There is something about the whir of the mixer and the small puffs of flour attempting at escape as I mix in the hard things.
I find myself here often - before my countertop; grains of white scattered on the front of my shirt, whispered into my hair, covering surfaces of my kitchen. There is nothing neat about pouring flesh feelings into a mixing bowl and beating them into submission.
I feel the heat of the stove, gently nudging me to let me know its ready. There is patience to be found in the mixing, the scooping, the waiting for the perfect confection to yield to your demands of bake mastery.
Many times I've rushed it - wanting to get to the best part of consumption and they are left burnt and crispy on the bottom. There is not satisfaction in working toward something in a rush only to be met with the realization that you pushed before it was really time.
I look down at my tshirt and see a trail of dry ingredients reminding me there are many parts that go into the creation of something sweet. It must not be rushed, we cannot skip over parts - there is beauty in that, ya know.
I drop semi-sweet chocolate chips down into the bowl and consider that they may hold tiny fragments of my frustration and this is my will to eradicate such feelings from a choke-hold.
I spoon the mixture onto foiled pans and whisper to myself to do small increments at a time - you don't want to ruin this batch.
As the second tick past I feel a tightness in my chest dissolve and then catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. The hair, the eyes, the counter space - it is wild. The life is wild.
And I laugh.
Because there is growth in the waiting.
Lessons lie in the cohesion of separates.
The heat of these things will make us rise.
Here's to the rising.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Sunday, February 1, 2015
A Letter to the Tension (Staying and Leaving)
I sat in a pew today at church scribbling furiously to keep up with the message being delivered from the front when you came up. He said your name and I held my favorite black pen, hovering, above the page waiting for the memories of what comes with you to become a little fuzzy, again, in my brain. I can't seem to make the two of you go away, so please know my preference is to simply view you both with the eyes of someone who is in desperate need of aid to see clearly.
Sometimes I'm not sure what hurts more - to view it all clearly and know it can never be what I've asked for time and time, again, or to view it all fuzzy and be left behind with a headache and the reverberating question of why, why, why?
Tension.
There you were. Open wide and pouring salt into the wound as you traipsed onto my journal page.
You never keep your promises.
Do I leave behind the girl who found freedom in the letting go? Do I stay and hope that you'll eventually hastily exit and he will finally mean everything that he says? The air is laced heavy with your slithering lies disguised as hope.
And that's what it all boils down to. You are in disguise. I say I won't let you give me hope, won't hear what is said, only just nodding and keeping a full smile at bay - because you often leave a trail for me to find what I think I want only to collect it all up again before completion.
I'm not always sure what I want.
That feeds you, I know. It is the proverbial gasoline to your flame. I imagine you dancing back and forth, back and forth, as I create space and time and then lean full into the fallback. You dance circles around the knowledge that my desire goes on unrealizing what it is I deserve.
Joy is not the roof over the leaving or the staying. It is a wayward, poorly produced roof, laced with indecision and longing; it is saddled with words I pray for and words he plays with; it is a roof made of leaks and stains from the wounds.
You're really not welcome -- mostly because I know you should be irrelevant. I know what I should be doing. I know who I am now compared to that girl I was so many years ago. She is pieced together with the strength I've built within myself today. Lingering moments of naiveté creep in and I believe I have a decision to make.
I don't.
The quicker you dissipate the quicker I can get back to knowing that I don't deserve what lies on the other side of the leaving. I didn't deserve it all those years ago, either.
You can stay. Lie low within the ribcage of someone else.
I need my freedom. It is found in the leaving.
Sometimes I'm not sure what hurts more - to view it all clearly and know it can never be what I've asked for time and time, again, or to view it all fuzzy and be left behind with a headache and the reverberating question of why, why, why?
Tension.
There you were. Open wide and pouring salt into the wound as you traipsed onto my journal page.
Paul has a tension between wanting to go to Jesus and staying with the Philippians. What the cup over this tension is, is his contentment in whatever he will be called to do.
(What is my tension?)
(Is joy cupping over my tension?)You see, Paul and I have this in common -- a tension over leaving or staying. To leave behind who I was, who I have been, or to stay within the strangled confines of a label I crafted myself. You are right there in the thick of the middle of it; you are the heat that threatens to burn, but promises to warm, simultaneously.
You never keep your promises.
Do I leave behind the girl who found freedom in the letting go? Do I stay and hope that you'll eventually hastily exit and he will finally mean everything that he says? The air is laced heavy with your slithering lies disguised as hope.
