Dear World,
It has been a long time. Since I've written here, yes, but more than that, since I've felt that secret space in my spirit where I can write. This has been a hard year in more ways than one. A year that is nearly over. And as I spend it celebrating with my friends and family, I can't help but to feel something big beginning. It's the freshest breath of air I could hope for now.
So, until I have the space to write out about friendship, endings, beginnings, hope, change - know this: I am finding my way again.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I shouldn't tell you this (but you're the only friend I have)
Dear Moon,
I haven't had the heart to face you in our twilights, of sorts. I find it easier to talk to you in the dead of the afternoon when you are fast asleep and you don't ask probing questions about why he hasn't come around lately. Because I don't know why he hasn't come around lately. I imagine it has to do with the clouds, the changing weather. Or maybe he caught the scent of whatever it is he has been chasing for all of time. Either way, he doesn't wait outside my house anymore. I go to bed plenty warm, plenty heavy.
I heard you singing last night. I know you hate to be any less than full, but I could hear you from miles away. You must have been sad, which is strange for you. You always seem so haughty, so vindictive to me. But, last night, you seemed horribly sad. And I sat at my window, looking for you, straining to hear you, because whatever you were singing, I think I had been humming earlier.
When you finally came to my window, all traces of haunted had disappeared. I asked you what song you sung, and for a moment, I could have sworn you glared. But, then you laughed, you painfully perfect and utterly flippant gaffe. You said, "Just a song I heard once, somewhere. Who knows. It's awful, isn't it? But, gets stuck, sometimes, between brain cells."
There was no response to that. There usually isn't when you do that. But, what I wanted to say was, "It's stuck between my brain cells too. Except, it's seeped all the way into every bone, vein, and piece of soul it could find. And it is awful. But, I keep singing it because I think maybe it will bring him back."
I don't, of course, need him back. I have understood from the beginning that the nature of us is that it's him and me. Separate. I keep my ghosts and he keeps his light.
Moon, we're not so different. People think of you as careless, fickle, flippant. And I know you want them to because it's the only whisper of legs you have to stand on. But, I see, sometimes, when you're faced the other way, or when you're singing that awful song you heard once, somewhere, small slivers of string, pulling you. You're stuck with him, aren't you? You hate me for the same reason you love me. Because I'm apart of him. But, I hate you the same reason I love you too, because you're apart of him. It's sick, how we won't let go, you to the earth, me to my hunter, even though we can't ever really be apart of each other's world.
I'd try to strike up sisterhood with you, but I know it's for naught. You're from sky; I'm from dirt. If we could mix, neither of us would be alone on cloudy days. Instead, I will just watch you and try to learn your haughtiness. Try to muster up some more strength and warmth and weight.
And to remember to throw away everything that is true and to hold on dearly to our fiction.
I haven't had the heart to face you in our twilights, of sorts. I find it easier to talk to you in the dead of the afternoon when you are fast asleep and you don't ask probing questions about why he hasn't come around lately. Because I don't know why he hasn't come around lately. I imagine it has to do with the clouds, the changing weather. Or maybe he caught the scent of whatever it is he has been chasing for all of time. Either way, he doesn't wait outside my house anymore. I go to bed plenty warm, plenty heavy.
I heard you singing last night. I know you hate to be any less than full, but I could hear you from miles away. You must have been sad, which is strange for you. You always seem so haughty, so vindictive to me. But, last night, you seemed horribly sad. And I sat at my window, looking for you, straining to hear you, because whatever you were singing, I think I had been humming earlier.
When you finally came to my window, all traces of haunted had disappeared. I asked you what song you sung, and for a moment, I could have sworn you glared. But, then you laughed, you painfully perfect and utterly flippant gaffe. You said, "Just a song I heard once, somewhere. Who knows. It's awful, isn't it? But, gets stuck, sometimes, between brain cells."
There was no response to that. There usually isn't when you do that. But, what I wanted to say was, "It's stuck between my brain cells too. Except, it's seeped all the way into every bone, vein, and piece of soul it could find. And it is awful. But, I keep singing it because I think maybe it will bring him back."
I don't, of course, need him back. I have understood from the beginning that the nature of us is that it's him and me. Separate. I keep my ghosts and he keeps his light.
Moon, we're not so different. People think of you as careless, fickle, flippant. And I know you want them to because it's the only whisper of legs you have to stand on. But, I see, sometimes, when you're faced the other way, or when you're singing that awful song you heard once, somewhere, small slivers of string, pulling you. You're stuck with him, aren't you? You hate me for the same reason you love me. Because I'm apart of him. But, I hate you the same reason I love you too, because you're apart of him. It's sick, how we won't let go, you to the earth, me to my hunter, even though we can't ever really be apart of each other's world.
I'd try to strike up sisterhood with you, but I know it's for naught. You're from sky; I'm from dirt. If we could mix, neither of us would be alone on cloudy days. Instead, I will just watch you and try to learn your haughtiness. Try to muster up some more strength and warmth and weight.
And to remember to throw away everything that is true and to hold on dearly to our fiction.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
This means mostly nothing.
The only man in my life leaves before morning. I like it this way, usually. I see him faithfully every most nights. He comes curling up to me, smelling of night time, secrets, and earth. I lie there, eyes closed tight, mouth barely moving and whisper my whole soul like I'm just talking nonsense to the stars. He's a hunter who has never found what he's looking for and I'm just always feeling h(a)unted.
