the indian summer.

[mewithoutYou - Ten Stories: The Glossary]

Wed, 16 May 2012 08:41:11 -0700

The new album from mewithoutYou, entitled Ten Stories, is a concept album about a circus train crash and the dark and philosophical adventures of the animals that escape (or don’t) in the aftermath. Aaron Weiss uses typically detailed and mysterious lyricism, and thus I thought a glossary for the phrases and names of plants and animals and even fabrics that he throws at you might be valuable. This is best used when listening to the album and reading along in the lyrics booklet.

[chrysalis.]

Mon, 07 May 2012 22:31:20 -0700

Two years ago I told a friend of mine that I wanted to get a tattoo of a caterpillar. “Like Alice in Wonderland?” She asked me. “No. Like the Chrysalis process.” I was not surprised, nor should I have been, with her blank and confused expression. So I said to her in my best teacher voice possible “Let me explain…” There comes a point in every caterpillar’s life when the time has come for them to simply grow up. And unlike you and I, and most young men in their twenties, this doesn’t mean giving up playing x-box and eating nothing but pancakes and hot wings. This means leaving everything and everyone they have ever known behind and there’s no set limit, no pre-determined time for how long it will take to change and grow no guarantee of success, no way to know if this will even work or how it works or what comes next. but it’s time.

I’m twenty six, I told her, and I feel as though my time has come. I have always been mature for my age, wisdom beyond my years, seen the world, know it all… or so I thought. With twenty seven just around the corner I can’t seem to get my mind to stop with all the wonder.

“I wonder who…I’ll marry, I’ll become, loves me for who I am?”

“I wonder if…the pain ever stops, I’ll get a new job, I’m pretty enough?”

“I wonder when…I’ll stop missing you, you’ll start missing me, it will all make sense?”

“I wonder how…you forgive and forget, you start over, you know you’ve changed?”

I wonder and wander the streets of golden hill kicking leaves in time with the sweet sounds of Otis Redding in my ear “It’s been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come, yes it is.”

You see it’s a process. You don’t just grow up overnight. It’s not like the caterpillar takes a nap and wakes up with wings. There are necessary steps and necessary things that have to happen in the exact perfect time… or else the caterpillar dies. And just like me I’m sure he sits in wonder wondering how much longer and is it safe and what about the weather, and what if it doesn’t work. And what if it hurts?

But despite all the fear and trepidation I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my time has come. And when that time comes do you know what a caterpillar will do? It finds a sheltered and safe place away from all it once knew. And it forms the chrysalis, which despite what you may have thought is not actually a thing at all. It’s the caterpillar’s own flesh and skin the one it’s always lived in that becomes the hard and protective shell within which it begins the long process of transformation. And then…the waiting begins.

It was two years ago, almost to the day that I told my friend this story for the first time. Little did I know, how much would change over the years and how this simple process would become the basis for my story. At the time I did not fully grasp what I was stepping into, couldn’t exactly name what it was that had so captivated me about the chrysalis; looking back now I begin to recognize the journey I was on. Now, with twenty-nine quickly approaching, I am beginning to feel the pressure of a new spirit and soul that are striving to break free. Did you know that a caterpillar actually has no choice as to when the chrysalis process will end? One day, on a day that could have been just like any other, it begins to swallow in deep breaths of air, causing its body to expand and slowly break away it’s protective shell. And I can’t help but begin to believe that my time has come. Because today, on a day that could have been just like any other, I am breathing more deeply.

It’s as though God has put inside of me, his loving breath.

And with every filling of my lungs He breathes new life into my spirit.

And with every filling of my lungs He breathes peace into my soul.

And with every filling of my lungs He breathes His words into my heart.

And I am finding myself to be wholly transformed stripped away and removed from everything I had known. New flesh, tender and pure a renewed right spirit longing for more of His breath.

[the chrysalis process.]