And that's what it all boils down to. You are in disguise. I say I won't let you give me hope, won't hear what is said, only just nodding and keeping a full smile at bay - because you often leave a trail for me to find what I think I want only to collect it all up again before completion.
I'm not always sure what I want.
That feeds you, I know. It is the proverbial gasoline to your flame. I imagine you dancing back and forth, back and forth, as I create space and time and then lean full into the fallback. You dance circles around the knowledge that my desire goes on unrealizing what it is I deserve.
Joy is not the roof over the leaving or the staying. It is a wayward, poorly produced roof, laced with indecision and longing; it is saddled with words I pray for and words he plays with; it is a roof made of leaks and stains from the wounds.
You're really not welcome -- mostly because I know you should be irrelevant. I know what I should be doing. I know who I am now compared to that girl I was so many years ago. She is pieced together with the strength I've built within myself today. Lingering moments of naiveté creep in and I believe I have a decision to make.
I don't.
The quicker you dissipate the quicker I can get back to knowing that I don't deserve what lies on the other side of the leaving. I didn't deserve it all those years ago, either.
You can stay. Lie low within the ribcage of someone else.
I need my freedom. It is found in the leaving.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
{I Love you, I Love you not} A Letter of Confession to my Body
I often glare at you in the mornings. I will inspect the ways fabric folds over and around you - clinging in all the wrong places, unfavorable and unflattering.
There are long days in our history of wild, rampant hatred over how I believe you have failed me. You used to be fit, tight, flat, and strong. The fury that fills my veins over you no longer being this way is enough to blind me to all the intricate beauty in this world.
Admittedly I cannot go on blaming you for failing me - for putting you under the weight of fault - because it was never your job to take care of the rest of me . . . Certainly, I have failed you gloriously.
I have broken you down.
Seasons of my life were filled with weekends that existed around testing how many fluid ounces of alcohol I could fill you with before I stopped remembering. I just wanted to forget all the ways we no longer looked the way we did at 16. I wanted to toss to the wind just how much I missed being looked at lovingly. I needed to stop recalling what being called beautiful felt like -- it hurt to much to remember hearing it and realizing it had stopped happening at some point. When did I stop hearing I was beautiful?
In the midst of the consumption of what it took to stop the memories I put you at additional risk. Soft sheets, cold sheets, bedrooms poorly lit, and therefore forgiving, became a part of the landscape of a heart brittle with thirst.
I created friction until you were raw with the wanting.
You continued to get me out of bed each morning -- after gluttonous extracurricular devastation -- after overeating every last single feeling -- after raging screams of how hideous I found you to be. Every morning, we woke up to another day.
How many times have we been here? Me promising to make it better, make you stronger, starve the hatred to nonexistence. Innumerable.
I am a liar in the face of an oblivion of promises.
When did it change? Where the sweat began to be welcomed - because I was doing something for us and us, alone. When did it stop being about who would notice an entrance into a room and begin to be about how much hope came from each minute of exertion?
You never stopped working for me. I simply stopped caring and let you down.
There will be dark days. Without inquiry, I will say something unkind towards you. But this feeling -- this elation at how all your parts continue to get me through each work out, through each day, out of bed each morning -- I want to implant it into my memory.
It won't be easy -- a love affair with the shell that carries my soul. Because the soul, it's wild, and my heart is wandering, and critical judgment comes too swiftly in the valleys.
But it is worth this high.
I really am trying -- I hope the exquisite ache in the muscles is proof of that.
I am so sorry -- for failing you. For putting you in danger. For not realizing what a gift it is that I can move and dance and gesture wildly at any given moment.
And thank you. For helping me realize the wonderment that can come from realizing our own strength.
There are long days in our history of wild, rampant hatred over how I believe you have failed me. You used to be fit, tight, flat, and strong. The fury that fills my veins over you no longer being this way is enough to blind me to all the intricate beauty in this world.
Admittedly I cannot go on blaming you for failing me - for putting you under the weight of fault - because it was never your job to take care of the rest of me . . . Certainly, I have failed you gloriously.
I have broken you down.
Seasons of my life were filled with weekends that existed around testing how many fluid ounces of alcohol I could fill you with before I stopped remembering. I just wanted to forget all the ways we no longer looked the way we did at 16. I wanted to toss to the wind just how much I missed being looked at lovingly. I needed to stop recalling what being called beautiful felt like -- it hurt to much to remember hearing it and realizing it had stopped happening at some point. When did I stop hearing I was beautiful?