I can't say he's like a dream and our nights together aren't anything close to clandestine. It doesn't even have the lingering effect of such a thing. There's no haziness as I float through the next day. It's more like waking up with amnesia. Except I'm the tide. So, all it takes is the moon pulling closer to wash in the remnants of old nights. I'm a nocturnal woman who walks the daylight. Most of it could be blamed on the yellow wallpaper I put up in the bathroom that is peeling, but I still wake up reeling laughter alone.
This afternoon, I told stories to the moon while she slept. She wasn't very happy about it, in fact, she barely acknowledged me except to turn over, eyes squinting in the sun, and say, "Where is your hunter?" That always shuts me up because I'm never sure what she means and I think she likes it that way.
I tried to leave moon's house. The afternoon was getting late, which only means the evening was getting early and she was waking up. I always feel her gravity most in the afternoon, but I won't tell her that when she laughs dismissively and tells me to stay. "I didn't mean a thing."
It's a cloudy night, so I know he won't be showing up even though the temperature is a perfect mixture of sadness and love. I won't tell her that, though. She knows and is too busy thinking about how the clouds ruin her light to be worried about me and my hunter(s). I also won't tell her that I think she's looks ravishing in the mystery of the clouds. She won't hear it.
Instead, I just flick my hand like it's nothing as I leave the room, "It's all just a bunch of fiction anyway."
I can't say he's like a dream and our nights together aren't anything close to clandestine. It doesn't even have the lingering effect of such a thing. There's no haziness as I float through the next day. It's more like waking up with amnesia. Except I'm the tide. So, all it takes is the moon pulling closer to wash in the remnants of old nights. I'm a nocturnal woman who walks the daylight. Most of it could be blamed on the yellow wallpaper I put up in the bathroom that is peeling, but I still wake up reeling laughter alone.
This afternoon, I told stories to the moon while she slept. She wasn't very happy about it, in fact, she barely acknowledged me except to turn over, eyes squinting in the sun, and say, "Where is your hunter?" That always shuts me up because I'm never sure what she means and I think she likes it that way.
I tried to leave moon's house. The afternoon was getting late, which only means the evening was getting early and she was waking up. I always feel her gravity most in the afternoon, but I won't tell her that when she laughs dismissively and tells me to stay. "I didn't mean a thing."
It's a cloudy night, so I know he won't be showing up even though the temperature is a perfect mixture of sadness and love. I won't tell her that, though. She knows and is too busy thinking about how the clouds ruin her light to be worried about me and my hunter(s). I also won't tell her that I think she's looks ravishing in the mystery of the clouds. She won't hear it.
Instead, I just flick my hand like it's nothing as I leave the room, "It's all just a bunch of fiction anyway."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Navy Blue and Other Things
Sometimes, well, often, I wonder what God is doing. I find myself in these places that I, on the one hand, feel peace about, but on the other hand, wonder at their purpose. The past year and half most of my prayers have contained, "God, what are you doing?"
Truthfully, I still don't know, and perhaps, I never will. Or, when I do, it won't matter anyway, because it will have all happened already. But, the past two weeks, have been nothing short of surprising. And I keep thinking about that Monday I sat in my friend, Jessica's, office and she said, "This must be Whitney's month of redemption." I smirked and dismissed it a little at first, still surprised by the sudden flood of old people into my life. People who I had long since turned into yearbooks and nostalgia, salted sometimes with bitterness. They came in this slow line. A phone call. A text message. A visit. And suddenly I was wide-awake again.
I often think about the fates. I imagine them not as Greek or Roman women, devastatingly beautiful and in white robes, but as old southern women. With their hair both askew and perfectly in place. I imagine them laughing flippantly as they sip ice tea and weave and spin and snip on the front porch of the world, neither here nor there. And occasionally, I imagine that the stop and really think about someone, question their whole existence. I imagine they stop and choke on the bitterness of the tea and want to leave all those piles of string behind and go and imbibe and play and live. One of them drops their end of the string and whispers, "Let them figure it out. It's all death and tragedy in the end. Maybe if we leave it alone they'll all finally find their way out and if not, it can't be any worse than we've made it." And it gets silent on that front porch, except the sounds of frogs, crickets, and cicadas. Then they remember that they have no more choice than the people whose strings they're weaving and spinning and snipping.
I had a dream a few nights ago. I came home one day and my landlord had started painting my apartment navy blue. Can you imagine? And each room was partially painted and no one was there and I was furious. I yelled and my landlord and promptly moved out next more. I woke up feeling refreshed because mostly in my dreams I'm passive and scared (stop laughing, you women of fate). And so I looked up what navy blue meant in dreams and found out what my landlord was trying to paint on my walls was conformity. Was fear and negativity. I guess I am finally moving out of that place.
I still don't know what it all means. The people coming back and the moving out in my dreams. I can say that though my dishwasher is currently broken and my house is a mess, I'm settling into a happier place. The old questions are coming back, but truthfully, I missed them. I missed getting all a-fluttered because of them and the injustice, because they reminded me I was alive and that was important. The questions were better company than any episode of HIMYM because they were real.
But, I guess knowing or not knowing has never really been the problem. Navy blue and holding still has been.