And I can’t help but think that I have changed, grown up in the best of ways. And yes, it in case you were wondering, it is absolutely terrifying. All I’ve ever known is the past twenty-eight years - the same worries, the same doubts and fears, this same hard shell. And who’s to say that there won’t be twenty-eight more? But I think that’s why God made caterpillars. If nothing else, it reminds me that when the time’s right, you will become what you were always meant to be. I don’t know if I’m a caterpillar or a butterfly, if I’m in my chrysalis or still struggling to find a sheltered and safe place. But I do know one thing…today I am breathing deeply; and wherever I may be in the process…I know a change is gonna come.

[the hardest job everyone thinks they can do - dennis hong]

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 11:52:33 -0700

I used to be a molecular biologist. I spent my days culturing viruses. Sometimes, my experiments would fail miserably, and I’d swear to myself in frustration. Acquaintances would ask how my work was going. I’d explain how I was having a difficult time cloning this one gene. I couldn’t seem to figure out the exact recipe to use for my cloning cocktail.

Acquaintances would sigh sympathetically. And they’d say, “I know you’ll figure it out. I have faith in you.”

And then, they’d tilt their heads in a show of respect for my skills….

Today, I’m a high school teacher. I spend my days culturing teenagers. Sometimes, my students get disruptive, and I swear to myself in frustration. Acquaintances ask me how my work is going. I explain how I’m having a difficult time with a certain kid. I can’t seem to get him to pay attention in class.

Acquaintances smirk knowingly. And they say, “well, have you tried making it fun for the kids? That’s how you get through to them, you know?”

And then, they explain to me how I should do my job….

I realize now how little respect teachers get. Teaching is the toughest job everyone who’s never done it thinks they can do. I admit, I was guilty of these delusions myself. When I decided to make the switch from “doing” science to “teaching” science, I found out that I had to go back to school to get a teaching credential.

“What the f—?!?,” I screamed to any friends willing to put up with my griping. “I have a Ph.D.! Why do I need to go back to get a lousy teaching credential?!?”

I was baffled. How could I, with my advanced degree in biology, not be qualified to teach biology?!

Well, those school administrators were a stubborn bunch. I simply couldn’t get a job without a credential. And so, I begrudgingly enrolled in a secondary teaching credential program.

And boy, were my eyes opened. I understand now.

Teaching isn’t just “making it fun” for the kids. Teaching isn’t just academic content.

Teaching is understanding how the human brain processes information and preparing lessons with this understanding in mind.

Teaching is simultaneously instilling in a child the belief that she can accomplish anything she wants while admonishing her for producing shoddy work.

Teaching is understanding both the psychology and the physiology behind the changes the adolescent mind goes through.

Teaching is convincing a defiant teenager that the work he sees no value in does serve a greater purpose in preparing him for the rest of his life.

Teaching is offering a sympathetic ear while maintaining a stern voice.

Teaching is being both a role model and a mentor to someone who may have neither at home, and may not be looking for either.

Teaching is not easy. Teaching is not intuitive. Teaching is not something that anyone can figure out on their own. Education researchers spend lifetimes developing effective new teaching methods. Teaching takes hard work and constant training. I understand now.

Have you ever watched professional athletes and gawked at how easy they make it look? Kobe Bryant weaves through five opposing players, sinking the ball into the basket without even glancing in its direction. Brett Favre spirals a football 100 feet through the air, landing it in the arms of a teammate running at full speed. Does anyone have any delusions that they can do what Kobe and Brett do?

Yet, people have delusions that anyone can do what the typical teacher does on a typical day.

Maybe the problem is tangibility. Shooting a basketball isn’t easy, but it’s easy to measure how good someone is at shooting a basketball. Throwing a football isn’t easy, but it’s easy to measure how good someone is at throwing a football. Similarly, diagnosing illnesses isn’t easy to do, but it’s easy to measure. Winning court cases isn’t easy to do, but it’s easy to measure. Creating and designing technology isn’t easy to do, but it’s easy to measure.

