The Remarkables

There's a little place just off of the square in my hometown called the Beehive.

There, you'll find brick walls, charming couches and chairs, a baby grand, shelves full of books, and an albino alligator- a white chocolate and coffee concoction that I had this morning (and will be having again as soon as Monday rolls around).

It's just a nook in the corner, but it's a nook that has quickly become one of my favorites.

This morning I was there with friends: one was posting grades for her 7th grade math class, one was hiding behind his laptop secretly writing, and I was studying for an exam.

Nothing really "remarkable" happened, but still, I left there feeling brave, and vibrant, and happy.

I saw more familiar faces in the past two days in this small nook than I see in the entire town driving around. And each face had a story, and advise, and wisdom.

And what I found was that all of the faces were growing up, and changing, and moving on, and alas, hoping. They were wanting to write novels, or change lives, or care about something or someone.

And in the quiet of the nook, or not so quiet since Christmas music was playing the entire time, I caught a glimpse of the future (like I do so often...) and it was good. My novel was finished, my friend's novel was finished, the old faces had loved and been loved and accomplished what they wanted, and the people who wanted to care, cared, and the young faces were still bright and hopeful.

The lives around me are remarkable.

They are doubtful at times, insecure about things which there is no need to be insecure, but they are all brave in there own way. And they are unique and gifted. Some can long board, fearlessly, conquering the asphalt with "slides and turns." Others know the theory of y=mx +b and their brains work in ways mine do not. Some carry wisdom with them and effortlessly allow themselves to be borrowed for the sake of another. And there are those who have conquered small, and those who have conquered big, but in the eyes of the conqueror, it's any wonder that they did it at all. They are left thankful, and I am encouraged to be the same.

It's strange that anther's word, hope, or bravery could convince me that failing life is not possible. That with air, a beating heart, and want, one could accomplish great or small. A different path is not the wrong one, but a new one. A heart break isn't the end, but maybe the beginning. And a novel is only written, when one actually writes, and since the victory is its being written, once finished, how can you fail?

A small word spoken
tearing jeans and bleeding in the hope of learning to long board
reaching for what others think is insignificant or a waste of time
loving despite ...
carrying on with "the plan" no matter how ridiculous
finishing something started
...

...We are conquerors. And in the small conversations we have in the corners and in-between the isles, when stories are told, and advise or wisdom is given, They- the one's sharing- and us - the ones being reminded- become remarkables.

Hold on to These

It has been so long since I last wrote that it is somewhat difficult to accumulate the entire semester into a short blog, but here's an attempt.

Sentence I thought up in a hotel room in Birmingham:

"Sometimes when I go to sleep, I hope that when I wake up the world will be different. It never is."

Sentence I said to my mom in order to explain my biggest conflict:

"To be in the world, I have to be a dietitian, but to be myself, I have to be a writer."

And these both inspired an excerpt in ch. 6 of the novel to be:

"It didn’t matter much though since she never came. I might have sat there for hours. I can’t really remember, but I know it was for a long time. I got there some time in the late afternoon and I was still sitting there at sunset. I felt that ache again, that god awful, gnawing ache. I wanted something, I wanted it so badly and I didn’t even know what it was. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to want something just for the heck of wanting something, or if there was something in me that actually needed to want something. I know, it’s confusing. I was hungry, and I didn’t know what for. And I can’t explain it unless you’ve felt it too."

Apathetic. That's how I would describe life in the beginning of this semester. It wasn't intentional, it was incidental. It's a strange feeling, to be apathetic I mean.

Apathetic-"feeling no interest, enthusiasm, or concern"

I had always figured that to be apathetic, you'd have to be dead, in a coma, sleepwalking. It always seemed quite impossible for me to imagine a living, breathing, human being as being without feeling or numb. Ah, but I was wrong.

Some consider apathy as synonymous with heartless, but that is not the case, so I have learned. Apathy is more like not knowing where to put your heart. The heart is homeless, not dead. It's still beating, it just doesn't know what it's beating for. And without the knowing, witout the thump, thump, thump, it becomes monotonous, rhythmic. No more rises and falls, no more skips or jumps. And it was the rise and fall, skips and jumps, that gave the apathetic heart something to feel in the first place.

With that in mind, it is very simple to become apathetic. All one must do is subit to the tick of a clock, the schedule, the "plan," and then, apathy is easly adapted into ones life without hastle or consideration.

I would say that my month long apathetic heart was in consequence of not knowing where I fit in the future. Where do I want to live? Where do I want to go? Where should I be? How will it all work out? Questions like those, when unfelt, and not readily answered, lead to the feeling of apathy.

I wanted to want something, and I wanted to want it badly enough to run after it, chase after it, fall after it...but I didn't know what it was. And when you don't know what it is, when nothing makes your heart skip or race or jump, there's nothing left but the quiet and calm of apathy.

Fortunately, even though I am no seer, and I STILL cannot predict my future, the feeling of apathy has left because I want again. And it's the wanting that keeps us alive. The chase, the hunt, the run.

Chase after God.
The dream.
The novel.
The internship.
The friend.
The love.
Literally run somewhere...

And the steady thump, thump of my heart became strong again, and faster. And apathy was replased with that child-like hope of what's to come.

Driving home over Thanksgiving break, I felt remarkable. The sky was blue, the air light, and in the midst of the road, I felt something like joy in my heart. I felt many things, but the point was that I felt anything at all.

I received a wonderful letter earlier this year from a friend. She wrote about black birds flying in a circle in a gray sky, and how the flying birds reminded her not to give in to the 5:00 o'clock job, the "life." But, I think more than anything, the life she was speaking of was an apathetic one. A life where one's dreams, and hopes, and wants drown in countless coffee refills, and tapping pencils on the top of plastic desks, and empty sighs.

Maybe our biggest fear of growing up is not to find ourselves in tiny cubicles, surrounded by ties and skirts of the same black and gray hues, but to find ourselves empty, apathetic.

"When you grow up, your heart dies."

That's what the brunnett with weird eating habits and brown eyes says in The Breakfast Club. Maybe she really is on to something. Maybe children dread growing old, not because driving isn't fun, or wearing suits is a bore, but because they don't want to trade running with their arms wides open for that cross-legged, hand-clasped sit.

Apathy- "feeling no interst, apathy, or concern."

But if I were to define it, I would say that apathy is when your heart falls asleep. And the best way to wake up a sleeping heart is to squeeze it so tight with the beauty, and the dreams, and the deliciousness of life that it cannot do anything else but wake up.

In the moments you are given, really live. And when they are over, hold on.

Love is Patient and Kind

Three days ago I used a dry erase marker to write, “Love is patient and kind” on my bathroom mirror. I hoped that by writing it there, I’d be forced to mediate upon it while brushing my teeth or putting on mascara or the more common gnashing of my teeth when asked to give patience and kindness away.

There’s more than that sentence in I Corinthians. Things like, “Love does not envy or boast,” or “ Love bears all things, believe all things, hopes all things, endures all things,” but at the moment, those “things” were too much for me, and I knew that writing Love is patient and kind would be enough to refine me for the week. Maybe the month. Maybe the year. When I wrote that little sentence, I wanted to believe it, to let it soak into my heart somewhere, to eat it like Jeremiah says is chapter 15 verse 16.

“Your words were found, and I ate them,
and your words became to me a joy
and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
O LORD, God of hosts.”

When I wrote that sentence, I intended to put myself through the fire- let myself get a little burned, or a lot burned- in the hopes that my selfishness and lack of compassion would be turned to ashes, and from those ashes, something beautiful might be allowed to thrive.
Don’t get me wrong, I do nice things for people. I lend notes, I do favors, I do a lot of favors actually, and I give myself and time to those who need it. And all of this time, I was convinced that I was patient and kind, until a few months ago when I began to pray to be more compassionate towards others.

And the day came for me to be “kind” like usual, but I realized I was being selfish, and impatient, and I was doing something I absolutely had no heart to do, and though on the outside all appearance would suggest I was being generous; in my heart, my heels were shoved inches deep into the ground, and I was being dragged into kindness, screaming the whole time. And God opened my eyes to just how selfish I really am. God, yet again, revealed to me the true nature of my heart, and it wasn’t full of compassion and unconditional love.