In the midst of the consumption of what it took to stop the memories I put you at additional risk. Soft sheets, cold sheets, bedrooms poorly lit, and therefore forgiving, became a part of the landscape of a heart brittle with thirst.
I created friction until you were raw with the wanting.
You continued to get me out of bed each morning -- after gluttonous extracurricular devastation -- after overeating every last single feeling -- after raging screams of how hideous I found you to be. Every morning, we woke up to another day.
How many times have we been here? Me promising to make it better, make you stronger, starve the hatred to nonexistence. Innumerable.
I am a liar in the face of an oblivion of promises.
When did it change? Where the sweat began to be welcomed - because I was doing something for us and us, alone. When did it stop being about who would notice an entrance into a room and begin to be about how much hope came from each minute of exertion?
You never stopped working for me. I simply stopped caring and let you down.
There will be dark days. Without inquiry, I will say something unkind towards you. But this feeling -- this elation at how all your parts continue to get me through each work out, through each day, out of bed each morning -- I want to implant it into my memory.
It won't be easy -- a love affair with the shell that carries my soul. Because the soul, it's wild, and my heart is wandering, and critical judgment comes too swiftly in the valleys.
But it is worth this high.
I really am trying -- I hope the exquisite ache in the muscles is proof of that.
I am so sorry -- for failing you. For putting you in danger. For not realizing what a gift it is that I can move and dance and gesture wildly at any given moment.
And thank you. For helping me realize the wonderment that can come from realizing our own strength.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
A Letter to the Intruder (Through it all, It is Well)
walking into my home, seeing the contents of my desk drawers strewn, seeing bags in my bedroom upended, seeing my clothing lying on the floor after being rooted through, I felt something break open inside me.
you were in every room of my home. you kicked in a barrier that protected me from the outside. you unsettled the frame of my safety and rammed into my life, unwelcome.
did you know that there are nights I simply lie awake because the walls of this home won't stop creaking, every move on the old floors creates whining and I just. can't. sleep. did you know every time my dog barks, I jump? jump, fearful, that the door that is boarded up right now will slowly loosen its nails to let you back in while I am here.
night descends upon Morton avenue and I double, triple, quadruple check every single lock in this house. did you know you've created within me an anxiety I wasn't aware I could conjure? even in the daylight I have to coach myself to get dressed and walk outside - the sky mocks with its cheery brightness as I consider that you know what each wall in this house looks like, you might know the faces of my cherished people, from the photos bracing each table surface. when the pain is especially deep and cutting, I consider washing every single piece of clothing I own, because your hands may have touched them, may have handled them.
I've never felt this deep anger and bitterness before. ever. every face I see in these days following your shattering of my security, I contemplate whether they are you. have you seen my bedroom? I want to scream at every strange face -- can you describe the smell of my house? I want to inquire to every person who looks like they were capable of kicking in my door. but mostly I want to claw the eyes out of anyone who looks directly at me in these days following the breaking. were you aware that I am not this sort of person, normally? I don't want to grow suspect of every person I see; I don't want to question the good in this world, the good of my Father, because you twisted something inside me until it snapped. did you know you've left my heart white, hot pissed?
forgiveness isn't something I usually have to work toward. I am in possession of a beating heart that surges with second, third, fourth chances. in the event I get hurt, again and again and again, I will still forgive -- easily, almost comically so. were you aware that you would make forgiveness seem like a foreign concept? it has become a language my ear cannot grow accustomed to; it is a song that I seemingly never learned the melody to, never learned the correct key to sing within. forgiveness has become something that truly, physically, down to the marrow of my bones, hurts to consider. you did this to me. you took a very character trait of mine and morphed it into something I can't quite recognize for myself.
I consider the people who were affected by your disturbance -- not simply me. you've created concern within people who care for me. you've made space for anger in the hearts of people who want me to be safe. you have single handedly wrecked a piece of their peace of mind. did you know that?
I love Jesus. did you know that? did you walk into my home and see at least one wall in every room holding promises of His word? is that what stopped you from doing more? will you learn more about the Lord because you broke into my house? did you see I am not a girl who is living and walking this life alone? did you know I was protected? make no mistake, you muddied that feeling of protection for me, but you did not break it.