Inspiring kids? Inspiring kids can be downright damned near close to impossible sometimes. And… it’s downright damned near close to impossible to measure. You can’t measure inspiration by a child’s test scores. You can’t measure inspiration by a child’s grades. You measure inspiration 25 years later when that hot-shot doctor, or lawyer, or entrepreneur thanks her fourth-grade teacher for having faith in her and encouraging her to pursue her dreams.

Maybe that’s why teachers get so little respect. It’s hard to respect a skill that is so hard to quantify.

So, maybe you just have to take our word for it. The next time you walk into a classroom, and you see the teacher calmly presiding over a room full of kids, all actively engaged in the lesson, realize that it’s not because the job is easy. It’s because we makeit look easy. And because we work our asses off to make it look easy.

And, yes, we make it fun, too.

[the art of wonder.]

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 08:16:00 -0700

i wonder how many times i have doubted myself. how many times i have had to stop and think, go back, rethink, rewind, undo. i wonder how many times i have let myself sit, much like i am doing now, and question every promise that has been made to me, every declaration of goodness, every incidence of faithfulness. [i wonder if God ever tires of my wondering.]

how long oh Lord, will i ask You to prove Yourself to me. at what point will i stop wondering and begin to live in the belief that i have been chosen and destined for this. [whatever this is.] for such a time as this, no mistaking this, no miscalculation, no overlooked corner, or step mistaken. THIS has been the only destination that i could possibly have known. of what use to sit and ponder on such things that are far beyond my comprehension. such goodness that is far beyond my feeble understanding. such timing that sets the stars and the moon in their place…do you really believe that anything happens a moment too late?

and it comes at not a moment too soon. self-doubt, self-awareness, self-loathing…all have turned my focus on self and off of the goodness that is. the goodness of God. the goodness of being, not simply chosen, but created. not separated or cast off, but lovingly allowed to endure all measure of being, so that [one day] i may come to understand the full scope and measure of my worth.

worth my weight in gold, a story yet to be re-told, soft clay that He can mold, lovingly accepted as part of the fold. [quit your wondering.] there is no doubt in His mind, so why do i allow it to dwell in my own. family, friends, a job you love, daily bread, a place to lay your head and call your home. [what more can you possibly need.] not a second guess, not even a first, a quench for any and every thirst…

[you have not been forgotten.]

somedays, on days like this, it’s good to wrestle with such things as this. i am aware there is no answer because there is no question, just a need for a reminder that this is oh so worth the struggle. i know i’m not the only one who wonders, not the only one in desperate need of a reminder, not the only who feels it so deep…in your soul, the very act of holding back, takes all the strength you have. don’t you know how badly i wish i could love you the way you deserve to be loved. wish that what i had to offer could fill the void in you, would somehow be enough, wish that i could make you see how beauty is only a matter of perspective and from where i stand, you reflect His perfection. and it doesn’t matter if anyone else can see it or not, because their inability to recognize your goodness is all their own loss. and i hope you know that every flaw and imperfection, every misstep and failed good intention, is only further proof that you are His greatest work of art. so do your best to accept the hardest part…that a masterpiece takes time. but you are worth the wait.

[burn.]

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 15:36:14 -0700

i appreciate your comforting warmth - blanket on a chilled night - rays of sun in november - toes in sand - hands interlocked.

i appreciate your comforting consistency - on time, right on time, just in the nick of time - timed perfectly to greet me at the door - stop before it’s too late - and we run out of things to share - secrets to keep - stories we forget to tell.

i appreciate your comforting conformity - what would you like - to be or not to be - one step behind - a consistent pace on the safe side of the street - lights turned off to conserve energy - saving the earth for our family - you and me and our 2 point 3 children.

i appreciate your comforting passivity - don’t rock the boat - think before you speak - the customer is always right - it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things - things aren’t always what they seem - given the benefit of the doubt.

i appreciate your comforting humility - no greatness needed - victories always ceded - no task too small to be completed - a small cog in a big machine - insignificant to think - unbearable to dream.

i appreciate who you are and have chosen to be.

but as for me…i want to be set on fire.