I started to reflect over my past given favors, and it was simple to find a pattern. On most occasions, I absolutely did not want to do what was asked of me on the grounds that “they” never did anything for me. Selfish. I was thinking, “I always give, and I always do, but no one ever takes thought for me.” I was convinced that if others thought of me and what I wanted, they wouldn’t ask me to give so much or so often. They would realize that I was tired, or busy, or that they needed to take more initiative to get things done and not rely on me as their back-up plan, but apparently this didn’t happen because I was still being asked pretty often to do things that I just didn’t want to do.

When I realized that I have a tendency to do this, I couldn’t shake off the guilt, and not so much guilt as conviction. Conviction that in the MANY times I have had the opportunity to show the Lord’s love and compassion and to be a free hand to those who needed it, I’ve clung to my own wants and comforts and have only done kind things because I’ve wanting to deflect the conflict or confrontation from those who asked of me.

And at night, I thought of Jesus. I thought of how much he gave, and I’m not talking about the crucifixion. We all know how much that cost, but I’m talking about his life, his daily want to give of himself. Think of the people who only wanted to be near him to gain; the people who asked for miracles or healing, those who had sinned previously and were facing consequences and wanted to be “fixed.” I think about all of the people who gathered around him grabbing at his cloak, reaching for his shoes and his arms, pulling and tugging, wanting and needing, and he didn’t run. He didn’t turn away. He didn’t remind them that what they got is what they had coming, he just said, “be forgive,” and they were healed, but more so, they were loved, and in that love, they learned of something bigger and grander than their physical and immediate needs, and their lives were changed by it. Jesus loved in such a way that it fully impacted everyone around him. For some, it made them believers, for others, it made them haters, but either way, his love was loud and obnoxious and it couldn’t be ignored.

I’d lie there and stare at my ceiling and just think, “how did you do it?” How did you not become empty? How did you just give and give and give? And then this thought came to mind and it was quite simple and obvious, and that was God. Jesus was God, I know, but the more I thought about it, the more amazing it was. I’m not God, but God resides in me, right? So, if I want to love people like God and I want to be compassionate like God, I have to let God do that through me. I have to forget about my wants and my needs and I have to just love people for who or what they are and how they got to who or what they are because God would have me love them despite all of those things.

What’s funny is that when you think of loving people as an opportunity to show them God’s love and to have God’s love grow in you, something changes. I’m not saying I’m radically different, but already I can feel the Lord breaking down my callused heart even more and making it more sympathetic and tender, and in the times I’ve been asked to do favors since this refinement began, I find myself feeling joy when I do someone a favor because it was an opportunity to love them, and I find myself growing in compassion…weird.

I’m so thankful for the joy and the growing love because, honestly, the burning of knowing how selfish I am, and how little I go out of my way to shower people with genuine love and compassion really bothered me. It’s hard to see the bad things about yourself, you know this. It’s hard for me to see really bad things about myself, especially when they are things that I don’t necessarily want to change, but thank God for grace and mercy and his gentle hand that is able to change our stony hearts into something nice and mushy. The burn hurts, but I desperately needed it.

So, on most days, before I go to bed, and as soon as I rise, my first thought is, “Love is patient and kind,” and when that phrase has become a part of my heart, I’ll move on to the second line, and I’m sure I’ll be burned again, and again, and again…but God has called us to love, and so love I will do.

Alrighty

I’m kind of out of witty titles at the moment. The best I could think of was “alrighty,” and that’s only because- after editing my resume- I said “alrighty” when I opened up a new document to write this here blog.

I don’t have anything remarkable to say. My life is just going to have to do. Filler, rambling, space-taker-upper. Whatever. I need to write something, anything.

Yesterday, I gave a presentation on using visual aids in my Methods of Teaching Adult Education class with a friend. We talked about whiteboards, and outlines, and flip charts. I don’t really care much for any of the three, but I felt convicted enough during the presentation, and even I believed that writing key points on a white piece of paper could solve the world’s problems. I’m not going to diss on the handout too much though because I actually like handouts. The MyPyramid handout from Medical Nutrition I is in my binder and is often referred to.

In fact, I used the MyPeriod handout during the presentation. Oooops, did I type MyPeriod? I meant to type MyPyramid. And I’m convinced that when I said “My Period” in class on Monday, I meant to say “My Pyramid.” Amazingly enough, it seemed completely natural when I said it, and that’s probably because the “monthly” is a topic that has been thoroughly exhausted by Dr. White in Lifecycle. I just laughed to myself and said “MyPeriod? MyPyramid” and moved on. Though, I did giggle during my explanation on using graphs, charts, and diagrams for illustrating ideas...I kept seeing in my head, “MyPeriod, MyPeriod, MyPeriod,” and it was funny after all. Lifecycle hasn’t completely desensitized me.

I’ve come to the full realization that I hate GPA. I think it stands for a little something called, “grade point average,” but I like to refer to it as “grief, pain, and aggravation.” I have experienced all three on its account. My Dietetic core GPA is a 3.89, and what is my cumulative? A crappy 3.29. Why? Because of accounting, statistics, chemistry II, and computers, none of which are necessary for completing nutritional assessments, or calculating BMI’s, or explaining the causes of Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, also known as Hyperosmolar Hyperglycemic Nonketoic Syndrome in Type 2 diabetes patients (all of which I’m excellent at).Ok, I take that back, Chemistry II might be relevant for Hyperosmolar NonKetoic Comas in some way, but Biochemistry covers all of the bases. Hark! (Listen attentively). I got an A in Biochemistry. That’s right. But Grief.Pain.Aggravaton won’t give that A any credit. Nope. It’s pulling my intellect down the drain, taking my resume and internship hopes and shredding them. My beautiful 3.89 in Dietetic core and 3.67 in Human and Food Science core are both in the shadow of that evil cumulative GPA that’s supposedly summing up my future.

Fortunately, or hopefully, those who are summing up my entire life and person on a sheet of paper will notice that I have all three GPA’s listed, just to get the point across. And the point is, “though you want me to be good at math and calculating PV=nRT, I’m not, but I kick-a in Dietetics, so please, for the love of fat camp shows, and Vitamin D, and food labels, and fat free ice cream and cake and cake, let me continue to be a food nerd in your internship program.”

Calling GPA, Grief. Pain. Aggravation usually makes me laugh, and I can’t take myself seriously. I’m wondering what others have translated GPA to. Hmmm.

Today I went to the junior high to get some papers signed, class to take an exam on Hyperosmolar Nonketoic Comas, the post office, and the Medical Clinic, which brings me to another irony in my life, registration.

Perhaps you’ve heard me say, “I’m registration cursed” before. If not, you’re seriously missing out on inconvenient, confusing, yet funny stories.

The story is that I don’t register like normal people. Normal people go to an advisor or get on their laptops and register. I pull my hair out and scream, and run from office to office, and get holds taken off that I didn’t even know existed, and I miss my registration by two weeks or more while my classes are closing, so I get on waiting lists, and get off of waiting lists, and make phone calls, and send e-mails, because I have the curse of registration.

It came to my attention at the beginning of last week that I had a hold on registration (I was already looking for inconveniences). What was on hold? My health form. You know, the one you turn in after you’re accepted to Auburn.

I’ve been at Auburn for four years…

My health form didn’t exist when I went to the Medical Clinic for a required TB test for a lab…….. In August.

“Martha Lee Anne Ryals? Are you a freshman?
“I’m a senior. “
“That’s so weird. You’re not even on file.”
I laugh, “Oh, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time.”
“I’m just going to have to give you the paperwork to fill out again.”
“Alright, that’s fine.”

I sat in my chair content that I had fixed a problem I didn’t even know existed. And I turned my 8” x 11” problem in to the lady behind the plastic window.

It’s September. I’m still on hold. I’m still nonexistent in the filing cabinet.I called the clinic on Friday and was told they were missing my MMR, but that I could fax them the paperwork. So, I called my doctor’s office in Monroeville today to give them the fax number so they could fax my MMR forms to the clinic and solve the problem. But I was informed that I have to sign a release form... I ended up at the Medical Clinic again to fill out a release form, but that release form will have to be approved by my doctor first- which is common procedure-before they will send my MMR documentation to complete my health form which was turned in four years ago, but magically, and conveniently was put on hold the week before my registration, but I win.

That’s right registration, I win. You were sneaky, oh you were sneaky alright, and you would have done it again, but my paranoia proved useful and I was a whole week ahead of you.