I am told, I have read, that nothing is wasted in God's economy. I find myself clinging to that with a sweaty palmed, white knuckled grip. you won't always find me in the fetal position. but right now, this season, it finds me frightened. and maybe that's the point -- if I am to run to the only true Protection, then I can't go on fearing you for the rest of my days. . . maybe an hour will come -- meet my racing heart and fold some of the anger that courses through my veins in half -- and I will find space to forgive you this grievance.
did you know I was strong? it may not seem like that all the time -- it certainly doesn't feel that way all the time. but I am.
maybe you stomped into my home, my safety ,because you are driven by an evil, an addiction, that I have never experienced. I pray I don't ever know what the face of what was driving you looks like. a small part of me, in this moment, prays you can make those faces strangers to your own.
one day, I will muster the strength to forgive you -- because I know myself . . . and I know carrying the weight of this anger will eventually break me in a way that isn't repairable. so I will, one day. I may never know what your face looks like; certainly I will never possess the knowledge of why you thought it was acceptable to steal my security. but one day I will walk outside and smell the air that flows easily into my lungs and I will whisper, 'I forgive you.'
there is a small chance I might even be able to thank you one day. after all, this is His economy. nothing is wasted. you were to be a part of this story of mine from the beginning.
far be it from me to not believe
even when my eyes can't see
and this mountain that's in front of me
will be thrown into the midst of the sea
through it all, through it all
my eyes are on You
through it all, through it all,
it is well
you were in every room of my home. you kicked in a barrier that protected me from the outside. you unsettled the frame of my safety and rammed into my life, unwelcome.
did you know that there are nights I simply lie awake because the walls of this home won't stop creaking, every move on the old floors creates whining and I just. can't. sleep. did you know every time my dog barks, I jump? jump, fearful, that the door that is boarded up right now will slowly loosen its nails to let you back in while I am here.
night descends upon Morton avenue and I double, triple, quadruple check every single lock in this house. did you know you've created within me an anxiety I wasn't aware I could conjure? even in the daylight I have to coach myself to get dressed and walk outside - the sky mocks with its cheery brightness as I consider that you know what each wall in this house looks like, you might know the faces of my cherished people, from the photos bracing each table surface. when the pain is especially deep and cutting, I consider washing every single piece of clothing I own, because your hands may have touched them, may have handled them.
I've never felt this deep anger and bitterness before. ever. every face I see in these days following your shattering of my security, I contemplate whether they are you. have you seen my bedroom? I want to scream at every strange face -- can you describe the smell of my house? I want to inquire to every person who looks like they were capable of kicking in my door. but mostly I want to claw the eyes out of anyone who looks directly at me in these days following the breaking. were you aware that I am not this sort of person, normally? I don't want to grow suspect of every person I see; I don't want to question the good in this world, the good of my Father, because you twisted something inside me until it snapped. did you know you've left my heart white, hot pissed?
forgiveness isn't something I usually have to work toward. I am in possession of a beating heart that surges with second, third, fourth chances. in the event I get hurt, again and again and again, I will still forgive -- easily, almost comically so. were you aware that you would make forgiveness seem like a foreign concept? it has become a language my ear cannot grow accustomed to; it is a song that I seemingly never learned the melody to, never learned the correct key to sing within. forgiveness has become something that truly, physically, down to the marrow of my bones, hurts to consider. you did this to me. you took a very character trait of mine and morphed it into something I can't quite recognize for myself.
I consider the people who were affected by your disturbance -- not simply me. you've created concern within people who care for me. you've made space for anger in the hearts of people who want me to be safe. you have single handedly wrecked a piece of their peace of mind. did you know that?
I love Jesus. did you know that? did you walk into my home and see at least one wall in every room holding promises of His word? is that what stopped you from doing more? will you learn more about the Lord because you broke into my house? did you see I am not a girl who is living and walking this life alone? did you know I was protected? make no mistake, you muddied that feeling of protection for me, but you did not break it.
