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
On the Tides of Tribulation
So, it's been a while. It's been quite a long while. There have been changes - many, many changes in my life and with each change I kept thinking to myself, "you'll have more time to write now," "you really should start writing daily, again," "okay, Steph, keep your promise to yourself and get started with the writing again." And I think we can all see how wonderfully those mini pep talks to myself turned out . . . because it's been a long while.
With each change or minor bump in the radar I could feel God nudging my heart as if to say, "whatchya waiting on, girl?" and, like I often do (I am terribly ashamed to write this out) I turned my ear away from the nudge, I insisted I would make the time another day, I blatantly ignored His supreme suggestions. And then, like He must often do with such a stubborn, hard headed child such as myself, He had to start chucking baseballs at my head, He had to start swinging and hitting His aim, (read my heart) and He had to start raising His voice a little. Let me just say this, ahem, I never claimed to be an easy person. NEVER.
This past weekend He really pulled out all the stops, brought out the big guns, took aim, and hit directly, in the center of my heart. It hurt, bad, and I am broken; I am deeply wounded and confused and struggling and I am thankful.
You see, I met a boy . . . and isn't that how it always starts?
I met a boy and I opened up and laid it all out and I even started to let myself think this might turn into something - like something real for the first time in about 3 years. And in the process of daydreaming about no longer having to date and worry and fret I lost sight of Him. I forgot about the promises I'd made to my heart and my spirit and my Father; I left far, far, far behind me the prayers I whispered and wrote about wanting a man to push me into my faith, not out of it.
So there I was, deep in the throes of liking this man and forgetting about THE man, and I was shoved face first into the muckiness of being cheated on, lied to, and belittled. I won't go into the details - mostly because I don't need to - you all know what it's like to hurt, right? This is the most hurt I think I've ever hurt over a man, ever. So I took that hurt and I allowed it to feed into being supremely pissed - at myself for believing what he was saying to me, at myself for losing sight and allowing myself to be manipulated, and at God for creating a situation in which I was let down, again.
Suggestions of getting in my Bible and praying were gently lobbed at me by friends and family, but I knew better; I wasn't going to pray, I was going to stay angry; I wasn't going to be in my Bible, I was going to get on Pinterest. That'll show Him, I thought.
What did I pin, you ask? Well, these were the first three pins I saw - and that was that.
I am fairly certain that the Bible left out one key message in the Creation story; it probably went something like this:
And on the seventh day, while He was resting, He laughed. Hard.
Who, exactly, do we think we are, guys? PINTEREST?! I was going to shove it to my Father by getting on Pinterest instead of getting on my Bible. Who had the last word? I assure you it's never me, in these sorts of situations.
In this day and age of Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest it has occurred to me that so many people, myself included, look to their social media devices as their God, as their religion, instead of opening up the good book and listening with an open heart.
Last Friday I attended a night of prayer with two of the most incredible people I've ever met and one section of the prayer was to ask for perseverance; the Pastor stood before us and said he wanted to remind us that we should be prepared because when we ask for perseverance we will likely be handed tribulation in order to get to the perseverance. I heard those words on Friday night, I prayed for perseverance in His sight on that same night, too. And on Saturday morning I was met with a swift test, I was met with my tribulation.
I'm persevering. I am in the midst of perseverance.
With each change or minor bump in the radar I could feel God nudging my heart as if to say, "whatchya waiting on, girl?" and, like I often do (I am terribly ashamed to write this out) I turned my ear away from the nudge, I insisted I would make the time another day, I blatantly ignored His supreme suggestions. And then, like He must often do with such a stubborn, hard headed child such as myself, He had to start chucking baseballs at my head, He had to start swinging and hitting His aim, (read my heart) and He had to start raising His voice a little. Let me just say this, ahem, I never claimed to be an easy person. NEVER.
This past weekend He really pulled out all the stops, brought out the big guns, took aim, and hit directly, in the center of my heart. It hurt, bad, and I am broken; I am deeply wounded and confused and struggling and I am thankful.
You see, I met a boy . . . and isn't that how it always starts?