I have finally beaten the registration curse. If I had not gotten that TB test in August, I wouldn’t have known that my file had “magically” disappeared. If I hadn’t discovered it was missing, I wouldn’t have called the medical clinic, which later informed me that my MMR was missing. I wouldn’t have called my doctors office, so I wouldn’t have known a release form would be needed. I wouldn’t have known that I would need to go to the medical clinic to get one...that it would take time and patience to get it filled out and faxed and responded to. Next Saturday, I would have been running around, pulling my hair out, on the day of registration, yet again, chasing some ridiculous event that was unfolding around my innocent should-be registration. And because Saturday is the weekend, I once again would have found myself in quite a debacle.

Sigh.


The only drama I have in my life is the ridiculous nonsense kind. I don’t have arguments with my roommate or with my crazy-would-be-boyfriend. I may look 17, am 23, but deep down, I’m an old lady named Martha who reads in place of watching TV, plays the piano, wants a pug, and drives 35 mph in 40 mph zones; Yet somehow, exciting, ridiculous, and spontaneous things manage to fit into my life. Weird.

I can do without the registration curse though, it shan’t be missed.

On a completely different note, as I was driving to the medical clinic today. I saw a boy waving his hands as he leaned in through the window of what I assume was his girlfriend’s car. And I don’t know what he was saying, but he looked upset. And when she drove away, even with her sunglasses on, I could tell she was crying, or wanted to be crying, and I wondered what he said or what she was thinking. In fact, I’m sure I thought more about her while filling out my doctor’s release form than my curse.

Alrighty, that’s all. I know I talked about a lot of nothing, but it only seems like that because you’re not me. If you were me, every detail was important and relevant. Keep that in mind.

Catch Up

Cotton hills roll as I lay on my pillow.
Tucked in tight, I feel peace against my skin.
The world lies at the tips of my fingers.
Time stops here.

Beneath these sheets I am rescued.
Here broken ships sail.
In a tangle of white I find Heaven.
Abandoned hopes find a prayer.

With eyes closed I see the past.
Memories bring quiet smiles.
The sun knocks on my window,
But dark lingers for awhile.
When dark’s curtain is opened,
I wake beneath my sheets.
Stars sit in my palms,
Kings kiss my cheek.
The Universe is my candle.
I hold it in my hand.
Here, everything is what it seems.

martha lee anne


It’s been a month and a half. It feels like a lifetime since school started, since I’ve written more than a few words. I read four books the first week and a half of school, and since then, I’ve read a few chapters of “Franny and Zooey” by J.D. Salinger, and some Jeremiah.

I heard this song called “Someone Like You” by Adele.

It makes me sad.

“I hate to turn out of the blue uninvited. But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it. I hope you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded…” me too, Adele. Me too.

“She is” by Ben Rector makes me happy.

“She is whatever she wants to be. She is a little of everything, mixed up so tough in a beautiful way. She’s got the world at her fingertips, she makes beauty look effortless. And I want everything she is. She is. She is. Well, I want everything she is.”

It makes me feel pretty. No reason other than it’s called “She is” and I’m a “she”, and I like to think that I’m all of those things. Whether I am or not doesn’t really matter, it’s the thought that I could be that makes me happy.

I’ve been looking at destinations for my dietetic internship in the fall. The one I hope to be accepted too. And it has quickly become apparent that I’m moving far away. That could be Georgia, or Florida, or Tennessee, or South Carolina, or Connecticut, or Maryland. I have to be honest, New Haven,Ct makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

I was thinking the other day, “I want to be a writer,” and then this internship with Eating Well magazine showed up in Charlotte, Vermont, and I thought,” I’m going to apply to intern with them and be a writer,” and then I thought, “If I got that internship I’d be a writer…”

And that felt really weird.

It’s like to hope to be a writer is the job. The hoping to be a writer is the only eventful outcome of wanting to be a writer. You don’t actually become a writer. So imagining getting an internship to write seems surreal, and unusual, like no person who wants to be a writer should ever actually be a writer, they should just be a wordy student, or a man with a brown hat who keeps notes tucked in his pockets, or a girl with long hair who doodles in her notebook, who one day hopes to be a writer. But the hope is the closest they ever get to actually being writers.

But what’s funny is that some people do become writers. And some people become nurses. And some people go flying in these things called space ships and they land on the moon and walk around. Someone does it. And if someone is going to be a writer, it might as well be me. Or at least, I should try to make that someone me, right?

I was thinking that when you’re little, life is just a little snow globe that fits in your hands. It’s small, pretty, shiny, and it seems nothing at all to carry it around, or to hold it between both hands. To say, “I’m going to be a writer,” seems nothing at all. To say, “I’ll go to Africa” seems nothing at all. And the day comes for you to write, or to practice medicine, or to travel to the other side of the world, but you don’t. You settle. Dreams are just silly thoughts you had, spontaneously, with no consideration of pros or cons. Childhood thoughts. Unrealistic thoughts. So that trip becomes unrealistic, and medicine or writing is too hard and impossible, and far away is too far away for you after all.

The time has come. The year will be coming to a close. And I have a choice to make, or really, I have a choice to find out.... I can settle, or I can shove my life back into that shiny snow globe, and carry it with me on the streets of New Haven or down the hallways of NYU, or into some village in Africa, or maybe, in that little cubby at Eating Well.

I’m five, and you ask me what I want to do when I grow up, and I tell you that I’m going to be an astronaut and ride a bike on the moon. You ask me again at nine, I tell you I’m going to be a famous actress. You ask me again at fourteen, I tell you I’m going to be a country singer. You ask me at sixteen, I tell you I’m going to be a children’s author. You ask again at seventeen, and eighteen and you get the same answer. And when you ask me at nineteen, I tell you, “I don’t know.” I tell you that the economy is bad, that getting an alternative masters would be safe considering I am only an English major, and all the while memories of Africa linger, and thoughts of short stories and novels and children’s poems, but I have forgotten those beautiful things I thought of at five, and nine, and fourteen, and seventeen, and eighteen.

But I’m twenty three. And I haven’t forgotten those beautiful things I once hoped for, and if I did, I remember them now. I don’t know why Africa seems to keep calling to me. I don’t know why writing keeps calling to me, but I’m very sure that neither are going to go away. And I have a choice to make, or better yet, to find out.

The most I hope for is to chase after the things I dreamed of when I was younger, and brave, and if it’s supposed to happen, it will. And if it doesn’t, I’ll chase hard after something else, but at some point, I’ll find just what God has already set before me. And knowing he knows my heart, gives me great comfort that I’ll find
it.

First Day

I remember exactly what I wore my first day at Auburn University. I wore a yellow Ann Taylor shirt, which I still have, and still wear, and a pair of gray pants; of course I was wearing my rainbow flip flops (before the hole in the left heel was born) which my friends graciously bought me my freshman year at Alabama Southern. I also had the exact same rusty orange backpack I had in eighth grade, and which I still have today. There are less working zippers, more scratches, but I love it just as much now, if not more, than I did then. And the question, “what does MLAR mean?” never fails to earn a laugh.

My first class of the morning was Sociology, followed by Spanish, followed by Ethics, and I didn’t have Tuesday or Thursday classes my first year: In summary, a mi me gusta espanol, pero yo hablo muy poco; I learned “good is a feeling like yum or yuck” in ethics, and I don’t remember really what happened in sociology other than learning about the “glass ceiling” and thinking it was crap.

I fell up the stairs at Brown. My flip flops fell down the stairs, my back pack went over my head, and the only person who laughed was me. I think everyone else just stared, but I bet “I saw a girl fall up the stairs today” was said in more than a few kitchens or living rooms or bedrooms that day.

I was 19. I had above shoulder length hair, which was not its natural sandy but a dark brown, and by the end of that year, it would be reddish brown, emphasis on reddish. I weighed about 30 pounds more, so much for freshman 15. I also lived with a girl named Alicia Ellis on 420 East Magnolia. And I was an English major who was listening mostly to Damien Rice and Dashboard Confessionals.

After watching a video blog of myself (yeah I just wrote that) a week or so ago that I found in a dresser drawer from Monroeville, I found out that that same year I decided I wanted to be a missionary in Africa, I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, I wanted to write a book, I wanted to do many mischievous and adventurous things, I wanted to go to Italy, and I wanted to get a degree in English with a fifth year alternative masters. I had no idea what I was going to do with English, but I went full steam ahead anyway.


Today was the first day of my last year at Auburn University. I wore a white t-shirt and some vintage looking rolled up shorts, and of course, my flip flops that my friends graciously gave me 5 years ago (and the hole is ever present in the left heel), as well as a locket that was handed down to me by Martha Lee, my grandmother whom I’m named after. Maybe several years from now, I’ll remember it all as vividly as that first day walking towards Haley.