I am told, I have read, that nothing is wasted in God's economy. I find myself clinging to that with a sweaty palmed, white knuckled grip. you won't always find me in the fetal position. but right now, this season, it finds me frightened. and maybe that's the point -- if I am to run to the only true Protection, then I can't go on fearing you for the rest of my days. . . maybe an hour will come -- meet my racing heart and fold some of the anger that courses through my veins in half -- and I will find space to forgive you this grievance.
did you know I was strong? it may not seem like that all the time -- it certainly doesn't feel that way all the time. but I am.
maybe you stomped into my home, my safety ,because you are driven by an evil, an addiction, that I have never experienced. I pray I don't ever know what the face of what was driving you looks like. a small part of me, in this moment, prays you can make those faces strangers to your own.
one day, I will muster the strength to forgive you -- because I know myself . . . and I know carrying the weight of this anger will eventually break me in a way that isn't repairable. so I will, one day. I may never know what your face looks like; certainly I will never possess the knowledge of why you thought it was acceptable to steal my security. but one day I will walk outside and smell the air that flows easily into my lungs and I will whisper, 'I forgive you.'
there is a small chance I might even be able to thank you one day. after all, this is His economy. nothing is wasted. you were to be a part of this story of mine from the beginning.
far be it from me to not believe
even when my eyes can't see
and this mountain that's in front of me
will be thrown into the midst of the sea
through it all, through it all
my eyes are on You
through it all, through it all,
it is well
Monday, December 1, 2014
A Wreck.
I am in a season of wreckage. This sort of splintering is not your typical kind. Though, I have been hurt -- I wake up some days with the hurt swelling over me like an angry rain cloud threatening to gush precipitation upon me. And this season has not been devoid of the rolling feelings, the tidal waves of emotion that hold my heart captive, vice gripping the joy right on out.
But we were never promised unfractured circumstances.
My anxiety has kicked itself back up, again. There is a chance that the self-medicating I do with caffeine does not help to prevent this . . . and yet I feel abnormal without the tightening of a chest chord from time to time.
I was slayed this morning by a Bible verse; it was one of those moments where I slurped in the last hot swallow of my morning brew and glanced down and held the coffee in my mouth so as not to spit it across the table -- because there He was, again, standing His ground with me and lovingly proving just how intricately He laced and knows my heart.
"And don't be wishing you were someplace else or with someone else. Where you are right now is God's place for you. Live and obey and love and believe right there." (1 Corinthians 7:17 (MSG))
WOOF.
Because how often do I wake up in the morning and wish that I wasn't in my single girl house, in my single girl bed?
How many times do I wish for someone else to inhabit my house along with me?
Can I count the number of times I've wished for someone to watch that sunset with me, hold my hand while I cry, just be in the room with me when I receive good news? I'd certainly need more than just my two given hands . . .
I was not called to wish away my time with how I think I could improve it . . . let's get down to the breaking bones of it all and admit this -- we were not imprinted with the capabilities to improve our present circumstances . . . because we are designed for just this time.
This was a welcome reminder. It hurt - stinging as I swallowed it down and resigned to the fact that it's not up to me, it never will be.
I wake up in the morning in my single girl house, in my single girl bed, because I was brought to this opportunity. I've been given the time to make the walls my own, to really get to know my heart -- and it's blindingly beautiful to be given that chance. Because please let me be clear -- it was something I was given.
I came to Dayton a girl who did not like or appreciate or desire alone time - all people, all noise, all the time -- that was my heart's cry. And it wasn't there - people were not around whenever I wanted them. For this, I am thankful. I learned how to like being with myself. That is a gift.
Those sunsets? They are not made more magical by being shared with another person - He decorates the sky each night because He chose me., and He chose you, too. Because He loves this Steph right here. Not Steph plus one. And I have hands to hold and ears to share the good news with-- and all of those things are good, but I am not required to bring them in accompaniment to receive His love.
"Where you are now is God's place for you."
Right here - in Dayton, Ohio, after having drank milk and danced in my kitchen to Taylor Swift, I am where I need to be.
Right here - with a snoring, smelly-breathed dog next to me, I am where I need to be.
Right here - not knowing what will become of anything, only knowing He is sovereign, I am where I need to be.
It's time to stop wishing away these moments that were threaded delicately like lace just for me and start living, obeying, loving, and believing that whatever isn't meant for me will miss me and whatever is meant for me will not pass me by.
A peace like perfume settles into my pores to realize the comfort to be found when we trust in the One who has our best interests at heart.
This is a wreckage to become acquainted with.
But we were never promised unfractured circumstances.
My anxiety has kicked itself back up, again. There is a chance that the self-medicating I do with caffeine does not help to prevent this . . . and yet I feel abnormal without the tightening of a chest chord from time to time.
I was slayed this morning by a Bible verse; it was one of those moments where I slurped in the last hot swallow of my morning brew and glanced down and held the coffee in my mouth so as not to spit it across the table -- because there He was, again, standing His ground with me and lovingly proving just how intricately He laced and knows my heart.