I met a boy and I opened up and laid it all out and I even started to let myself think this might turn into something - like something real for the first time in about 3 years. And in the process of daydreaming about no longer having to date and worry and fret I lost sight of Him. I forgot about the promises I'd made to my heart and my spirit and my Father; I left far, far, far behind me the prayers I whispered and wrote about wanting a man to push me into my faith, not out of it.
So there I was, deep in the throes of liking this man and forgetting about THE man, and I was shoved face first into the muckiness of being cheated on, lied to, and belittled. I won't go into the details - mostly because I don't need to - you all know what it's like to hurt, right? This is the most hurt I think I've ever hurt over a man, ever. So I took that hurt and I allowed it to feed into being supremely pissed - at myself for believing what he was saying to me, at myself for losing sight and allowing myself to be manipulated, and at God for creating a situation in which I was let down, again.
Suggestions of getting in my Bible and praying were gently lobbed at me by friends and family, but I knew better; I wasn't going to pray, I was going to stay angry; I wasn't going to be in my Bible, I was going to get on Pinterest. That'll show Him, I thought.
What did I pin, you ask? Well, these were the first three pins I saw - and that was that.
I am fairly certain that the Bible left out one key message in the Creation story; it probably went something like this:
And on the seventh day, while He was resting, He laughed. Hard.
Who, exactly, do we think we are, guys? PINTEREST?! I was going to shove it to my Father by getting on Pinterest instead of getting on my Bible. Who had the last word? I assure you it's never me, in these sorts of situations.
In this day and age of Facebook and Twitter and Pinterest it has occurred to me that so many people, myself included, look to their social media devices as their God, as their religion, instead of opening up the good book and listening with an open heart.
Last Friday I attended a night of prayer with two of the most incredible people I've ever met and one section of the prayer was to ask for perseverance; the Pastor stood before us and said he wanted to remind us that we should be prepared because when we ask for perseverance we will likely be handed tribulation in order to get to the perseverance. I heard those words on Friday night, I prayed for perseverance in His sight on that same night, too. And on Saturday morning I was met with a swift test, I was met with my tribulation.
I'm persevering. I am in the midst of perseverance.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Cheers, Darlin'
"Write drunk; edit sober." -Hemingway
When I first came across this quote I got really excited - I've been looking for something writing related for a new tattoo and nothing was quite fitting the idea of what I wanted . . . until I saw this, that is.
Write drunk; edit sober - it is quite a noble concept, for me. I am a firm believer in the idea of one's drunk words being their sober thoughts. Anyone who knows me well, and has been lucky enough to be a witness to the shenanigans alcohol provides for me, will tell you that I am a much, much, much more forward version of myself in every aspect. I loosely hand out my number, I dance without inhibition, I've confessed secret, ridiculous crushes, and we are not going to even get into what the drunk texting may or may not have looked like on those weekends where I should've said no to just one more shot of tequila. But isn't that somewhat refreshing every once and a while? Anyone with me out there? Shouldn't everyone get to go out on a weekend with their friends and just be? No concern of how I may or may not look, no concern of who may or may not see me dancing in this way, no concern, period, other than to have a good time.
I've thought about this quote, and thought about this quote, and thought about this quote some more; I've considered the idea that this quote is simply about alcohol consumption - that, perhaps, Hemingway created his brilliance in the haze of an amber colored drink, but this just doesn't sit well with me. Perhaps he did - I guess it's logical that he very well may have written while totally shit-faced for most of his career, but is that what this is really about?
As someone who has a degree in writing, and most recently, has become a published writer through a local newspaper, I find myself at odds with the inner voice that just. won't. go. away. She's always telling me I don't know what I'm doing - even though I've a degree and portfolio to demonstrate otherwise; she's always telling me I'll never succeed in this field - even though I've a paper sitting on my kitchen table this minute with MY name and work on the front page; she's always just yammering - on, and on, and on about how I think I may know what I'm doing, but, really, bitch? Do you really know what you're doing? And so, thanks to this little voice that incessantly spoon feeds self-doubt straight to my heart, I spend every second I am before a blank notebook page or before this computer screen questioning everything I'm pumping out - does that make sense? Will I offend someone? Is anyone going to even frigging read this?! And then I come back to Hemingway's words, I come back to the idea that this could just be a quote from a drunk man about drunk writing that happened to make him a legend - and then I fluff up my shoulders, I bitch slap that little voice in my head, and I say no!