Truthfully, I still don't know, and perhaps, I never will. Or, when I do, it won't matter anyway, because it will have all happened already. But, the past two weeks, have been nothing short of surprising. And I keep thinking about that Monday I sat in my friend, Jessica's, office and she said, "This must be Whitney's month of redemption." I smirked and dismissed it a little at first, still surprised by the sudden flood of old people into my life. People who I had long since turned into yearbooks and nostalgia, salted sometimes with bitterness. They came in this slow line. A phone call. A text message. A visit. And suddenly I was wide-awake again.
I often think about the fates. I imagine them not as Greek or Roman women, devastatingly beautiful and in white robes, but as old southern women. With their hair both askew and perfectly in place. I imagine them laughing flippantly as they sip ice tea and weave and spin and snip on the front porch of the world, neither here nor there. And occasionally, I imagine that the stop and really think about someone, question their whole existence. I imagine they stop and choke on the bitterness of the tea and want to leave all those piles of string behind and go and imbibe and play and live. One of them drops their end of the string and whispers, "Let them figure it out. It's all death and tragedy in the end. Maybe if we leave it alone they'll all finally find their way out and if not, it can't be any worse than we've made it." And it gets silent on that front porch, except the sounds of frogs, crickets, and cicadas. Then they remember that they have no more choice than the people whose strings they're weaving and spinning and snipping.
I had a dream a few nights ago. I came home one day and my landlord had started painting my apartment navy blue. Can you imagine? And each room was partially painted and no one was there and I was furious. I yelled and my landlord and promptly moved out next more. I woke up feeling refreshed because mostly in my dreams I'm passive and scared (stop laughing, you women of fate). And so I looked up what navy blue meant in dreams and found out what my landlord was trying to paint on my walls was conformity. Was fear and negativity. I guess I am finally moving out of that place.
I still don't know what it all means. The people coming back and the moving out in my dreams. I can say that though my dishwasher is currently broken and my house is a mess, I'm settling into a happier place. The old questions are coming back, but truthfully, I missed them. I missed getting all a-fluttered because of them and the injustice, because they reminded me I was alive and that was important. The questions were better company than any episode of HIMYM because they were real.
But, I guess knowing or not knowing has never really been the problem. Navy blue and holding still has been.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
101.
I clearly missed the pinnacle of the 100th blog. I did not notice until I came to post this, my 101st blog.
I am finding myself mostly in a place that is strange. A place that is just unfamiliar enough that I haven't yet learned the language for it. I grasp in the air, like it's around me, but I don't have the eyes to see it yet. Instead, I find myself newly obsessed with words. Words that describe anything I can hold onto for a moment. Poems, passages from books. I read them over and over again like they will make more sense of this foreign land I find myself in.
And they don't. At least, not exactly. They make sense. They hit my heart in a spot that is still easy for most things to find. I burst into tears of joy or I laugh with some sort of unnerving sadness I can't explain. Because I am not sad. I'm just a little amiss, skewed. Like an l and an i written too closely together to form an out of place u. It's not wrong; it's just not right either.
I am drawn here, to my blog, infrequently these days. I find silence and solitude perhaps too natural a place of understanding sometimes and other times I am out living too much life to make sense of it. But, when I do, it is almost always because of this feeling.
Tonight, the only thing that makes sense is a good story. Like The History of Love or Harry Potter. Maybe Girl Meets God in a certain light and Anne Lamott for a light snack.
So, tell me a story. But, make it good. It's doesn't have to be correct, but it's got to be true.
I am finding myself mostly in a place that is strange. A place that is just unfamiliar enough that I haven't yet learned the language for it. I grasp in the air, like it's around me, but I don't have the eyes to see it yet. Instead, I find myself newly obsessed with words. Words that describe anything I can hold onto for a moment. Poems, passages from books. I read them over and over again like they will make more sense of this foreign land I find myself in.
And they don't. At least, not exactly. They make sense. They hit my heart in a spot that is still easy for most things to find. I burst into tears of joy or I laugh with some sort of unnerving sadness I can't explain. Because I am not sad. I'm just a little amiss, skewed. Like an l and an i written too closely together to form an out of place u. It's not wrong; it's just not right either.
I am drawn here, to my blog, infrequently these days. I find silence and solitude perhaps too natural a place of understanding sometimes and other times I am out living too much life to make sense of it. But, when I do, it is almost always because of this feeling.
Tonight, the only thing that makes sense is a good story. Like The History of Love or Harry Potter. Maybe Girl Meets God in a certain light and Anne Lamott for a light snack.
So, tell me a story. But, make it good. It's doesn't have to be correct, but it's got to be true.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
A week of Mondays.
The weekend has come and gone and here I sit. In this chair, I solve problems. I answer questions. These are my jobs. Always having a solution, always having an answer.
I sort of hate to admit how good I am at this job, or at least, that part of this job. The having the answers, the solving the problems. I don't say this to pat myself on the back, to brag a little, or to feel good. I say it because I have always been this person. The one who solves problems and has answers and shoulders to cry on.
And I know now what I have known for all my problem solving years - this gets tiring.
In the past, when the weariness hit, after going and going and going, I would hibernate. Hole up with some book somewhere or some new tv show. I'd go on a radio silence and wait it out.
This is what we in the Psychology world call a cycle.** A pattern. Maybe even an addiction, but at the very least a bad habit.
And I am learning how to break it. (Albeit, rather slowly).