[questions and answers.]

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 23:49:22 -0700

If Jesus says that you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free, then why do I associate the truth, not with liberation, but with fear? Do I fear freedom? Or is it more so that I associate truth with a negative truth, with bad news, with disappointment? Have I thought of truth for so long as the truth of unfaithfulness, the truth of betrayal, the truth of lies, that I have forgotten the real truth? the truth of my value, the truth of my spirit, the truth of the beauty that has become me, the truth of who God is and has been in my life?

For years I have blinded myself from the truth in order to protect myself, in order to postpone the hurt, in order to protect my own pride. In doing so, I realize that I have cultivated an unhealthy dependency on the truth of others, other’s interpretation of reality, other’s judgments on my value, other’s actions and what they communicate to me. In this process, I have seemingly abandoned God’s ability to reveal his truth to me outside of the context of a relationship with others. I have ceased being able to process events in my life as moments in time, completely shaped by the often selfish actions of others, as just that and instead have adapted my view of self and life to accommodate the fallacies of a moment’s importance. This is not to say that I don’t give weight to what I have experienced, or what can be experienced in a single moment; but rather, I must reject the belief that another person’s actions towards me are a true and complete reflection of the value they find in me, of the truth that is my self-worth.

Is it truly possible, at this stage in my life, to retrain my thoughts, to retrain my mind to accept that most people, self included, make judgments and decisions based upon their own desires and what gratifies them with little thought for others, even those whom they love? I have often wondered if my propensity to freely and willingly offer grace and forgiveness in the midst of deep and intimate hurt has not, in some ways, made me incapable of being angry, of protecting myself, of truly letting my heart hurt in the healthiest of ways. Although I readily acknowledge my own need, and all of our need, for forgiveness, I do believe that too often forgive and forget have gone hand in hand – forgive others and forget myself, forgive myself and forget to change, forgive all sins and forget the need for redemption.

As I sit here in the dark of night and wrestle with the truth, I cannot help but be deeply afraid. I am afraid to ask the questions for fear of the answers. I fear that the answers I receive will be not what I want to hear. I fear the answer that is silence. The nothingness that, in the midst of wrestling, ceases to be an answer at all but rather a refusal to acknowledge that there is beauty in the waiting…even for an answer. I fear the questions only because they require answers; and I fear the answer will be something I do not want to hear, something I am not prepared for. But that does not change the fact that the answer is there…whether I want to hear it, want to accept it or not, want to ask the question…the answer is already there. I lie in my bed and question why I am unable to sleep, and the answer is, the truth is, from the depths of my heart I am wrestling. I am battling my own mind, which struggles to be still. I am reliving each moment of the day, wondering how I could have done and said things differently, as if rethinking could lead to recreating. I am restless. I am proud. I am burdened. I am wounded. I am suffering the pangs of growth. I am in the desert. And I am alone.

I don’t question the sleeplessness, just as I don’t question the loneliness, just as I don’t question the unfaithfulness…simply because I struggle to be still and wait for the answers. Because I fear.

My feet have grown cold on these hard wood floors but I am no more tired then when I first began. Wide awake, I remind myself over and over “don’t be afraid to ask the right questions for fear of the wrong answers”. I will never be able to predict or control the answers. I will never be able to explain away why things happen the way they do. I may never be able to reconcile circumstances and truth. I may never stop questioning. But I can keep asking. And even though, at times, I may know fear that constricts my breath and keeps me awake most nights, I would rather lose sleep than lose heart. I would rather wrestle than never have my spirit stirred. I am not sure if any resolution is to be had tonight, if there is any rest for my soul, any answers to my questions…but tonight is not about figuring it all out, it’s about taking the first step and being willing to ask the question I have feared the most – Am I truly worth loving? I’m pretty sure His answer is “Yes.”