"And don't be wishing you were someplace else or with someone else. Where you are right now is God's place for you. Live and obey and love and believe right there." (1 Corinthians 7:17 (MSG))
WOOF.
Because how often do I wake up in the morning and wish that I wasn't in my single girl house, in my single girl bed?
How many times do I wish for someone else to inhabit my house along with me?
Can I count the number of times I've wished for someone to watch that sunset with me, hold my hand while I cry, just be in the room with me when I receive good news? I'd certainly need more than just my two given hands . . .
I was not called to wish away my time with how I think I could improve it . . . let's get down to the breaking bones of it all and admit this -- we were not imprinted with the capabilities to improve our present circumstances . . . because we are designed for just this time.
This was a welcome reminder. It hurt - stinging as I swallowed it down and resigned to the fact that it's not up to me, it never will be.
I wake up in the morning in my single girl house, in my single girl bed, because I was brought to this opportunity. I've been given the time to make the walls my own, to really get to know my heart -- and it's blindingly beautiful to be given that chance. Because please let me be clear -- it was something I was given.
I came to Dayton a girl who did not like or appreciate or desire alone time - all people, all noise, all the time -- that was my heart's cry. And it wasn't there - people were not around whenever I wanted them. For this, I am thankful. I learned how to like being with myself. That is a gift.
Those sunsets? They are not made more magical by being shared with another person - He decorates the sky each night because He chose me., and He chose you, too. Because He loves this Steph right here. Not Steph plus one. And I have hands to hold and ears to share the good news with-- and all of those things are good, but I am not required to bring them in accompaniment to receive His love.
"Where you are now is God's place for you."
Right here - in Dayton, Ohio, after having drank milk and danced in my kitchen to Taylor Swift, I am where I need to be.
Right here - with a snoring, smelly-breathed dog next to me, I am where I need to be.
Right here - not knowing what will become of anything, only knowing He is sovereign, I am where I need to be.
It's time to stop wishing away these moments that were threaded delicately like lace just for me and start living, obeying, loving, and believing that whatever isn't meant for me will miss me and whatever is meant for me will not pass me by.
A peace like perfume settles into my pores to realize the comfort to be found when we trust in the One who has our best interests at heart.
This is a wreckage to become acquainted with.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
To Belong Among the Wildflowers
Wildflowers. I keep dreaming of wildflowers; waist deep and pungent - miles and miles of purples and burnt orange, of fiery pinks and cream whites - as far as the ye can see.
I can almost smell them - feel their gripping greens against the loose fabric of my skirt; they're asking me to stay, begging me to dance. I close my eyes.
I think they've fine-tuned this language within me that no one else can quite grasp the accent of; a reverberating question exists - beats against the cage showcasing my heart - 'just how do they know?'
Happily ever after litters the pages of a book about a tiny mouse - my fourth graders snicker - because love is funny and icky to the nine year old still searching . . .
Just what is happily ever after?
This world is conditioned to constantly change and morph - it spins, begging to be adored, only to change the direction of its wind once we fall. . .
I used to thrust myself against the course of change. I could quickly execute tantrums to rival a slew of toddlers - change was not welcome. Never welcome.
Change does not concern itself with your dinner invitation.
And so I succumb - and French braided with the going under of a life thoroughly planned to the last second comes the shift of what happily every after is designed to be.
Against all defiant-clinging stances I've taken, I am a creature of habit on a trajectory for change.
Brave knights and frilly dresses were once on the docket for my kind of happy ending . . . I quickly realized corseted living was never going to work for me, anyway.
And so it all shifted; marriage is in there somewhere, but keeping a job I love, having a porch to watch the sun waltz into and out of the sky from, to finally master the art of cooking and finely pick that banjo whenever I please - they're high on a list woven yearning. . .
Even more than the continual cycle of altering what a future looks like, what a future may hold, is the wing-thin differences in what, daily, would put final touches on the closing scene of a life.
And today . . . it all whirls and swirls and lifts and sways around wildflowers.
Maybe it's just a desire to exist wild - all the restless and anxious and unknowing racing high toward a certain gathering place.
I can almost smell them - feel their gripping greens against the loose fabric of my skirt; they're asking me to stay, begging me to dance. I close my eyes.
I think they've fine-tuned this language within me that no one else can quite grasp the accent of; a reverberating question exists - beats against the cage showcasing my heart - 'just how do they know?'