**I have no idea if this is true.
I sort of hate to admit how good I am at this job, or at least, that part of this job. The having the answers, the solving the problems. I don't say this to pat myself on the back, to brag a little, or to feel good. I say it because I have always been this person. The one who solves problems and has answers and shoulders to cry on.
And I know now what I have known for all my problem solving years - this gets tiring.
In the past, when the weariness hit, after going and going and going, I would hibernate. Hole up with some book somewhere or some new tv show. I'd go on a radio silence and wait it out.
This is what we in the Psychology world call a cycle.** A pattern. Maybe even an addiction, but at the very least a bad habit.
And I am learning how to break it. (Albeit, rather slowly).
**I have no idea if this is true.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
This Week. Ek.
Since I know you've all been waiting with bated breath, I didn't make it to the Underground this weekend. Apparently, it's closed on the weekend, which makes all sort of no sense to me. But, I did enjoy Eat, Pray, Love and delicious pizza with a friend. So, in the end, I think I still win.
Do you ever wake up from a night where you have one dream after another and they are so close to things that really happen to you and the feeling they give you is so strong that you have recalculate my whole brain to remember what is real and what is not.
Lastly, since I'm already all over the place, if anyone can tell me the names of the Barbie movies I watched as a child, I would be indebted, deeply to you. Vague? Perhaps. But, I have faith in you.
Do you ever wake up from a night where you have one dream after another and they are so close to things that really happen to you and the feeling they give you is so strong that you have recalculate my whole brain to remember what is real and what is not.
Lastly, since I'm already all over the place, if anyone can tell me the names of the Barbie movies I watched as a child, I would be indebted, deeply to you. Vague? Perhaps. But, I have faith in you.
Friday, September 10, 2010
OKC, This is why I love you.
Just when I think I know all about all the hot spots in OKC (I know, I'm awesome). I discover that there is an underground city! (You can tell I'm excited about this because I used an exclamation point, which, I don't do very often, except for some reason a lot at work because when I write e-mails I want people to assume I'm a cheery and good natured person).
So, this weekend, before or after the roller derby tournament I will be going to, I will explore the underground city. And don't worry, y'all will get a full report.
I might evensteal borrow a camera.
And yes, I did just post again today to prove Nevan wrong. But, only because I love her.
So, this weekend, before or after the roller derby tournament I will be going to, I will explore the underground city. And don't worry, y'all will get a full report.
I might even
And yes, I did just post again today to prove Nevan wrong. But, only because I love her.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
A list.
1. I left my blow dryer at home this past weekend. Which means a bad hair week. The good news is, since I anticipate having a bad hair day everyday, I just sleep in.
2. I think I need to invest in a camera. My life (and blog - which side note, even though I have been horrifically negligent to the point of if my blog were a fern - it would be dead, I still think in terms of blog. What can I say? Blogger at heart) could use more pictures.
3. Vampire Diaries season 2 starts. If you have anything ill to say about this show, take it elsewhere. It is my most beloved of guilty pleasures, and I will defend its honor. Seriously, I'd like defriend you over it.
4. This quote made me laugh this week, "Dance like the photo isn't being tagged. Love like you've never been defriended. Tweet like no one is following."
5. Yesterday, I got to hold my newest nephew-who-isn't-my-nephew-but-might-as-well-be, Nash. And sitting there, with my sweet friend, Val, and my precious, if not just a bit sassy nephews-who-aren't-my-nephews-but-might-as-well-be, playing our favorite game of, Whitney-saying-crazy-things-and-NWAMNBMAWB-saying-no!, I thought, this is life.
6. I hate red box. I never return those movies on time. Free rental Monday always turns into $4 movie I don't get watched.
7. If I say I'll be better at blogging, would you believe me?
2. I think I need to invest in a camera. My life (and blog - which side note, even though I have been horrifically negligent to the point of if my blog were a fern - it would be dead, I still think in terms of blog. What can I say? Blogger at heart) could use more pictures.
3. Vampire Diaries season 2 starts. If you have anything ill to say about this show, take it elsewhere. It is my most beloved of guilty pleasures, and I will defend its honor. Seriously, I'd like defriend you over it.
4. This quote made me laugh this week, "Dance like the photo isn't being tagged. Love like you've never been defriended. Tweet like no one is following."
5. Yesterday, I got to hold my newest nephew-who-isn't-my-nephew-but-might-as-well-be, Nash. And sitting there, with my sweet friend, Val, and my precious, if not just a bit sassy nephews-who-aren't-my-nephews-but-might-as-well-be, playing our favorite game of, Whitney-saying-crazy-things-and-NWAMNBMAWB-saying-no!, I thought, this is life.
6. I hate red box. I never return those movies on time. Free rental Monday always turns into $4 movie I don't get watched.
7. If I say I'll be better at blogging, would you believe me?
Friday, August 27, 2010
A big, fat mess.
I am a mess.
I am tired. I made homemade frosting tonight. To say it got everywhere is an understatement. It flew, ironically on a roll of paper towels, expectedly all over my shirt, in the sink, on the trash can. I'm sure I'll find more places tomorrow. It's like spending time on the beach and finding sand for days.
My heart is all over the place. Trying to settle in and not settle down. This is an odd and enchanting life.
I should go to bed. I have an endless day in front of me tomorrow. My feet is tired. I'm half brain dead. And if I don't sleep soon, I'll probably come down with a bad case of tourette's.