[new mexico.]

Thu, 05 Apr 2012 10:17:57 -0700

i remember august in new mexico - the hot lightning storms in the afternoon, the smell of sage and fresh cut hay, the way the skyline faded into the distance as if the plains and mesas would never end. i remember drinking mountain water out of my grandpa’s tin cups, the way the irish wolfhound’s coarse fur felt under my small hands, the thrill of feeding jezebel (the hawk) raw meat at supper time, the creak of the old wood floor boards beneath my shivering morning feet. i remember the old dirt trails that would take us for miles around the edge of the ranch, 12 foot cacti, the feel of the hot breath of an arabian stallion against my cheek, the bellowing cries of the wolves and coyotes at night. i remember the smell of fresh oil on a saddle, the intricate patterns of the southwestern blankets, the adobe glow that saturated everything in warmth, the jolting rides in the back of a beaten pick-up. i remember cousins, old friends, grandparents, aunts and uncles, sisters, my mother and father, one sagging roof, weighed down beneath years of the hot desert sun. home away from home.

california is beautiful, especially in the heat of july. but nothing will ever replace my love for august in new mexico.

[posture.]

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 12:47:25 -0700

i hate having bad posture.

slumped shoulders bent over ever so slightly; a dull, numbing pain in my back, a constant reminder that i was not made to sit up tall, to stand straight, to hold my head up high. i often wonder if my bad physical posture is not, in some ways, reflective of the posture of my inner spirit. i wonder if the heaviness i feel in trying to lift my head, is not because i slept wrong, but rather because my mind is burdened by the weight of the world, the weight of the worries i carry with me, the weight of knowing all too well what it means to live in a perpetual state of thinking and contemplation.

i wonder if my propensity to arch backwards is not, in some ways, indicative of my fear of moving forward. to push through the pain, to relearn how to carry myself, to live in the uncomfortable, all subconscious impediments to holding myself correct. and so i attempt to correct, one at a time these bends and aches, but before long i find myself, once again, hunched over; weighed down by the weight of my own self.

i hate having bad posture.

i wish that i could throw my shoulders back, stand tall and proud of who i am and what it has taken for me to become a woman; push through this wall that the curve of my shoulders has come to rest on, to rely on. i wish that i could resurrect and re-erect myself into a state of correctness, without the pain of having to unlearn twenty-eight years of mental heaviness. wish that the yoke i chose to pick up every day was not my own, but rather a lighter, and better-fitting version of what i think i need to carry with me. essentially, i wish that rightness was easy. i may not able able to force myself to stand tall, and my shoulders may never stay back as far as i’d like…but i can do something about the posture of my spirit, about the burdens i choose to carry, and about the letting go of the weight of loving any and everyone who will stand next to me.

i hate having bad posture…but sometimes you have to break down before you can stand a little taller.

[the gym.]

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 14:16:00 -0700

So I don’t know if you’ve noticed….but, I’ve been working out lately. You know, getting “buff”. Getting my gym on. And, yes, I feel great. (Thank you for asking) I love it when my legs hurt so much that I can barely walk the next day, when I have to call my old roommate to come over because I can barely muster up enough strength to lift my arms high enough to get my sweatshirt off over my head. I love discovering those muscles I never knew I had, but somehow must have been important, because now I can’t seem to move any of them. I love walking like an old man.

Yes, I love the way my tank tops smell of sweat and hopelessness. How much reading I get done when I’m bouncing up and down and up and down. How I wake up at 5:30 every morning to go to the gym to give myself more time in the afternoon to do things and by the afternoon all I want to do is go to bed. It’s just great.