Hemingway may have, in part, meant his words to be a token of advice for entire generations of writers to come, but that isn't everything I take away from them.
If I can take a couple of shots and start to be forthright with my feelings then perhaps I can start to become forthright with the deepest seeds of what my writing needs to put on the page.
I sit with my pencil, or with my fingers hovering over keyboard keys, and I think compulsively about what I'm about to put out in the universe before I do it and, more often than not, I end up not putting it out there for fear of what it may reveal about me, what it may say about my upbringing, how it could affect the people that read it. But, what if I wrote "drunk?" Not throwing back drinks drunk, but what if I just did what was on my heart? What if I just laid it all out on the page to just lay it out and then go back and edit? Why am I editing my thoughts and actions before they even become thoughts and actions?
Writing drunk isn't just writing - it's living. I'm not talking alcoholism, here, I'm talking about living the life that makes you feel best, saying what your heart needs to say, and just being what you need to be. This is your life, this is my life - and it's our only one.
So I'll get this tattooed on my body - to remind myself of the kind of writer I wish to be, to remind myself that writing, and living "drunk" isn't as scary or harmful as I once thought it was, to remind myself that this life isn't going to wait for me to step up and start living it.
Cheers to that . . .
When I first came across this quote I got really excited - I've been looking for something writing related for a new tattoo and nothing was quite fitting the idea of what I wanted . . . until I saw this, that is.
Write drunk; edit sober - it is quite a noble concept, for me. I am a firm believer in the idea of one's drunk words being their sober thoughts. Anyone who knows me well, and has been lucky enough to be a witness to the shenanigans alcohol provides for me, will tell you that I am a much, much, much more forward version of myself in every aspect. I loosely hand out my number, I dance without inhibition, I've confessed secret, ridiculous crushes, and we are not going to even get into what the drunk texting may or may not have looked like on those weekends where I should've said no to just one more shot of tequila. But isn't that somewhat refreshing every once and a while? Anyone with me out there? Shouldn't everyone get to go out on a weekend with their friends and just be? No concern of how I may or may not look, no concern of who may or may not see me dancing in this way, no concern, period, other than to have a good time.
I've thought about this quote, and thought about this quote, and thought about this quote some more; I've considered the idea that this quote is simply about alcohol consumption - that, perhaps, Hemingway created his brilliance in the haze of an amber colored drink, but this just doesn't sit well with me. Perhaps he did - I guess it's logical that he very well may have written while totally shit-faced for most of his career, but is that what this is really about?
As someone who has a degree in writing, and most recently, has become a published writer through a local newspaper, I find myself at odds with the inner voice that just. won't. go. away. She's always telling me I don't know what I'm doing - even though I've a degree and portfolio to demonstrate otherwise; she's always telling me I'll never succeed in this field - even though I've a paper sitting on my kitchen table this minute with MY name and work on the front page; she's always just yammering - on, and on, and on about how I think I may know what I'm doing, but, really, bitch? Do you really know what you're doing? And so, thanks to this little voice that incessantly spoon feeds self-doubt straight to my heart, I spend every second I am before a blank notebook page or before this computer screen questioning everything I'm pumping out - does that make sense? Will I offend someone? Is anyone going to even frigging read this?! And then I come back to Hemingway's words, I come back to the idea that this could just be a quote from a drunk man about drunk writing that happened to make him a legend - and then I fluff up my shoulders, I bitch slap that little voice in my head, and I say no!
Hemingway may have, in part, meant his words to be a token of advice for entire generations of writers to come, but that isn't everything I take away from them.
If I can take a couple of shots and start to be forthright with my feelings then perhaps I can start to become forthright with the deepest seeds of what my writing needs to put on the page.