My life is a mess. But, it's going to be ok.
I am tired. I made homemade frosting tonight. To say it got everywhere is an understatement. It flew, ironically on a roll of paper towels, expectedly all over my shirt, in the sink, on the trash can. I'm sure I'll find more places tomorrow. It's like spending time on the beach and finding sand for days.
My heart is all over the place. Trying to settle in and not settle down. This is an odd and enchanting life.
I should go to bed. I have an endless day in front of me tomorrow. My feet is tired. I'm half brain dead. And if I don't sleep soon, I'll probably come down with a bad case of tourette's.
My life is a mess. But, it's going to be ok.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
If.
If I had daughters, I would name them Penelope Lynn and Josephine Ever. I would tell Penelope that she bore the same middle name as her Grandmother and that was important because her Grandmother was fierce and funny and smart and wise and compassionate. But, I would also tell her that the name Penelope was all hers. And she could choose to make that name mean whatever she wanted it to mean. And I would tell Josephine that I gave her the name of my most favorite fictional character ever. And that was important because Jo was loyal and smart and followed her heart and stood up for what was right. But, that her middle name was Ever because she held endless possibilities within her. That she could make her life to be anything she wanted. Then I would kiss them on the forehead and pray an infinite prayer for their little hearts to grow big and wide and full.
If I had daughters, I would be up all night. I would try and try and try to be a better woman for them and even now sometimes when I want to pick the easy way, I think of Josephine and Penelope (or whoever they may be) and I try to make a decision that would make them proud. I try to learn the lessons from the bad lessons so I can hold them when they cry and try to answer their hard questions about beauty and truth and life and all those questions I am still asking in desperate attempts to straighten my question mark curled body into something that can lie still once in a while.
And if I don't have daughters, I'll find some anyway.
If I had daughters, I would be up all night. I would try and try and try to be a better woman for them and even now sometimes when I want to pick the easy way, I think of Josephine and Penelope (or whoever they may be) and I try to make a decision that would make them proud. I try to learn the lessons from the bad lessons so I can hold them when they cry and try to answer their hard questions about beauty and truth and life and all those questions I am still asking in desperate attempts to straighten my question mark curled body into something that can lie still once in a while.
And if I don't have daughters, I'll find some anyway.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Wishing and Dreaming
I am officially exhausted. If I didn't have the foresight to have taken Friday off, I think I would melt into a pile of tears and mush. I am exhausted.
I wish I had time and mental space to write here more often. I wish could let things roll off me better this week. I wish it were so darn hot outside right now (It's been over 100 degrees when I get off work for the past week and a half). I wish, I wish, I wish.
But, all wishing aside, what I really wish, is that I was right here:
I wish I had time and mental space to write here more often. I wish could let things roll off me better this week. I wish it were so darn hot outside right now (It's been over 100 degrees when I get off work for the past week and a half). I wish, I wish, I wish.
But, all wishing aside, what I really wish, is that I was right here:
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
(i carry it in my heart)
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
This is why I love art. After hearing this poem for the first time years and years ago, murmuring it under my breath at work, still gives me the same chills. This poem, to me, has grown with me. Stretch with my understanding of love and life. It is more beautiful to me know than it was before.
It's alive.
And it's always changing and never changing and still keeping the stars apart.
All that to say, i carry your heart.
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
This is why I love art. After hearing this poem for the first time years and years ago, murmuring it under my breath at work, still gives me the same chills. This poem, to me, has grown with me. Stretch with my understanding of love and life. It is more beautiful to me know than it was before.
It's alive.
And it's always changing and never changing and still keeping the stars apart.
All that to say, i carry your heart.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Real Simple.
My mind is always in seven too many places at once. This means I am a world reknown starter of things. I am always starting things that I am not finishing. Thoughts, stories, crafts, glasses of water, letters, journals, the list goes on.
I wish I were a completer. I don't think it's some defaulted gene, I think it's a lack of discipline. But, maybe for now we can just pretend it's not because I get oh-so-very distracted.
I asked God for community here. I am certainly not getting it the way I though, but slowly, I see it forming around me. It is requiring a part of me that I don't give naturally. This isn't bad. It is a little hard, though.
Nothing in my life is real simple.
But, then again, everything is.
I wish I were a completer. I don't think it's some defaulted gene, I think it's a lack of discipline. But, maybe for now we can just pretend it's not because I get oh-so-very distracted.
I asked God for community here. I am certainly not getting it the way I though, but slowly, I see it forming around me. It is requiring a part of me that I don't give naturally. This isn't bad. It is a little hard, though.
Nothing in my life is real simple.
But, then again, everything is.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Something Missing
I know exactly what's missing from my life right now.
I just need to start praying for it.
I will write something more substantial later. But, here's this song I like.
I just need to start praying for it.
I will write something more substantial later. But, here's this song I like.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Fireflies.
Out behind my house there is a small wooded area. I don't often go there. I peer at it from my bedroom window on rainy days and give it a passing glance when I take out the trash. But, it stays largely ignored by me.
Now it is summertime and that means the air is always sticky sweet and the nights are the only time I can bear to be outside for very long. I have always loved summer nights, despite my general distaste for summer days and always coming back itching and sweating. There is something about a summer night which seems pregnant with magic.