Oh, and I love how everyone tells me that the gym is a great place to meet people. Really?… I don’t know what you do at the gym. You must be one of those people that lie on the ab machines, pretending to work-out, but, after 30 minutes, and you’ve managed to do one sit-up, it becomes increasingly clear that you just must not have a television at your house. Either that or you’re taking a nap. Either way, you baffle me. And anger me. (But that is another story.)

While you sit down (not –up) I, however, am actually trying to get my heart rate past a comfortable level into the zone known as “death” and I am pretty sure there is nothing attractive about being out of breath, sweat dripping down my face, hair pulled back but bangs sticking like tentacles to my forehead, tie-died tank top suctioned to my body as if it were holding on for dear life. Did I mention the whole gasping for breath thing?

Yeah…the gym is a great place to meet people. Because that is absolutely the first impression I would like to make on somebody. “Pay no attention to the woman on the treadmill, she’s actually quite lovely when she’s not running away from you, and I promise she smells better too.” So yes, I have been working out. Thank you for asking. But I’ve got a lot of places I need to be going to, too many things today that I have got to do, and quite frankly, I just want to take a nap. But I promise I’ll go back… tomorrow.

[listening.]

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 10:01:55 -0700

The past two days I feel as though my body is dragging; slightly behind the intentions of my mind, my actions seem slow and somewhat lethargic. I toss and turn at night, unable to find rest, and instead, lay awake contemplating the heaviness of the night. The quiet pressing of the blankets upon my legs that I have only recently become consciously aware of. Incredible how you never actually “feel” something until you focus on it. Toes slightly clenched, legs overlapping, the softness of the tops of my feet.

With methodical breaths, I attempt to lull and trick my mind into sleep and yet it eludes me once again. I find myself frustrated and annoyed, and, as I usually do when all else fails, I turn my thoughts to desperate yet subtle prayers. Quiet tears, one by one, gather in the corners of my eyes until the pools can contain themselves no more. Just a few drops on my pillow, the only evidence of my midnight meeting with God.

I am not quite sure the moment my body finally gave in to its own exhaustion, but I awoke this morning with a quieted, less troubled soul. And yet my body still drags. I lie in bed as the minutes slowly tick by. I can see the sun begin to shine, in little streaks, through the cracks in my window shades and yet I am unmoved. Only the buzzing of my phone moves me to action; expecting my alarm to be going off at any moment, I am surprised to find a message from an old friend and wonder why anyone else is up at 5:30 in the morning. The message reads like this:

I love you. You have not been forgotten Chalese. You have been bought with a price. A high price. A Man’s life. You are righteous. You are adored. You are a child of light. Your name is Hephzibah. You are Mine. I love you. -Jesus

Lying in my bed, I contemplated the significance of this message. I contemplated the reality of crying out to God from the depths of my soul and what it would mean to me and to my life if I actually took the time to acknowledge his response, if I took the time to listen. Hephzibah. This word, stuck in my head, intrigued me. After a few minutes of searching, this is what I discovered:

Isaiah 62:4-5

“No longer, [God says], no longer will they call you Deserted,

No longer will they name your land Desolate.

But you will be called Hephzibah,

and your land Beulah.”

Hephzibah means “my delight is in you.” Beulah means “married.” Hephzibah and Beulah are Hebrew words that, by definition, address my own spiritual desolation. Although my initial response was to interpret this through the lens of my own desires, as I continued to contemplate the depths of this message, I began to wonder what exactly God had been trying to say to me, and not what I was hoping to hear. My delight is in you. How my heart has longed to be delighted in. How my heart has longed to rejoice in belonging to someone. How my heart has waited, although often impatiently, for the security found in submission and commitment. My delight. I need wait no more, for it has been all along.

So simple. So honest. So intimate. In the quietness of the morning dawn I was reminded of my value, of God’s intentions with my heart, of his desire to hear and respond to my desperate cries, of his calming peace, and of his bride. I am reminded that the troubled surface of a lake reflects nothing…and if I want to see the reflection of myself through the purest lens, I must be still. In the darkness of the night, in the quiet of the dawn…be still.