This morning I went to Food System Operations Lab, then Food System Operations class in Spidle. And others in the following days will be: Nutrition in the Life Cycle, Medical Nutrition I, Professional Issues in Dietetics, and Methods of Teaching in Adult Education.

I didn’t fall up any stairs. I didn’t get lost. I didn’t worry any, at all, none. In fact, walking into the library for the first time in a few months, I felt beyond at home in my little nook. The blue chairs there should know me well, as should the books on the fourth floor where I’ve left some of my little thoughts.

I’m 23. I have way below the shoulder length hair now, also known as long. It is once again, and will forever be, it’s natural shade of sandy or dirty blond as my mom used to say. I weigh 30 pounds less than I did my first year at Auburn, and it only took about three years to accomplish this. Don’t worry, I believe in slow and steady, and treadmills. I live with a girl named Hayley Carnes on a completely different street because Alicia Ellis is now Alicia Vining, and also the mother to a baby boy who is only nine days old.

Though I don’t feel called as a traditional missionary, so to speak, I do love the idea of working overseas, especially after going to Africa before my first year at Auburn. I ended up getting, and learning how to play the guitar. I’m not great, but I can do it. I am now on chapter five of my novel, Burning Autumn. I have done some mischief, though, probably not as much as I would have liked. I will have a B.A. in English BUT I will also have a B.S. In Nutrition and Food Science/Dietetics. And these days, I’m still listening to a whole lot of Damien Rice, but Damien Rice Pandora is even better.

I guess, if you read my blog, you’ll notice that this is what I mean by “before” and “after” when speaking in terms of time. Big changes. I think my life has had a many big changes since I got to Auburn. Looking back, I remember how nervous and scared, but excited, I was. And now, thinking about May- when I’ll be graduating- I know I can’t even begin to imagine where I will be, what I will want, or what I’ll be doing.

Maybe writing will work out. Maybe clinical dietetics will work out. Maybe working overseas in Africa will work out. But the point is it WILL work out. And 5 years from now, I’ll probably be laughing to myself looking back, just like I am now, thinking of how beautifully all things come together.

Coming Home

Put down your paper plate
come to the table made
deep blue china
found on the table by the wine
so fine

it brings out flavor
like You bring out color in life

oh, I miss You so
the feel of forever
oh, that taste I know
it hurts to remember
unfortunately high
ironically dissatisfied
I miss You
I miss You

oh, I miss You so
the feel of forever
oh, that taste I know
it hurts to remember

I had a fleeting thought this morning
and I mentioned you today
it breaks my heart just to know You in part
and not to be with You where You are


I close my eyes because this place is good. I close my eyes because- like the lyrics of a Phil Wickham song say- “Father I'm running, Father I'm coming home. I cannot go on; your child is running, Father I'm coming home, back where I belong.”

And I raise my hands, because I hope that He’ll be close enough to let me touch Him. Just the corners, or the edges…any little piece will do. And I hope, and pray, that He can take all of my little, beating heart..or stony heart…or cracking heart…or overflowing heart.

And in the stillness, and in the quiet, my heart knows Him so well, and hears Him so well, that it doesn’t ache, or want for anything else, but for that little stillness to last, forever. I don’t need to see him, because I feel Him, and I don’t care how ridiculous that sounds, when the Holy Spirit is near, you can’t possibly confuse it with anything in this world.

This place is good. This place is home.

You might be wondering what the “point” of this blog is. I can’t really say, other than to have just a little moment of thankfulness, and to have a quiet moment to just be in awe of a God who meets with us, and hears us, and lets us run, weak legs and all, into His presence. And welcomes us despite all else.

What a beautiful God. What a beautiful, beautiful, God.

A Cord of Three Strands

Last night, I was reading through some old prayer journals of mine when I found a piece of notebook paper, folded over, and pushed between the pages. After unfolding it, I realized that it wasn’t my handwriting (it was readable) but my past roommate’s instead.

As I read it, I noticed it was a song. At first, I thought that maybe she had copied it down from somewhere because she had liked it, but the more I read it, the more I started to think that she had written it herself. And after reading it again this morning, I am almost sure that she did write it.

The title, “A Cord of Three Strands.”

It’s funny to me how the things you need are always there when you need them. Always. They may be small; they may be pushed into a corner or folded over in the creases of old journals, but they are there. It isn’t finding them that’s hard, it’s recognizing them once you’ve found them. I think God sends us little messages, and letters, and words all of the time, but I guess we miss them because we aren’t looking or listening. The same roommate who wrote the song used to say, “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” Basically, there is no such thing as coincidence, only divine planning. I don’t think it was coincidence that I found her song.

For those of you who don’t know, a cord of three strands is the metaphor for a Godly relationship.

“And though a man might prevail against one who is alone, two will withstand him—a threefold cord is not quickly broken” Ecclesiastes 4:12.

Now, “relationship” can be that between friends, or family, or a loved one. A double stranded cord would be the relationship between you and the other person, and the third cord is God intertwining Himself into both of your lives simultaneously, holding you together.

The world says, “two is better than one,” but the bible says, “three is better than two.”

Now, some time before finding my roommate’s song, I read a quote that I had also written in an old prayer journal, and it spoke to me loud and clear.

“Don’t call on God when worshiping other idols. What good can God do if you’re not following his commandments?” Jeremiah 11

I have no idea where that quote came from, but I went back and read Jeremiah 11, and it’s a pretty good summary of the chapter, and overall it’s true. If we’re worshiping idols, how can we worship God? And better yet, how can we call on God with our mouths without calling on Him with our hearts? We can’t. God knows our hearts, and if they aren’t after Him, there’s nothing He can do: He can’t lead if we aren’t willing to follow.

Right after reading the quote in my journal, I realized that my idol is relationships. I am always putting my relationships with friends and family before my relationship with God. I’m single, and I still put thoughts of boys before God sometimes (didn’t even think that was possible). The point is, I too often run to friends, seek advice from friends, and then have a five minute, “oh and God, help. Love Martha Lee Anne,” prayer before I go to bed. But if my heart isn’t in the right place, what good can God do?

A two cord strand is liable to break. It’s liable to fail. It’s liable to let us down, hard. We can’t put our worries, and hopes, and dreams into other people with the assurance that those worries won’t become real, and our hopes won’t be broken, and our dreams won’t become elusive.

I’m not saying relationships aren’t gifts from God, because they are, but shouldn’t God be present if He gave them? Shouldn’t there be a tag somewhere that reminds us who gave the gift? And at the end of the day, shouldn’t God get the most Glory? Shouldn’t He get the biggest space in our hearts?

A cord of three strands doesn’t omit relationships, and it doesn’t omit God. God gives us relationships in friends and family and in significant others as blessings, not as “alright, you have them now so you don’t need me.” We will always need human relationships, but we’ll always need a Godly relationship as well, and I guess I’ve just had a hard time finding a good balance between the two, but clearly the Lord is speaking to me on the subject, and for that I am very thankful.

It's not a Phase

Unfortunately, I have discovered wanting to be a writer when I grow up isn't a phase.

I say unfortunately because I figured that, at some point, I'd stop writing secretly during class in the margins of my notebooks, or that I'd find editing papers disgusting, or that I would spend more time doing anything else instead of writing blogs...

I thought that I'd grow out of being obsessed with letters, and commas, and (my personal favorite) semicolons, or even journals, and books, and blank sheets of paper.

I thought I would, but I haven't.

"Unfortunately" isn't even the word that I'm looking for. Here's why.

1. There really isn't a place for, what are they called again, oh writers...
2. I don't know how many people would actually read my writing
3. Does "Miss Falours Jumbled Stories" appeal to you at all? no? not even a little? What about "Miss Frizzle" or "Rizzle" or "Tizzle" (I still haven't worked that title out)..no? Well there goes the highlight of my high school cafeteria years...
4. What kind of people besides me write 8 paged, single spaced children stories that rhyme..all the way through?
5. I'm on chapter four of a novel in progress and I have no idea if you'd even read past the first sentence.
6. I don't want to starve

It's really a tragedy. A tragedy that goes back to kindergarten, or maybe before. Maybe the tragedy started the day I was born, I mean the first thing I did after learning to write was make books. I've literally been writing stories for as long as I've been able to put letters into words, and words into sentences.