When it gets to be dark, I stand under the car port I am supposed to park in, but never do and watch the fireflies dance. I don't think about spiders or scorpions or itching or sweating. I just watch the hundreds of fireflies dance in the field and in the trees. There is a simple magic to it.
If I were able to make a pill out of fireflies in open fields on summer nights, it would remedy panic attacks, existential crises and broken hearts.
Now it is summertime and that means the air is always sticky sweet and the nights are the only time I can bear to be outside for very long. I have always loved summer nights, despite my general distaste for summer days and always coming back itching and sweating. There is something about a summer night which seems pregnant with magic.
When it gets to be dark, I stand under the car port I am supposed to park in, but never do and watch the fireflies dance. I don't think about spiders or scorpions or itching or sweating. I just watch the hundreds of fireflies dance in the field and in the trees. There is a simple magic to it.
If I were able to make a pill out of fireflies in open fields on summer nights, it would remedy panic attacks, existential crises and broken hearts.
Friday, June 11, 2010
A little weird.
I sit at work all day long, all week long, answering questions, calming people down, lifting people up, making sure my manner in phone, e-mail, and person are all professional.
And sometimes I just want to burst out.
Whether in song, movie/tv quote, sound, or what not. It's hard to be not weird for 40 hours a week. (Or less weird, I don't hide it well).
I feel like I haven't written in ages. My fingers are starting rust and my heart is getting lethargic. How can I go so long? And will the times between get longer and longer and...
No.
I just can't think that way. I'm re-learning walking and talking and singing. A few weeks ago, no, more than that, I saw a friend I hadn't seen in a long time. And she used to laugh sometimes at me, when I was younger, and I'd ask why and she'd say, "Because you're wobbling." She meant it metaphorically, of course. I was 18/19 and she was 21/22. I was wobbling. And when I saw her again she said, "You're still the same, only you wobble a little less."
And maybe I do. At least, I hope I've learned a thing or two in these past few years. Grown a little. Stretched my legs, built some muscle. I don't know. But, now I'm a real adult. And I'm wobbling again.
Well, at least no one accuses me of waddling.
And sometimes I just want to burst out.
Whether in song, movie/tv quote, sound, or what not. It's hard to be not weird for 40 hours a week. (Or less weird, I don't hide it well).
I feel like I haven't written in ages. My fingers are starting rust and my heart is getting lethargic. How can I go so long? And will the times between get longer and longer and...
No.
I just can't think that way. I'm re-learning walking and talking and singing. A few weeks ago, no, more than that, I saw a friend I hadn't seen in a long time. And she used to laugh sometimes at me, when I was younger, and I'd ask why and she'd say, "Because you're wobbling." She meant it metaphorically, of course. I was 18/19 and she was 21/22. I was wobbling. And when I saw her again she said, "You're still the same, only you wobble a little less."
And maybe I do. At least, I hope I've learned a thing or two in these past few years. Grown a little. Stretched my legs, built some muscle. I don't know. But, now I'm a real adult. And I'm wobbling again.
Well, at least no one accuses me of waddling.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Fast-Paced. Slow-Paced.
It has been over a month since I last updated. I can hardly keep up. New job, back to OKC, transitions at work, life feels a little more than a little overwhelming.
The other day I wrote a fake love letter. It was to help somebody with some project, that is irrelevant. But, it stirred something inside of me. A passion. A creative force. An ache in my finger tips for a pen. Memories of days when I could spend all sorts of time writing and daydreaming. I don't want to say those days are over, but life sure does change.
I feel, despite the weariness in my shoulders, extraordinairly blessed. To have employment and a city that feels like home. To have friends who love me so generously through all the odd times in my life. That is something to remember when I start to feel achy and homeless. I am full of home. I am just a little derooted right now.
But, even that is not true. Shaken, yes, the last year...the last two years were hardly what I expected. They definitely were not what I thought I wanted. But, slowly I am learning how expectations are too often unmet and what we think we want is laughable. And even more slowly I am learning that is not a bad thing.
My life is fast-paced.
My heart is not.
The other day I wrote a fake love letter. It was to help somebody with some project, that is irrelevant. But, it stirred something inside of me. A passion. A creative force. An ache in my finger tips for a pen. Memories of days when I could spend all sorts of time writing and daydreaming. I don't want to say those days are over, but life sure does change.
I feel, despite the weariness in my shoulders, extraordinairly blessed. To have employment and a city that feels like home. To have friends who love me so generously through all the odd times in my life. That is something to remember when I start to feel achy and homeless. I am full of home. I am just a little derooted right now.
But, even that is not true. Shaken, yes, the last year...the last two years were hardly what I expected. They definitely were not what I thought I wanted. But, slowly I am learning how expectations are too often unmet and what we think we want is laughable. And even more slowly I am learning that is not a bad thing.
My life is fast-paced.
My heart is not.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Sometimes it's best just to go to bed.
I have spent the past few weeks immersed with family. This has been lovely and whole for me. But, sometimes I'm just ready for a moment or two of quiet. Of thoughtfulness and daydreaming all to myself.
And so I have begun to stay up late. I like the quiet that nighttime provides. It's like mornings, but with a touch of sadness. This is sometimes good for the heart, sometimes bad for the mind, but either way, it's the way of life right now.