[it is what it is.]

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 12:26:58 -0700

On days like this, days when the rain falls so softly against the windows that it sounds almost like the crackling of a dimming fire, days when the cold hardwood floors of my downtown apartment creak beneath me, days when I regret the iced coffee ordered, regret the cold against my tongue, the chill in my aching hands, on days like this it seems only natural to sit and reflect upon the implications of this palpable solitude.

As I reflect upon my past, upon my present condition, and the seemingly endless stream of both meaningful and menial events that have saturated my days, I cannot seem to turn my thoughts anywhere but inward. On this particular rainy day, my mind seems to be mulling over, almost to the point of exhaustion, this one phrase I find myself regretfully repeating over and over: “I wouldn’t be who I am today if that hadn’t happened.” Base thinking in its truest sense, and seemingly limited in it’s awareness of cause and effect, my mind will not let go of the implications of this phrase, “I wouldn’t be who I am today”. Clearly not, since I am who I am and it is what it is. That’s like saying it would not be raining if it was not raining. It sounds ignorant to make such statements, even more so to think them over thoroughly. It is raining. It is. So why sit and contemplate what life would have been like today if it had not been, was not, pouring outside?

I believe there is some part of us that likes to play out every scenario of our lives, on repeat, in our heads; events change, people come and go, everything looks, feels, smells, and hurts differently, and yet despite this romanticized dream of what life could have been like, we remain, unchanged, in the same position as when we first began. Maybe our posture has changed, maybe our awareness of our own humanity has greatened, but at the end of the day, we are who we are and it is what it is. And I, we, accept this as our reality, our lot in life, and wait for the day when things will be different.

To be in a perpetual state of waiting is not something I like to do most days. To wait for the next season of life, the next relationship, the next sunny day, is giving no weight and significance to the decisions we currently are faced with. Herein lies our greatest danger. We place no importance on the experiences of today, because tomorrow we can wish and dream them away, dismiss them as just “another lesson learned”, another justification for poor choices, for fear, for apathy. Without them I would not be who I am today. I like to think that each of the mistakes I have made have somehow made me stronger, a better woman, capable of more genuine love, because that is how I like to imagine that all of the suffering I have endured has been worth it. If there is redemption, justification, forgiveness, then I am left feeling better, not only about the decisions of my past, but also in the uncertainty of my ability to change anything for my future.

It’s okay that I allowed my past relationships to become so distorted, allowed myself to get lost in the idea of love rather than the tangible evidence of it, okay that we let it go on for far too long, okay that by the time I finally walked away I was only a shadow of my former self. It’s okay, because I wouldn’t be who I am today if that hadn’t happened.

And it’s true. Had those decisions not been made, I may have been a completely different person; Or, maybe I would be exactly who I am today, but a less wounded, fearful, and abused version of myself. Although I believe in God’s redemption and his ability to make all things new, I must also acknowledge that each action has a consequence. And perhaps now, so many years later, I am still allowed to suffer the consequences of my younger year’s impatience. Maybe this life of singleness, of solitude and reflection, is not this grandiose statement on the virtue of patience and waiting, but rather the effects of my own poor decision making. I would like to think, to believe, that I had moved past all of this, but unlike the changing of the seasons, a changing of a person is not as clearly evident. Spring brings life and new growth, all evidenced by the bloom of the flowers, the smells that live in the gentle breeze, the songs of even the most humble of birds. I wonder if a new season in my own life is as easy for others to see. Although I feel and even to some extent am beginning to look different, there is no real guarantee that a change will come. Yes, today it is raining, and I am reflecting, and all things before me seem hopeful and new…but we will have to wait and see.