My freshman year of college, I entered my adviser's office with two options. English and Nutrition...and what did my advisor choose between the two? English, or better said, "big nothing." SHE chose English, because though I knew how badly I wanted to write, I also knew that I wanted to live, and English didn't seem to have that option...but she chose it anyway. Sometimes I wonder if that was fate, and other times I wonder if it was stupidity, but either way, I'll have a degree in both, so we'll never know.

So I wonder most, did I choose writing or did writing choose me?

Who knows? I don't. But imagining that I'll never really get to write, even if it is just nutrition articles for some unknown magazine, makes me sad, really sad. So far, all I've ever wanted to do is write, and I know now, it's all I'll ever want to do, and the tragedy is, unlike being a teacher, or a doctor, or whatever else, you can't just work yourself into being a writer, you have to wait for someone with a name tag in an office somewhere to tell you that what you've written is worth reading, and then, they'll call you a writer, but until then, you're just another person with a hobby.

When Pigs Flew

When I was younger, summer meant running through my Crazy Dazy sprinkler or attempting to build the most epic fort ever in Kimberly Carnes’ back yard, which was really like a forest compared to the few pines in my back yard. Selling sour or overly sweet lemonade at the end of the driveway with crappy store bought oatmeal cookies happened a few times. I don’t know what I ever spent my “earnings” on; I think it was just feeling the weight of the loose change in my pocket that made me so happy.

“An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work” is what my Bigdaddy always said. I guess the honest part is what makes the pay so good.

Every other Sunday afternoon, we’d go out to Granny and Bigdaddy’s, and even looking back now, there was something magical there. Maybe it was the hot dirt in the garden, or the old see-saw, or the creek, or the old wells, or maybe, it was that old, black bell; I can still hear that iron bell ringing under the oaks, calling us out of the pastures to the corn bread, and butter beans, and fried chicken and yellow squash sitting on the table- just like it was yesterday.

It’s funny. Sometimes, even now, when I eat fried squash, it’s like biting into that little brick home and those rolling pastures; like I can taste Repton: the carpet that you could dig your hands into, and that couch with all of the fuzzies, and grannies white powder, and the encyclopedias, and that white afghan in Uncle Mark and Uncle Carmel’s room, the cookies in the bread box, and the dust on that worn record player. Even all of those hand sized bells on that shelf, I can taste them too.

And I can smell Big Daddy’s hair, and his chewing tobacco, and his plaid shirts. I can’t remember exactly what he smelled like, but thinking now, I imagine something like the saw dust from his shop, and the wet dirt from his garden, and his leather belt with that bass buckle, and even a little bit like the chair he always sat in there by the window, just next to the kitchen.

He’d let me stand on his shoes while he danced to some song from that record player, and if I sat on one, and hugged a knee, he’d carry me there for awhile. He taught me how to play “Jack in the Bean Stalk”

“Jack in the bean stalk” he’d start
“Cut him down” I’d say
“How many licks?” And I’d look him right in the eye, and try to see the number in his hand in the white specks, just like he had taught me to.

He taught me how to fly a kite, to walk on stilts, to catch tad poles, to plow a field and plant the seeds, and he taught me how to turn that wheel on the pea sheller when it was time to shell the peas that the boys, and him, and daddy, and mamma, and granny had picked and put in white buckets. He taught me how to make corn dolls, how to see-saw, how to make a wasp sting better, how to put watermelon in buckets on hot days for eating later, and how to mix cornbread with pea juice. He taught me how to dig up potatoes, and how to know when crops were ripe for picking. He taught me about the bluebirds, and that if wind turns leaves upside down, it’s going to rain. He taught me about honesty, and integrity, and hard work.

“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” and “ a man is only as good as his word,” are thinks I quote or think of often.

I remember running through the garden having dirt clot wars with my brothers, and playing hide-and-go- seek in the corn rows with my friends. One of my favorite past times was to irritate the birds that lived in this really tall birdhouse that was right in the middle of the garden, and if you did it right, they’d dive down at you, and you’d have to huddle close to the dirt to trick them into thinking you were gone, or maybe to convince them that you were harmless; either way, it worked, and they’d circle overhead a few times and then return to that bird house.

One of my favorite memories of Big Daddy is the way he would eat. He’d huddle over his food; his left arm stretched out and curved around his plate. And he’d mix his food so much that you couldn’t tell the peas from the roast or the potatoes. And he’s lean over, close to the concoction he had created, and after taking a huge bite, he’d just laugh, and chew, and talk, and take another bite, and laugh, and chew, and talk. When you could see the yellow flower pattern again, he’d put his hands behind his head, and kick back his chair, and just talk to you. We’d all sit there for an hour or an hour and a half, or more, and just eat, and chew, and talk, Bigdaddy leaning back in his chair, and Granny asking him not to because she was worried that one day he’d fall over.

I have so many good memories of him. I have memories of my granny too, but unfortunately senile dementia changed her so much, even early on, that it’s really hard for me to remember her before. And I think I remember Big Daddy more because, even though my mom says I’m like granny, I always felt like Big Daddy understood me more. He loved the earth on his hands, and the sun on his face, and the tractor’s hum in his ear; and I did too. I may not have been loud like him, or chewed like him, or eaten like him, but I’d have to say, that I feel like I’m more like him.

He carved these birds out of wood and painted them, and they are some of the most beautiful carvings I’ve ever seen. He’d draw cartoons and portraits. I’ve never carved, but I got sketching from him. And where he preferred cartoons, I preferred portraits. And I hope that I look at life the same way he did. And I hope that I have that spark that he did. There was just something about him, the way he always seemed to be smiling or laughing or talking, like life was bubbling up inside him somewhere and then gushing out.

Repton holds so many dear memories for me that I wish that you could have gone with me. I wish you could have seen the branch before it dried up and the pasture where the grass looked almost like wheat, and the hills, and the garden, and those beautiful flowers by the garden gate. I wish you could have seen the mud castles we built, and the games we played, and those stilts, and the kites, and that old, black bell.

Looking back now, Repton wasn’t a dream or a fictitious childhood I created, it really was that wonderful. And maybe it seemed magical because it was.

I like to refer to those days as the days when pigs flew. Interpret that as you like, but it’s a title I hold dear to my heart.

Vindicated

Hope dangles on a string like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out, the shine of it has caught my eye
And roped me in, so mesmerizing and so hypnotizing
I am captivated, I am

Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong, I am right
I swear I'm right, swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed but I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore, you saw yourself

So clear like the diamond in your ring, cut to mirror your intention
Over sized and overwhelmed, the shine of which has caught my eye
And rendered me so isolated and so motivated
I am certain now that I am

Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong, I am right
I swear I'm right, swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed but I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore, you saw yourself

So turn up the corners of your lips
Part them and feel my finger tips
Trace the moment, fall forever

Defense is paper thin
Just one touch and I'll be in
Too deep now to ever swim against the current

So let me slip away, so let me slip away
So let me slip away, so let me slip against the current
So let me slip away, so let me slip away
So let me slip away, so let me slip away

Vindicated, I am selfish, I am wrong, I am right
I swear I'm right, swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore, you saw yourself

Slight hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption


-Dashboard Confessional

To My Sisters

I was born in 1988, but before me there was a boy named Matt who was born in 1986, and before him in 1982, there was another boy named Ken. And we were the three children in my home.

There were none after me. And as often as I dressed up my cabbage patch doll and called her my sister, I never had a sister. And as often as I implored my mom to get me one, she never did.

The only sisters that I find myself having are those who are close friends, and those who are in Christ. You might think that it is not the same, but having two older brothers, it feels like it can’t be so much different: You let me wear your eyeliner and your clothes, though your shoes never have fit me. And we stay up before going to bed and talk about all of the “hes” and “hims”.

Fortunately, your “hes” and “hims” are much like mine, and the thoughts you have are much like mine, and in these similarities I find that, well, I have many sisters. And because you are my sisters, I want to take time to write to you out of love.

The other night, well, more like the other, other night, I was talking to one of my “sisters,” and we both had a revelation. And this is it:

Just because we’ve grown up surrounded by “hims” and “hes” who say the wrong things, and do the wrong things, and forget, and seem to lose our names amongst a list of names, and are never there when.., and use too many words to beat around the bush…well, they aren’t the only “hims” and “hes.” In fact, if you didn’t already know this, I’m telling you because until a few days ago, I hadn’t really made the distinction between the two.

Growing up, just as you did, I’ve grown up with the same guys you did. And some of them, you’ve categorized as “alright” since they seemed pretty sincere when talking with you, and they weren’t angry drunks, and though you doubted them when they said things like, “I’ll call”, or” I’ll remember”, or “I’ll be there…” you knew that “deep down” they were really nice guys.