My life is more like a whisper right now. It's been a roar, a murmur, silent, well-modulated, and many things in between. But, right now, it's just a whisper. Sometimes, I worry my friends won't understand. I don't call much because I don't have much to say, and hardly ever talk to just hear my own voice anymore. When they call, I listen, but I have some sort of psychological amnesia when it comes my turn to speak. I hope they know how much I love them. How much I miss them. And how this isn't radio silence, just some quiet static. I'll find some louder words soon.
I'm not ready for Spring, not really. I love the warm sun on my skin, but my eyes are still squinting, and my heart too. Fortunately and unfortunately, Spring comes without concern of anyone's readiness.
I will try to be better.
I will welcome Spring.
I will whisper for a while longer.
And so I have begun to stay up late. I like the quiet that nighttime provides. It's like mornings, but with a touch of sadness. This is sometimes good for the heart, sometimes bad for the mind, but either way, it's the way of life right now.
My life is more like a whisper right now. It's been a roar, a murmur, silent, well-modulated, and many things in between. But, right now, it's just a whisper. Sometimes, I worry my friends won't understand. I don't call much because I don't have much to say, and hardly ever talk to just hear my own voice anymore. When they call, I listen, but I have some sort of psychological amnesia when it comes my turn to speak. I hope they know how much I love them. How much I miss them. And how this isn't radio silence, just some quiet static. I'll find some louder words soon.
I'm not ready for Spring, not really. I love the warm sun on my skin, but my eyes are still squinting, and my heart too. Fortunately and unfortunately, Spring comes without concern of anyone's readiness.
I will try to be better.
I will welcome Spring.
I will whisper for a while longer.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Lately, a series of pictures.
Sometimes, I play this game with Ashley where I pretend like I'm the paparazzi. Which may seem strange, but considering the fake will we wrote for her two weeks ago, maybe not.
Lots of mail.
Chick-fil-a, you are growing on me.
Car pics.
What a pretty little sister.
Craft time.
Birthday time.
Sister.
Done. (And covered in paint).
Thursday, January 28, 2010
A Few Thoughts on Crying...
You know, most of the time, when I feel like crying, no matter the reason, I take a big breath of air and swallow it down. It's probably because like Heather says, no one likes to cry outwardly, and probably because it's turned into more of a reflex than a thought about why I may or may not want to cry.
And so, when I see a preview that reminds me of how hard it is to be alive, especially on a day where I have to keep reminding myself to trust the slow work of God, the tears tempt my eyes. And for some reason, I let them go. And I remember it feels good. And I feel connected because it is so hard for us all.
And then I think. Maybe, I should cry more.
And so, when I see a preview that reminds me of how hard it is to be alive, especially on a day where I have to keep reminding myself to trust the slow work of God, the tears tempt my eyes. And for some reason, I let them go. And I remember it feels good. And I feel connected because it is so hard for us all.
And then I think. Maybe, I should cry more.
Monday, January 25, 2010
A Smile Away From Eternity
That's the name of the playlist I'm listening to right now. I've been writing emails, chatting on Facebook, reading old emails, and generally encouraging the sort of nostalgic melancholy that all of those things do.
But, whether or not the minor tonality in the music I'm listening to is the reason for my fingers itch to write, or the deep weariness in my soul, I'll never know. It's 1:33 in the morning, no one knows anything at 1:33 in the morning.
But, I can't help to think of lost friendships and Lauren Winner. I can't help to think of the way a friend help me grieve the loss of another friend only to be the next friend I lost. Maybe it's poetic, but mostly it's sort of heartbreaking.
I don't mean to seem overwrought. I try to avoid overwrought. It sounds to self-indulgent, melodramatic, and heaven forbid, Southern. But, sometimes I am all of those things despite any color I dye my hair, paint my nails, or ideas I fill my head with.
I wish there was a better way to grieve the loss of a friend. Sometimes, I think it would be easier if they died, or if it was a boyfriend who broke my heart. We have a context for that. We have a language. We have a list of things we do or don't. I don't, of course, wish anyone dead, I'm only saying, the emptiness in my heart where these people, once dear, used to reside, now just feels cold, and sometimes, on really hard days, the wind blows through it, making the noise that's slightly creepy and I think about how nice it would be to just reach out and touch someone's arm. That's what I always want when I get scared. Just to touch someone's arm. Just to remember that I am not alone. Just for someone to show up.
I don't mean to sound depressed. I don't feel depressed. I don't even feel overwrought. I mostly just feel weary and think about how so many times in life we just seem to be running aroun like crazy people trying to touch someone's arm because we're scared and fragile and broken. And there's all those people we've lost and the whooshing sound of the wind in the empty spaces. If our hearts were memory foam, they would take their originial shape right back, but no. People whose absences leave that hollow wind sound leave imprints more like in wet cement. But, they always let it dry before they go. And I don't mean to say that our hearts become hard like cement, though they can, just that it's always there. Even if you can walk on the sidewalk and never miss a step because of some small handprint, it's still there. And it always will be.
And maybe that's not so bad. Maybe if it went away we'd forget everything. The good parts of who they were too, because they meant something once. And maybe we would forget that even though we're sort of fragile and scared and broken we can still make it through something hard and be ok. Maybe that's enough to make us one day look back and even smile a little.