While others wait for my life to bloom, I am compelled to look inward, into my soul, into this moment, into this glorious day. I am simply just tired of waiting. And so I wait no more. I wait no more for redemption to come, for seasons to change, to feel something alive inside of me. I wait no more for the sun, or the rain, or the coming of the dawn. I wait no more. In this moment, I step into my own story, into who I am and who God has created me to be, and I say,

I am who I am, regardless of what has made me this way, what joy and pain

I have endured, what lessons I have learned, what consequences

I have been made to suffer, I am.

And come rain or shine, come what may,

I am here.

“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither...

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 10:20:46 -0800

“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains„ deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know - unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide. Most of all we love and want to be loved. We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.

For wanderers, dreamers, and lovers, for lonely men and women who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful. It is for those who are too gentle to live among wolves.”
― James Kavanaugh, There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves

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Sun, 04 Sep 2011 21:22:26 -0700

And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 00:02:17 -0700

And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.

-Douglas Coupland

[he never said "love and be loved".]

Mon, 08 Aug 2011 23:05:05 -0700

there’s only two things i have to do in life:

love and love.

sounds simple, yes, but the more stripped down it reveals itself to be, the more authentic we get, the more truth in our words…the greater challenge it becomes.

i am feeling challenged, and a little unprepared for “such a time as this”: this time, my time, our times shared…what if over time we forget? that there are only two things we must do in life:

love and love.

you…yes you. we are closer for the tears and the weight of all the years has not left us...

Mon, 08 Aug 2011 00:21:26 -0700

you…yes you. we are closer for the tears and the weight of all the years has not left us hollow. and at the end of a day that i will never forget, i sit and contemplate all of what you have said, of who we are: who i am, have been and am becoming. words spoken over me countless times take on new meaning. it’s as if i am hearing for the first time…or maybe now i just believe you. he will be lucky. and i will be blessed. and yes it will be worth it all. to those who have endeavored to see beyond the surface, to go deeper with me, and to find each and every bit of what is valuable in me. you…yes you. it is because of you i love.

"Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it..."

Sat, 06 Aug 2011 22:43:21 -0700

“Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.”

- Edgar Allen Poe

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Sat, 06 Aug 2011 22:17:54 -0700

Why don’t you tell me that “if the girl had been worth having, she’d have waited for you?” No, sir,...

Sat, 06 Aug 2011 00:58:18 -0700

Why don’t you tell me that “if the girl had been worth having, she’d have waited for you?” No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

[mama said.]

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 23:06:36 -0700

“mama said there’d be days like this…mama said, mama said.

mama said there’d be days like this…mama said, my mama said.”

What mama never said was that days like this would come so often.

Those, sit in my kitchen and stare out the window as my coffee gets cold and I contemplate my very existence, days.

Those, sandals on my feet because the very notion of tying not one but two laces that will stay perfectly tight all day suddenly makes me question if i even have what it takes to do anything right, days.

Those, realization that awards and trophies for participation and perfect attendance, and an “A” for effort ended in the 5th grade, days.

Those, you have to work so hard, not to get ahead, but just to keep up, days.

Those, it’s 11:00pm and my stomach starts growling and I struggle to remember if I ate today as breakfast fades into lunch into dinner and for the first time I realize I am hungry, days.

Mama said there’d be days like this, but I didn’t realize those days would come and go as they may…no warning, no permission asked…just come and go days…like this.

Mama said, “Have patience. Have patience. Don’t be in such a hurry.” But this tortoise pace, this taking my time, leaves me often feeling one step behind and as those around lap me for the 27th time…I can’t help but feel (on days like this) that I’m out-running nothing but the clock and those who are going nowhere.

On days like this, run on the quickly fading adrenaline of youth, I sit in my kitchen, cold coffee in hand, stomach growling, shoelaces left untied, and it hits me…I alone am running for my life. And it no longer matters to me how many lap me, pass me, yell “On your left!” and kick up the dust I have yet to tread on. It matters not who is setting the pace when the sun is high because at the end of the day, in the darkness of night, I will keep running…on days like this.

Mama said there’d be days like this…when I’d be left to run alone. Mama said, Mama said.