In fact, you were so convinced of this (them being nice guys), that when they actually did forget, or acted the part of the jerk, or did some other “guy” thing, you were actually shocked. And your feelings were hurt, and maybe your heart was hurt, but in the end, you knew that guys were just guys.

Here’s the thing I’m getting to, “Guys are just guys” is basically giving guys who act like jerks the excuse that it’s ok for them to be punks because all the other guys do it. And if you grew up in the same town as me, then all of the other guys really were doing it, and the ones who did it just a little less than the others seemed great, so when they forgot just a little less often, or said something wrong a little less often, well, you considered them nice guys…

I realized the other, other day, that all of the things that I want my guy friends and far into the future husband to be aren’t ridiculous. And this whole time, due to thinking that "guys are just guys," I thought they were…

Guards my heart…
Is considerate and kind
Little things are important
Cares about me
Is honest
Loves the Lord

Those are basically the things I wrote down on a pink piece of paper when I was thirteen about the kind of relationship (and I would say friendships) I wanted. And I don’t even know how many times I’ve wanted to erase something here or there because it seemed “unrealistic”; Like wanting the person you’re dating- or friends with- to care, or to guard your heart, or to be honest, or to remember you, is asking too much of them.

I don’t know if you do this too. Do you lie awake and dream about the kind of man who is going to be sweet, and leave you little notes, or bring you flowers, or call you because he misses you, and then feel guilty for wanting too much, or childishly hoping for too much? Do you let “guys be guys” because you don’t know the difference? Do you let “guys be guys” because you don’t want to be too demanding? D you let “guys be guys” because you didn’t know there was another kind….because I have.

There is another kind. I’ve caught glimpses of him. He puts others before himself, and he says the right things when you need him to, and he’s there when you need him to be, and he says he’s sorry when he should, and he’s patient, and he’s kind, and even if he is just a friend, all of the above still holds true. And he is rare, and that’s why it’s so easy to forget that he isn’t just a dream you had, or an idea that flickered in your mind.

Don’t believe me? Go read Song of Solomon. All of those things that I wanted, and maybe you wanted, are there. And they are just as beautiful as you and I “imagined” them to be. And I’m encouraged to want them as much as I always have.

What would be the point of hunger if there were no such thing as food? And what would be the point of these “silly” desires for honesty, and love, and tenderness if they didn’t exist? There wouldn’t be, BUT there is hunger because there is food, and we have these desires, because those things we thought we dreamed up exist, in relationships and in friendships, because God created them, and Song of Solomon is testimony to that. And though some of us are called to longer times of singleness, and even permanent singleness, I believe that many of those things can still be found in God.

I wanted to tell you to forget about those guys who keep forgetting you. I wanted to tell you to let go and move on past the guys in junior high or high school or college who said the wrong things and left you feeling like you were less than you are. I wanted to tell you that “he” exists, as rare and almost invisible as he seems sometimes, “he” exists. I wanted to tell you that you aren’t demanding, you aren’t asking for too much, and it’s ok to have “silly” lists with things on it like, “misses me, and cares, and is honest, and pursues me.”

I wanted to tell you that, as my sister, I love you, and your little notes, and flowered diaries, and hopes are just as real, and tangible as mine.

To the Brim

It’s 2:54 AM. I really should be sleeping since I have to get up in 4 hours for an exam, but I’m filled to the brim, and like anything else filled to the brim, I’m overflowing.

What’s on my mind?

Love, grace, forgiveness, hope, ridiculous amounts of optimism, peace, contentment, joy, and all of those beautiful things that any man would spend his life striving for.

Remember my affliction and my wanderings,
The wormwood and the fall!
My soul continually remembers it
And is bowed down within me,
But this I call to mind,
And therefore I have hope:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
His mercies never come to an end;
They are new every morning;
Great is your faithfulness.
“The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
To the soul who seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
For the salvation of the Lord…

Lamentations 3:19-32

It’s funny how I forget that when you search for the Lord, you find Him. I think I go about life sometimes expecting Him always to be at a distance or anonymous or, you know, putting me through the wilderness.

And I get so comfortable out in the wilderness, like mentioned in Isaiah 43, that I forget about the river. And how reviving, good, and beautiful is that river.

Life is hard. You know this, I know this. School is confusing, boys are confusing, purpose in life can get confusing, or our families; even God can get a little confusing. But I get so desensitized to life being hard that it becomes normal. So I move on, just like you move on, shuffling along in my little desert, content that the sun hasn’t completely evaporated me yet.

But as the steps go on, it seems my heart dries out a little more, gets a little more brittle, loses a little more hope, or maybe a little more faith. And that’s when I start losing my breath, and my chest starts to constrict, and my head feels dizzy, and my feet feel heavy, and when I exhale, I never seem to get rid of the collecting sand and dust in my lungs.

And when you’re in the desert, you get used to always being thirsty and tired. You don’t remember how you got there, because it seems, you’ve been there for quite some time, and you can’t remember the day the walk started.

And you never expect to find a well, and certainly not a river. And you forget that maybe you’re in the desert, the wilderness, not because you set foot there on purpose, but because God lead you there, out of love. And you forgot that in the desert, the Lord was hoping you’d draw near to Him, that you’d get to know Him better, or depend on Him solely.

He was hoping you’d call. Hoping you’d remember Him. Hoping you’d let Him lead you somewhere good, but instead you forget the moment it gets too hot, and you get thirsty, and your feet get tired, and you end up wandering on your own to nowhere in particular…hoping to find your way out…and all the while, hope, and joy, and peace are mirages. Because in the moments you think you’ve found them on your own, you open your hands to find them all gone.

And the desert gets bigger, and you get smaller, and it all becomes about “life is just hard.” Because that’s the way it is.

But you remember God. It might take some time. Maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe a year, but you’ll remember Him, because He’s way too big to actually forget, or to not miss, or to not see. And you remember how God spoke to Jacob in the desert when he was alone, or Moses and the Israelites, or Jesus.

The Lord is good to those who wait for him,
To the soul who seeks him.

Draw near to God, and He will draw near to you, James 4:8 says. It’s so obvious, and yet, so hard for us to do, and by us, I mean me. Draw near to God AND He will draw near to you. He leads us into the desert hoping we’ll draw near, and for some of us, it doesn’t take too long to figure out, and then for the rest of us, we walk aimlessly while God stands at the river bank, just waiting for us to call out so that He can offer us living water, and rest for our tired and dusty souls.

But what I love most is that, even when the call is pitiful, and small, and not even close to being elegantly spoken, He’s there. “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me. When you seek me with all your heart, I will be found by you…”Jeremiah 29 says.

It’s hard for a man to find treasure when he’s roaming aimlessly. But give the man a real desire, a map with an X, and a shovel, and he’ll find it. He’ll find it when he searches with all of strength and with all of his heart. Wanting to find the treasure won’t make the journey any better, the dig any easier, and the pulling the chest out less painful, BUT he will find the treasure. Even with blisters on his feet, and palms, and chest, and the other pains he will continue to have in order take the treasure home, he’s perfectly content because what he found was of great worth.

The truth of the matter is: Life is hard. Days get long. Nights get longer. Inhaling and Exhaling takes more effort on some days than others. Shoulders get heavy. Feet shuffle. And the sun burns. But God is there too. And though the long days will still exist, if you search Him out, you’ll find Him, and you’ll find that though nothing else in this world will change, He’ll fill the cracks in your heart, somehow, and He’ll lighten your step, and satisfy some deeper thirst we all have. And you’ll discover this thing called peace; that kind that surpasses all understanding.

Because the thing is, I can’t explain this peace to you because it does surpass understanding. It’s a contradiction. A dichotomy. An Oxymoron. You would be shocked to see someone contently walk through fire, or remain calm as a friend stabs them in the back, or stand, with quiet contentment, at the headstone of a loved one. Is it not just as shocking that one could walk through this life, with all of its trials, and tribulations, ugly truths, cruelties, and tests, with peace and joy?

Peace doesn’t depend on circumstances because it’s founded on God. And unlike other feelings that come and go on a whim, peace and joy are constant because God is constant. And to find them, one must continuously call on God,and when He shows up, through prayer or the Word, He’ll lead you out of your little desert, and He’ll fill you up to the rim, and you’ll want to overflow. Despite ALL of the everything elses,you will overflow, maybe some days more than others, but on the days you're not overflowing, God is filling.