Happily ever after litters the pages of a book about a tiny mouse - my fourth graders snicker - because love is funny and icky to the nine year old still searching . . .
Just what is happily ever after?
This world is conditioned to constantly change and morph - it spins, begging to be adored, only to change the direction of its wind once we fall. . .
I used to thrust myself against the course of change. I could quickly execute tantrums to rival a slew of toddlers - change was not welcome. Never welcome.
Change does not concern itself with your dinner invitation.
And so I succumb - and French braided with the going under of a life thoroughly planned to the last second comes the shift of what happily every after is designed to be.
Against all defiant-clinging stances I've taken, I am a creature of habit on a trajectory for change.
Brave knights and frilly dresses were once on the docket for my kind of happy ending . . . I quickly realized corseted living was never going to work for me, anyway.
And so it all shifted; marriage is in there somewhere, but keeping a job I love, having a porch to watch the sun waltz into and out of the sky from, to finally master the art of cooking and finely pick that banjo whenever I please - they're high on a list woven yearning. . .
Even more than the continual cycle of altering what a future looks like, what a future may hold, is the wing-thin differences in what, daily, would put final touches on the closing scene of a life.
And today . . . it all whirls and swirls and lifts and sways around wildflowers.
Maybe it's just a desire to exist wild - all the restless and anxious and unknowing racing high toward a certain gathering place.
If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world. -C.S. Lewis
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Hear Me, Girl (A Letter to my Mommy)
It was one of those perfect days -- the sky shone clear and blue, the sort of blue that could never manage to muster sadness, if that were what it was attempting to accomplish. The sun shone bright and fiery promising.
We had just finished our day of errands and she was leading me, twisting and turning, down roads I'd never traveled before -- I am quick to forget these stop lights ran, compass infused, in her bloodstream. I came to a stop sign and she told me to go slow and then pointed.
"There it is," she whispered. Tears pushed, racing and tearing, down her face - her big, brown eyes glowing lightening live with the memories of a time I will never share with her.
"That's my house."
I intake breath, deep and fast, and the brain won't quit - it's just always dancing . . .
I didn't always make it easy on us, mommy love, but you always fought for me and championed me for the world to bear witness.
You've taught me life isn't always fair and sometimes the eyes' environment is just downright dark, but there is light - ever gleaming and continually searching us out.
You are a woman who laughs with me and holds me afloat when I've thrown myself against that brick wall just one . . . more . . . time . . .
I don't know of what scars childhood left on your eternally bronzed skin and there is so much of your history I just won't ever be gifted to have as my own. . .
but you are my history.
My history, you are. And the keeper of secrets and the forever sounding board and the lady with patience as long and constant as the succession of breaths taken in and pushed back out -- you are gold, pure and true and treasured.
I don't know what all you learned long before I came along, but there aren't words to be uttered that properly portray how every minute of all of my days is woven with the knowledge you invested in me so long ago . . .
We belong to each other, you and me.
If I could tell your younger self the ways you would grow up to change the world I hope I would muster the courage to whisper sure and sound --
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
please, girl, don't listen to the anger surged voices that tell you otherwise
--
you will be a lighthouse in the handmade darkness of a young girl who laughs like you and argues like you.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
hear me, girl, because you will make promises and you will keep them (keep them accurate and right) --
you will be the warmth when she needs it and you will be the strong voice of reason when she needs plucked out of messes of her own making.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
understand, girl, that by giving rules instead of hand-outs and not giving in to shrieking, laced with fury, fits you will be a momma first and a friend second
--
you will make her stronger in the face of a world that wants her weak and damaged.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
I hope you're grasping, girl, what is being said
--
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
You are doing all of it just exactly right
--
because you taught me right from wrong and then gave me the freedom to move around within both.
--
because you loved me stronger and fiercer than any other soul in this world and you still do.
--
because you saw our differences and you taught me how to dance within them, not against them.
Girl, if I could tell your younger self the ways you would grow up to change the world, I hope I could manage the clout to whisper again and again and again --
Please listen, you are doing nearly all of it just exactly right and you are changing the world, you are
--
because you cultivated the wildness in me and taught me the pertinence of remaining true to my caged heart.
I would tell you, solemn and deep and mixed high and low with emotion, that you would grow up to change the world
--
because you taught me how to thrive.
because you taught me how to love.
because you taught me how to smile.
Girl, you will grow up to change the world because, differences and tantrums and hard to love circumstances aside, you never stopped trying to give me all I could want in the world.
because you changed my world.