I sit with my pencil, or with my fingers hovering over keyboard keys, and I think compulsively about what I'm about to put out in the universe before I do it and, more often than not, I end up not putting it out there for fear of what it may reveal about me, what it may say about my upbringing, how it could affect the people that read it. But, what if I wrote "drunk?" Not throwing back drinks drunk, but what if I just did what was on my heart? What if I just laid it all out on the page to just lay it out and then go back and edit? Why am I editing my thoughts and actions before they even become thoughts and actions?
Writing drunk isn't just writing - it's living. I'm not talking alcoholism, here, I'm talking about living the life that makes you feel best, saying what your heart needs to say, and just being what you need to be. This is your life, this is my life - and it's our only one.
So I'll get this tattooed on my body - to remind myself of the kind of writer I wish to be, to remind myself that writing, and living "drunk" isn't as scary or harmful as I once thought it was, to remind myself that this life isn't going to wait for me to step up and start living it.
Cheers to that . . .
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Defining Moment
Working with kids is hard. Some of you are parents, so you know how trying these little beings can be. I was a nanny for about six years before I graduated college, but I truly was blessed with children that listened when I spoke, did what I asked them, and showered me with love and affection.
I took a job with East End Community Services in August that would allow me to go to an elementary school everyday and serve bright eyed seven year olds all day. I walked in thinking I had the experience that was required - I would even go as far as to say I was cocky about the experience I was walking in with. It took about thirty minutes for that cocky facade to be shot right in the center and continue to splinter, and splinter, and splinter. I repeat - working with kids is hard.
In my first week I was quickly informed of what students were being raised by grandparents due to incarceration or death of biological parents. I was quickly informed of which of these beautiful babies was going through therapy or being medicated for molestation. I was quickly informed of which students might need some more love, some extra care because of the lack of safety they were coming from. In my first week I realized I was no longer in the middle of cornfields and a town of farmers.
There have been significant times in my adult life in which I've considered what I might say to my younger self, had I been armed with the correct knowledge. What might I say to the little seven year old who had to wear sports bras because precocious puberty had snatched her childish frame away from her? What words of wisdom would I have for the thirteen year old child who let a boy verbally berate her at every turn? What could I give to the sixteen year old who thought for sure she couldn't learn anymore about herself than in that specific year?
I come back to these moments so much more now that I am watching seven year olds find themselves and learn how to be. I watch young girls flex their muscles at being the queen bees and the wannabes. I am a witness to young crushes and hurt feelings when those crushes aren't reciprocated. I see attitudes form and flourish as nothing more than mechanisms of defense for what they face at home. I see personalities developing, internal wars being waged, burdens being shifted so they may become lighter and I start to think - what can I say to them that will make this all seem easier? What wisdom can I impart to show them this isn't it? What could I give them to ease some pain?
The same thing I would have said to myself all those years ago when I was seven, the same thing I would have said to myself a few years later when I was thirteen, what I should have said to myself at twenty-one : there's more, you'll find strength, life is about change.
I wish I could take these precious kids home with me and love on them until they realized how precious and treasured they are, but I can't. So I will set out everyday trying to make them realize that today does not define you, tomorrow does not define you, this moment will not define you.
You define you.
I took a job with East End Community Services in August that would allow me to go to an elementary school everyday and serve bright eyed seven year olds all day. I walked in thinking I had the experience that was required - I would even go as far as to say I was cocky about the experience I was walking in with. It took about thirty minutes for that cocky facade to be shot right in the center and continue to splinter, and splinter, and splinter. I repeat - working with kids is hard.
In my first week I was quickly informed of what students were being raised by grandparents due to incarceration or death of biological parents. I was quickly informed of which of these beautiful babies was going through therapy or being medicated for molestation. I was quickly informed of which students might need some more love, some extra care because of the lack of safety they were coming from. In my first week I realized I was no longer in the middle of cornfields and a town of farmers.