“If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow the rivers of living water.’ ” – Jesus (John 7:37)

You are Mine

I have recently rediscovered Ray LaMontagne, and one of his songs called “Jolene.” I’m not sure why, but I could listen to this song every day for the rest of my life. It’s just one of those songs.

When I hear it, I see an old record player spinning on a hard wood floor, and rain rolling down window after window, and I imagine a man sitting there-smoking a cigarette- thinking, “it’s too late.” But who hasn’t been there before?

This morning I woke up and meandered, like usual, and then I remembered my favorite chapter in the bible, Isaiah 43. Now, these two isolated happenings may seem completely unrelated to one another, but they have basically laced fingers in a hand hold.

“Jolene” is all regret. It’s all “this is what I should have done,” and “this is the way it is.” Not to mention that he’s in a ditch with “beer in his hair, and blood on his lips,” and I’m sure his heart is in the same condition:

“I still don’t know what love means, I still don’t know what love means.”

But I still listen to it over and over and over again. The question isn’t why, because if you’re human, even if you don’t know a Jolene, and didn’t just buy a “hard pack of cigarettes, in the early morning rain” you’ve, at some point in your life, found yourself bleeding and bruised in a ditch.

This is a metaphor of course; if you’ve actually found yourself in this condition before, I apologize for bringing it up again…and I’d advise you to be more cautious in the future

Been so long since I seen your face
Or felt a part of this human race
I've been living out of this here suitcase for way too long
A man needs something he can hold onto
A nine pound hammer or a woman like you
Either one of them things will do

Yep, we’ve all probably been there. Bad day, so you wake up late, or you lie in bed, or you go to class and daydream about the things gone wrong. “A man needs something to hold on to,” this is true.

And maybe the things we try to hold are heavier than our arms, and shoulders, and backs can handle. And then when it falls through, we’re left bent over, staring at our feet, wondering why in the world we tried carrying “it” in the first place…

And then there’s Isaiah 43. And verse one, the verse that’s scribbled on a white piece of paper and kept in my gold locket.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”
I could read that verse every day for the rest of my life because, for some reason, it’s gotten stuck on me too.

It makes the lyrics of “Jolene” disappear, and it makes the crooked back, and worn arms, and tired shoulders of the carrier straighten. It gives a man something to hold on to. And the thing isn’t a woman, or man, or a job or any of the other things we put ourselves into, hoping we’ll keep ourselves from falling…it’s God.

Do you ever sit still and think about God? I mean really think about Him. I assure you, if you try, you won’t be able to do it for very long.

I always start off thinking about how amazing it is that I’m breathing, and seeing, and speaking, and thinking. And then I think, “a breathing, and seeing, and speaking God made me.” And then I think, “He’s there, somewhere.” And then I think….”there’s a God. A God. A great, big, mighty, loving, God.”

And then my mind goes blank and I can only imagine the light, and the love, and the greatness of that idea.

God is stuck on me.

“Fear not for I have redeemed you.”

When I’m lying in the ditch, God’s standing on the side, ready to pick me up and set me somewhere good. He’s just ready. All I have to do is get my mind off of the letdown, and offer my hand.

“I have called you by name, you are mine.”

I know I said that verse one is my favorite, but this part of verse one is actually my favorite because it means more than God redeeming me, and offering me a hand, and pulling me from the muck to set me on solid ground. It means I belong to him.

We belong to God.

It doesn’t seem like a revolutionary thought, but it is. “Fear not, for I have redeemed you,” doesn’t mean I partially forgive, I partially heal, I partially love, it means the opposite. And “I have called you by name, you are mine,” gives me a place, a home, and it isn’t in a ditch, it’s in the Kingdom of God, and if that doesn’t make your knees weak, and your heart light, and your mind fuzzy, I don’t know what else to say.

Is there anything greater than a mother’s love for her baby? Her baby that makes messes, and spills things, and cries, and can’t really do anything to repay the mother for all she’s done, but still, the mother loves the baby anyway, because the baby came from her blood and bones, or in other words, the baby belongs to her. And all the mother really wants isn’t the baby to clean up its own messes, or rock itself to sleep, or grow up quickly and leave her; all she wants is its love and affection. Why? Because she has called the baby by name, and claims it as her own.

We can’t repay God for our debts, and we can’t undo our messes, and though we may be able to walk away from God, it’s actually a longer, darker, and harder walk than the “narrow” one. We have nothing to offer but ourselves. And even so, what we have to offer isn’t even mildly good. It’s like repaying God with pennies when he bought us with gold.
And this amazes me because He wants my pennies. He wants my pennies because, by grace, he can make them into gold. That’s what redemption is. Redemption isn’t taking mistakes, and giving back mistakes. Redemption is taking mistakes and giving back blessings, forgiveness, and unconditional love. Redemption is saving. Redemption is changing. Redemption is Jesus Christ.

Man, it just blows my mind. God exchanges my pennies for gold, or in other words, He exchanges my messes and letdowns for forgiveness and righteousness...

He exchanges my death for His life.

Dakota Skye

If you haven't watched Dakota Skye, it's one of those teen life, indepedent movies. But I like those kind a lot. Anyway, here's the opening scene, and some of the next. It's a good read.

[Cigarette lighter flicks]
JONAH: I still
have the dream sometimes.

I do. I come home from the store
and find you on my doorstep

with a suitcase.

And not your entire wardrobe.

Just a carry-on, a duffel bag.

We don't say anything,

but you have this look
in your eye that kills me.

It just...

And I unlock the door and let you in.

And that's it.
That's the dream.

When I wake up, I wake up happy...

...vibrating for a few seconds
with my head in the sand...

...content.
[Sighs]

Then it goes away, and you go away.

I really don't want
to get out of bed then

because it's cold out there,

but I do.

I get up.
Life goes on.
[Exhales]

Most days you never
even cross my mind.

DAKOTA:Tell me that you love me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My name is Dakota Skye.

I'm 18 years old,
only medium-cute,

and I have a superpower.

I can't fly,
I can't turn invisible,

and I'm pretty sure that a bullet
would make me good and dead.

I don't have x-ray vision, either.

Well, not exactly.

The fact is I am
incapable of being lied to.

When someone tells a lie, any lie,
to me, to anyone, I know the truth,
what they really mean,

so there are no lies in my world,

or there are nothing but.

"so what's changed with you?"

“So what’s changed with you?”

Well, the other day I was reading Mere Christianity, but today I’m reading Fahrenheit 451. And instead of running to Spoon or Band of Horses today, I ran to Dashboard Confessional (you may think they’re whiney, but that steady kick drum and those rolling lyrics speak to my running shoes).

“What do you do when your small pond dries up?” That’s the first sentence of a novel I actually dreamed about writing the other night. This sentence changed the way I look at the “sagging” courthouse, and the worn down buildings, and the quiet of my dying town.

Sometimes my toenails are red, and sometimes they’re pink, and sometimes they’re not painted at all.

I never step in the exact same place, the exact same way I did yesterday. Sometimes I actually use the mouthwash next to my sink, and sometimes I only consider it. I forget different things at different times; I lose my keys one day, and don’t even hesitate to find them the next.

The gas in my car runs out. Always. And it won’t stop doing this.

I’m determined to do or say something on one day, but I forget altogether the next. I don’t eat the same, or dress the same, or speak the same every single day.

Some days I talk a lot, and some, barely at all.

The last time I was asked this question, I’m pretty sure I responded that I was the same as I have always been, but I’m never the same as I have always been. If so, I still would be unable to pronounce my “R,” I’d be even worse at spelling, and I’d probably be four or three or two or one.

My missing tooth wouldn’t have grown back. My heart wouldn’t have gotten all better. My scratch wouldn’t have become a scar. My toenails wouldn’t have changed color. That freckle that I like so much wouldn’t be there…

Maybe there’s nothing really amazing about change. But I think there is something remarkable about it. About the days always changing, the seasons, the hours, the minutes; this one being different from the next. There’s something about the wrinkles in a face, and the graying of hair, or the way these pair of shoes are worn this day and those the next. I’ll walk today, and drive tomorrow. I’ll have long hair now, but I had short hair then.

I like change. Imagine what could be in five years. In five years I’ll be 28, who knows where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing. I could be married, I could be single, I could be running with my dog in a park.

And in five more years…I’ll be 33. And in five more 38. And in five more 43. And in 5 more 48.

Do you see how quickly it all goes?