(October 27th is my momma's birthday -- make sure to wish her a beautiful, happy, and blessed one.)
We had just finished our day of errands and she was leading me, twisting and turning, down roads I'd never traveled before -- I am quick to forget these stop lights ran, compass infused, in her bloodstream. I came to a stop sign and she told me to go slow and then pointed.
"There it is," she whispered. Tears pushed, racing and tearing, down her face - her big, brown eyes glowing lightening live with the memories of a time I will never share with her.
"That's my house."
Seeing where your mother was raised is not easily described; my heart beat fast - imagining the bedroom where she cried quietly at night, not wanting anyone to know the loneliness that crept in and camped out in the arteries of her heart -- never knowing, then, she would come to produce, raise, and shape a green-eyed girl who lived lonely loud - laced in the pulse with wild trying its hand at breaking out.
I imagined a young, dark-skinned version of her drinking coffee early in the morning with her mom, hanging on every word; it triggered, somewhere down low, the realization that there are infinite amounts of information I will never know about my momma.
She can tell me her favorite color and her favorite meal prepared by my grandma; she can tell me about her first crush, her first best friend, the fact that she was never invited to a prom dance, but I won't ever know --
I won't ever know the reverence in her voice when she whispered to her mom, goodnight. I won't ever understand the emotions cultivated early on toward her father and his habits, his addictions. I won't ever know the young girl whose muscles ran lean and strong in a chlorinated pool on sticky, hot summer days.
I pray her giggle danced then like it does now -- across my memory, linking itself deep into my bone marrow, never to be forgotten.
It is within the deepest parts of my fractured heart that I fling hope, high and fervent, that her mommy knows just how much my mommy loved her - just how much she misses her every single day.I watch the tears roll, yearning and heat riddled, down her cheek and squeeze her hand.
I intake breath, deep and fast, and the brain won't quit - it's just always dancing . . .
I didn't always make it easy on us, mommy love, but you always fought for me and championed me for the world to bear witness.
You've taught me life isn't always fair and sometimes the eyes' environment is just downright dark, but there is light - ever gleaming and continually searching us out.
You are a woman who laughs with me and holds me afloat when I've thrown myself against that brick wall just one . . . more . . . time . . .
I don't know of what scars childhood left on your eternally bronzed skin and there is so much of your history I just won't ever be gifted to have as my own. . .
but you are my history.
My history, you are. And the keeper of secrets and the forever sounding board and the lady with patience as long and constant as the succession of breaths taken in and pushed back out -- you are gold, pure and true and treasured.
I don't know what all you learned long before I came along, but there aren't words to be uttered that properly portray how every minute of all of my days is woven with the knowledge you invested in me so long ago . . .
We belong to each other, you and me.
If I could tell your younger self the ways you would grow up to change the world I hope I would muster the courage to whisper sure and sound --
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
please, girl, don't listen to the anger surged voices that tell you otherwise
--
you will be a lighthouse in the handmade darkness of a young girl who laughs like you and argues like you.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
hear me, girl, because you will make promises and you will keep them (keep them accurate and right) --
you will be the warmth when she needs it and you will be the strong voice of reason when she needs plucked out of messes of her own making.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
understand, girl, that by giving rules instead of hand-outs and not giving in to shrieking, laced with fury, fits you will be a momma first and a friend second
--
you will make her stronger in the face of a world that wants her weak and damaged.
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
I hope you're grasping, girl, what is being said
--
you will do nearly all of it just exactly right
You are doing all of it just exactly right
--
because you taught me right from wrong and then gave me the freedom to move around within both.
--
because you loved me stronger and fiercer than any other soul in this world and you still do.
--
because you saw our differences and you taught me how to dance within them, not against them.
Girl, if I could tell your younger self the ways you would grow up to change the world, I hope I could manage the clout to whisper again and again and again --
Please listen, you are doing nearly all of it just exactly right and you are changing the world, you are
--
because you cultivated the wildness in me and taught me the pertinence of remaining true to my caged heart.
I would tell you, solemn and deep and mixed high and low with emotion, that you would grow up to change the world
--
because you taught me how to thrive.
because you taught me how to love.
because you taught me how to smile.
Girl, you will grow up to change the world because, differences and tantrums and hard to love circumstances aside, you never stopped trying to give me all I could want in the world.
because you changed my world.
(October 27th is my momma's birthday -- make sure to wish her a beautiful, happy, and blessed one.)
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