There have been significant times in my adult life in which I've considered what I might say to my younger self, had I been armed with the correct knowledge. What might I say to the little seven year old who had to wear sports bras because precocious puberty had snatched her childish frame away from her? What words of wisdom would I have for the thirteen year old child who let a boy verbally berate her at every turn? What could I give to the sixteen year old who thought for sure she couldn't learn anymore about herself than in that specific year?
I come back to these moments so much more now that I am watching seven year olds find themselves and learn how to be. I watch young girls flex their muscles at being the queen bees and the wannabes. I am a witness to young crushes and hurt feelings when those crushes aren't reciprocated. I see attitudes form and flourish as nothing more than mechanisms of defense for what they face at home. I see personalities developing, internal wars being waged, burdens being shifted so they may become lighter and I start to think - what can I say to them that will make this all seem easier? What wisdom can I impart to show them this isn't it? What could I give them to ease some pain?
The same thing I would have said to myself all those years ago when I was seven, the same thing I would have said to myself a few years later when I was thirteen, what I should have said to myself at twenty-one : there's more, you'll find strength, life is about change.
I wish I could take these precious kids home with me and love on them until they realized how precious and treasured they are, but I can't. So I will set out everyday trying to make them realize that today does not define you, tomorrow does not define you, this moment will not define you.
You define you.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Great Divide
The Continental Divide of the Americas, or merely the Continental Gulf of Division or Great Divide, is the name given to the principal, and largely mountainous, hydrological divide of the Americas, that is, the continental divide that separates the watersheds that drain into the Pacific Ocean from those river systems that drain into the Atlantic Ocean.
I suppose I've probably been aware of the Continental Divide since I started learning about geography in school, but I don't think I've been aware of the sort of majesty that occurs within the Divide until this year.
I was listening to the radio one day, it was K-Love on this particular day, and the DJs were talking about the Continental Divide and the ways in which it mirrored how people of faith often found themselves; we can grow up in a community of faith with another person, or a group of people, and we will find ourselves in the exact same place at the exact same time and with one event, in a split second, we will diverge from where we once stood together. The water is at once a united body and in seconds will move toward the Pacific or toward the Atlantic. I found myself considering the multitude of reasons this would happen - is it the direction in which the wind blows that moves the water one way or another? Is it a death or a misstep that takes a person of faith from the path they are on into a diverged arena?
Let's take this concept and remove the faith part. It is quite possible that in this very moment, you and I are in the same arenas of our lives - 25, college graduate, single, and hard working; what will happen tonight or in the early hours before the sun stretches her arms over the hill that will take one of us out of that particular game?
As I completed my drive that morning I thought about the Continental Divide and how, whether anyone else may think of it this way or not, it was this sort of mystical, natural happening that most people probably never gave much thought to. And then I realized . . . our entire lives are stretching over, on, and around continental divides everyday; there are the physical Continental divides that exist that people may live near, but we are continually detouring our lives around emotional continental divides.
Growing up I remember my mom saying she would never forget where she was when JFK was assassinated; in those moments it seemed an odd thing to remember, but then my generation experienced 9/11 and it all became so clear; now we had a specific moment in history in which we will never be allotted the opportunity to forget where we were when the sky went black while the sun still shone. Eight grade American History with Mr. Greher was never the same. This was a continental divide. Up until that point I had never been confronted with tragedy and for days, weeks even, after, I felt this impending devastation over lost lives of which I wouldn't know existed had the attacks not happened in the first place. Not only will I never forget that day because of what it meant for our country, but I will never forget it because it was in those quick minutes that I realized life was not untouchable and that everything can change in a matter of seconds.
Everyday I find myself faced with the opportunity to learn something new, gain wisdom, teach a lesson, show someone compassion. Everyday I am on the precipice of a divide - which way will the water flow? Which direction will my choices lead me? What sort of person will I become as a result of this divide?
Growing up I remember thinking if this person isn't in my life forever I don't know what I'll do and then I grew up some more and in some instances, those people weren't a part of my life anymore, and it was sad and it was hard and I still don't always understand it, but if those people hadn't made an exit, the divide would have gone a different way and I wouldn't be who I am in this moment.