It's only 12 days until my birthday. I'll be 23. I always love birthdays. They feel fresh. And maybe I'll celebrate with different people, but that will be ok too because I will grow and be different and it will be ok. I will look at all of my friends, the ones that saw me turn 22, the ones that didn't. The one's that have been watching me get older for a while now, and I will say a prayer of thanks for all of them. I will even allow some of them to come into the wet cement parts of my heart. Maybe I will make my heart less like a forgotten sidewalk scattered with people's markings when they thought no one was looking, and more like Grauman's Chinese Theater where the people whose handprints left are really something. And even if they flop afterwards, well, they were really something.
Loves.
P.S. I did all that work on that video. You should still watch it.
But, whether or not the minor tonality in the music I'm listening to is the reason for my fingers itch to write, or the deep weariness in my soul, I'll never know. It's 1:33 in the morning, no one knows anything at 1:33 in the morning.
But, I can't help to think of lost friendships and Lauren Winner. I can't help to think of the way a friend help me grieve the loss of another friend only to be the next friend I lost. Maybe it's poetic, but mostly it's sort of heartbreaking.
I don't mean to seem overwrought. I try to avoid overwrought. It sounds to self-indulgent, melodramatic, and heaven forbid, Southern. But, sometimes I am all of those things despite any color I dye my hair, paint my nails, or ideas I fill my head with.
I wish there was a better way to grieve the loss of a friend. Sometimes, I think it would be easier if they died, or if it was a boyfriend who broke my heart. We have a context for that. We have a language. We have a list of things we do or don't. I don't, of course, wish anyone dead, I'm only saying, the emptiness in my heart where these people, once dear, used to reside, now just feels cold, and sometimes, on really hard days, the wind blows through it, making the noise that's slightly creepy and I think about how nice it would be to just reach out and touch someone's arm. That's what I always want when I get scared. Just to touch someone's arm. Just to remember that I am not alone. Just for someone to show up.
I don't mean to sound depressed. I don't feel depressed. I don't even feel overwrought. I mostly just feel weary and think about how so many times in life we just seem to be running aroun like crazy people trying to touch someone's arm because we're scared and fragile and broken. And there's all those people we've lost and the whooshing sound of the wind in the empty spaces. If our hearts were memory foam, they would take their originial shape right back, but no. People whose absences leave that hollow wind sound leave imprints more like in wet cement. But, they always let it dry before they go. And I don't mean to say that our hearts become hard like cement, though they can, just that it's always there. Even if you can walk on the sidewalk and never miss a step because of some small handprint, it's still there. And it always will be.
And maybe that's not so bad. Maybe if it went away we'd forget everything. The good parts of who they were too, because they meant something once. And maybe we would forget that even though we're sort of fragile and scared and broken we can still make it through something hard and be ok. Maybe that's enough to make us one day look back and even smile a little.
It's only 12 days until my birthday. I'll be 23. I always love birthdays. They feel fresh. And maybe I'll celebrate with different people, but that will be ok too because I will grow and be different and it will be ok. I will look at all of my friends, the ones that saw me turn 22, the ones that didn't. The one's that have been watching me get older for a while now, and I will say a prayer of thanks for all of them. I will even allow some of them to come into the wet cement parts of my heart. Maybe I will make my heart less like a forgotten sidewalk scattered with people's markings when they thought no one was looking, and more like Grauman's Chinese Theater where the people whose handprints left are really something. And even if they flop afterwards, well, they were really something.
Loves.
P.S. I did all that work on that video. You should still watch it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Keeping my promise...
Although horribly late.
I know, I've been an awful blogger lately. What can I say? Excpet, man, life has been running fast, and I've been praying hard and trying not to worry and get some sleep. So, remember about three blog years ago (or 2 real life weeks) when I promised a video blog. Here it is. It's a response to Sarah's 10 things that make you happy. Well, here it is, video style. So, if you have a spare 7:39 minutes, sit back, grab some popcorn, and watch the vid. And hopefully I'll be back soon with some real news. Loves to all.
I know, I've been an awful blogger lately. What can I say? Excpet, man, life has been running fast, and I've been praying hard and trying not to worry and get some sleep. So, remember about three blog years ago (or 2 real life weeks) when I promised a video blog. Here it is. It's a response to Sarah's 10 things that make you happy. Well, here it is, video style. So, if you have a spare 7:39 minutes, sit back, grab some popcorn, and watch the vid. And hopefully I'll be back soon with some real news. Loves to all.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I've been telling myself all week...
That I'd update my blog.
But, instead, I've researched the emerging church, personality disorders, the history of the railway, Lost, non-Catholic convents, Two Guys and a Girl, looked for jobs, journaled, read, watched Bones, got mom hooked on Twilight, and done countless other things that weren't updating my blog.
But, that's life, mes petites choux.
And, to make it up to all of you, soon (which probably, but doesn't definititely means tomorrow) I will make a video update. Yes, you heard right, the first ever. Because I got a webcam to skype. Which is a fantastic word you can make loads of jokes with.
Anyway, until then, I hope you're having a lovely day.
But, instead, I've researched the emerging church, personality disorders, the history of the railway, Lost, non-Catholic convents, Two Guys and a Girl, looked for jobs, journaled, read, watched Bones, got mom hooked on Twilight, and done countless other things that weren't updating my blog.
But, that's life, mes petites choux.
And, to make it up to all of you, soon (which probably, but doesn't definititely means tomorrow) I will make a video update. Yes, you heard right, the first ever. Because I got a webcam to skype. Which is a fantastic word you can make loads of jokes with.
Anyway, until then, I hope you're having a lovely day.
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