Change scares me - I am not one to shy away from admitting that, but in the past year and a half I have realized that if change didn't occur, if divides did not transpire, then I would be this stagnant version of myself in my life; I wouldn't have the friends I have now, I wouldn't have the beliefs that make me who I am, I wouldn't be the type of friend, daughter, sister, or mentor that the people around me have come to expect.
As I type this there is a continental divide moving one body of water into two and there are moments looming in my future that will both make me and break me. But that's the beauty of it, right? If nothing changed, if nothing transformed, if nothing was broken - there would be no growth, there would be no revelation, there would be no healing.
The Continental Divide. The Great Divide. These moments of tragedy, of trial, of devastation - they diverge into greatness. How these moments divide us? It's our choice.
I suppose I've probably been aware of the Continental Divide since I started learning about geography in school, but I don't think I've been aware of the sort of majesty that occurs within the Divide until this year.
I was listening to the radio one day, it was K-Love on this particular day, and the DJs were talking about the Continental Divide and the ways in which it mirrored how people of faith often found themselves; we can grow up in a community of faith with another person, or a group of people, and we will find ourselves in the exact same place at the exact same time and with one event, in a split second, we will diverge from where we once stood together. The water is at once a united body and in seconds will move toward the Pacific or toward the Atlantic. I found myself considering the multitude of reasons this would happen - is it the direction in which the wind blows that moves the water one way or another? Is it a death or a misstep that takes a person of faith from the path they are on into a diverged arena?
Let's take this concept and remove the faith part. It is quite possible that in this very moment, you and I are in the same arenas of our lives - 25, college graduate, single, and hard working; what will happen tonight or in the early hours before the sun stretches her arms over the hill that will take one of us out of that particular game?
As I completed my drive that morning I thought about the Continental Divide and how, whether anyone else may think of it this way or not, it was this sort of mystical, natural happening that most people probably never gave much thought to. And then I realized . . . our entire lives are stretching over, on, and around continental divides everyday; there are the physical Continental divides that exist that people may live near, but we are continually detouring our lives around emotional continental divides.
Growing up I remember my mom saying she would never forget where she was when JFK was assassinated; in those moments it seemed an odd thing to remember, but then my generation experienced 9/11 and it all became so clear; now we had a specific moment in history in which we will never be allotted the opportunity to forget where we were when the sky went black while the sun still shone. Eight grade American History with Mr. Greher was never the same. This was a continental divide. Up until that point I had never been confronted with tragedy and for days, weeks even, after, I felt this impending devastation over lost lives of which I wouldn't know existed had the attacks not happened in the first place. Not only will I never forget that day because of what it meant for our country, but I will never forget it because it was in those quick minutes that I realized life was not untouchable and that everything can change in a matter of seconds.
Everyday I find myself faced with the opportunity to learn something new, gain wisdom, teach a lesson, show someone compassion. Everyday I am on the precipice of a divide - which way will the water flow? Which direction will my choices lead me? What sort of person will I become as a result of this divide?
Growing up I remember thinking if this person isn't in my life forever I don't know what I'll do and then I grew up some more and in some instances, those people weren't a part of my life anymore, and it was sad and it was hard and I still don't always understand it, but if those people hadn't made an exit, the divide would have gone a different way and I wouldn't be who I am in this moment.
Change scares me - I am not one to shy away from admitting that, but in the past year and a half I have realized that if change didn't occur, if divides did not transpire, then I would be this stagnant version of myself in my life; I wouldn't have the friends I have now, I wouldn't have the beliefs that make me who I am, I wouldn't be the type of friend, daughter, sister, or mentor that the people around me have come to expect.
As I type this there is a continental divide moving one body of water into two and there are moments looming in my future that will both make me and break me. But that's the beauty of it, right? If nothing changed, if nothing transformed, if nothing was broken - there would be no growth, there would be no revelation, there would be no healing.
The Continental Divide. The Great Divide. These moments of tragedy, of trial, of devastation - they diverge into greatness. How these moments divide us? It's our choice.
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