I think I don’t take enough advantage of the change of it all. I make it monotonous. I make it like it’s nothing. Time ticks, but so what. Let it tick. It never gets anywhere, but all the while, Time is carrying me, and you, on his back across the seconds, and the days, and the years, and all the while we change, oblivious of the present until we’ve gotten far into the future.

I remember when I used to think, “next year I’ll finally be old enough…” And then it would come and I’d feel the same, and I’d hope for the next year to be different. And what’s funny is that things were changing; braces were getting put on or taken off, hair was cut, new things were seen or done, and before I knew it, I was graduating, and only when I was “five years later” could I see the whole picture, or the before and after.

I think I’m always looking forward to the change. I’m looking forward to the job, and the house, and the trip to Italy. I wonder if in looking so far to the future, I fast forward and forget that there’s enough change happening today, and though it isn’t marked in bold letters or with red writing, the changes now are just as significant as the changes to be.

Maybe every time someone asks me what’s changed, the changes will be too small, and seemingly insignificant for me to make any “worthwhile” observations. Who cares if my toenails are a different color, or what song I ran to, or what book I’ve changed to, or what color my hair is? And the real changes that are going on are shoved out of the way for the “big” changes, and those aren’t really noticeable until a good bit of time has passed…

So, it seems we spend most of our lives believing we are constant because we imagine we are always the same. But then one day, a wrinkle appears, though it was probably there before it just magically made itself known, but one day, you really see it. And it’s hard to notice that one gray hair, but with enough time, you’ll notice a handful. And the pain you feel seems like it will hurt forever, until that morning you wake up, and it has just magically disappeared, when really, it was the individual second that carried you to that point.

I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Today I have no wrinkles, but tomorrow I’m closer and that little wrinkle that will be there in who knows how many years is already pushing itself up to the surface. And the person “I’m going to be” already is becoming. And the things I will “learn in the future” are already being taught.

Today is tomorrow. And I’m already changing. And I’d like to stop waiting for the future for things to “be” because, well, they already are. And there’s no point in waiting around for it to happen, because it already is.

“So what’s changed with me?”

Well second by second, everything.

To You

Verse: I've got you always in my back pocket
And I keep you safe and warm inside and old, gold locket.
And I've been writing down all you're ganna be,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' if you think of me(2X)

Verse: And I remember all the days we haven't had
And I remember all the times that you've been sad
And I remember all you wanted to be,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' if you remember me(2x)

Verse: I always hope that you will love me sweet,
And find out all the things that noone else can see,
And I hope that you'll forgive easily
And I keep wonderin', wonderin', if you hope for me(2x)

Verse: And I already love the man that you are,
Every crack and bruise and old battle scar,
But what I love most is that you could love me,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' when that's ganna be(2x)

Bridge: Every morning with the rising of the sun,
I am hoping that this day you'll come, oh,
And wake me, and wake me, and wake me up
(2x)
you wake me up,you wake me up.




I always feel a little awkward writing love songs. I don't know how music artist do it all of the time. You know that feeling you have when you dream you went to school with your homework, and shoes, and back pack, but you kind of left your clothes at home (unless you've done this is real life...). That's what writing love songs feels like to me. It's like I showed up with a guitar and no clothes.

I considered leaving it "untitled" but since it's anonymous, I figured "To You" would suffice since it wasn't written to anyone in particular, other than the anonymous person I do not know yet...haha. So this is to you, whoever "you" are.

End of the World

It’s May 21st, 2011. 1:05 Am.

The world is going to end today.

At least that’s what some guy said; though I’d like to clarify that biblically the end is said to come on a day that no one can predict. If we could predict it…the surprise factor would kind of be lost. In fact, if we could predict the end, I have a feeling that we would have a tendency to leave things unresolved until the last minute.

Anyway, for now, I’m going to pretend that today the world is ending. Because unless I try to believe in it, then this post isn’t going to do the “what would I write if I only had one more day” justice.

To God,
I wish I had had more time to make you proud. I wish I had prayed more, studied your word more, talked to you more, and well, listened to you more. I wish that I had read the bible all the way though without finding myself at a brick wall every time I hit the New Testament. I wish that I could quote one bible verse for every year of my life. That’s only 23 verses, but I have a feeling I might come up short. I wish we had had more time. But thank you for all that we did say, and we did share, and all that you did teach me. Thank you for the darkness, because I think it was then that I knew just how beautiful all of your light, and goodness, and love was. Thank you for choosing me, even when I forgot about you. Thank you for knowing me before it all, and loving me despite after…

To my friends,
Sometimes you were terrible friends. You said the wrong things, you weren’t there when I needed you, you forgot me, you criticized me, and you made some of my days a little harder. But despite these obvious flaws, I love you because I’ve done the same thing to you. I’m sorry we couldn’t both be more dependable, more honest, more loving, and more forgiving. I’m sorry we wasted so much time fighting over stupid things, and I’m sorry we let so much time go between visits. Besides the times you made me a little self-conscious and nervous you also made me braver, wiser, and more light hearted. You taught what you could, and abandoned what you couldn’t. But I’ll take that any day. We hurt and healed, we gave and took, but at the end of the day, you were my kindred spirit, my opposite, my shoulder rest, my favorite story, my best hug, my prayer, my adventure, my best laugh... you were my friend.

To my family,
I don’t feel like there is anything that I could say that you don’t already know. We’ve said it all. Literally, we’ve talked about everything there was to talk about. And we listened to each other. We read the same books, and watched the same shows, and shared stories of school, and work, and politics, and religion, and all else under the sun sitting at that little round, oak table in the breakfast room. And we laughed at mom when she forgot, and we pointed out dad’s arched eyebrow but lazy smile, and we knew ken was the debater, and matt was the social butterfly, and I was the writer whom you were all depending on to get published so that we could stay close and the money could build us a camp house, and our little club could go on, always, like it always has. I have to say, out of all the clubs that have ever been, ours is my favorite. We may not always agree, we may think each other crazy, or weird, or too loud, but at the end of the day, we loved each other, we really, really, loved each other, and it turned out, we were of the same kind.

To you
Maybe I liked you, maybe you were my crush, maybe you were a past boyfriend, or maybe you were a future boyfriend; all I can say is you’re a lot more complicated than I expected you to be. I always thought you’d be easy, simply, so to speak. I guess I always thought you’d just come along, and that’d be that...But as a movie I just watched said, you never know who you’ll love, and it never happens the way you want it to…but you already knew that. I wrote you letters and songs. I kept a list from when I was thirteen in a chest of what I imagined you’d be; you could have been the exact opposite, and I am confident I wouldn’t have held it against you. As you may or may not know, I have a tendency to forgive easily. I’m sorry if you liked me back, and I never knew. And I’m sorry if I liked you back, and you never knew. But that’s the way it is sometimes. I was looking forward to the laughs, and the road trip, and the forcing you to read all of my short stories, and you either loving them, or hating them, but despite that, reading them anyway. I was looking forward to the confided secrets, and your success at keeping me from running, and our inside jokes and glances, and our exchanging of music and books (that is if you’re a reader). I wanted to hear your embarrassing stories, and sing you to sleep, and yes, I really wanted to play with your hair. But since the world’s ending today, I’m perfectly content in that I knew you, or at least, in that I thought I knew you.

To the strangers
We passed each other walking to class, you randomly found my blog, you saw me fall up the stairs at Brown once and held back a laugh, you were in my chemistry lab, you were the cashier at the grocery store, you were the kid in Africa I didn’t get to hug goodbye, you were the man on the street, you were the woman with the screaming kids in Wal-Mart, you were the man I called Walt, you were the girl crying in the bathroom, you were the stranger… I should have said “hey,” even if you weren’t going to say anything back. I should have heard your stories and told you mine. I should have bypassed the small talk and gone straight to the deep end. You could have been a friend, you could have saved me from something embarrassing, you could have passed on your knowledge or wisdom, one of us could have possible made the other’s day a lot better, you could have been a real face, a real name, and real person instead of the stranger I thought of you as. God asked me to love you first, and for some reason, I saved you for last. I looked around you, wrote around you, and spoke around you…and I’m sorry we didn’t get to know one another.

To church
You were one of the most intimidating places for me to go to sometimes, and I’m sorry you were. You weren’t supposed to be. You were supposed to be the safest place, the most loving place, and the brightest place. But I should never have put you on a pedestal since the people in you were just that, people. And sometimes people fail. It’s inevitable. You weren’t God, you weren’t angels, and you were going to make mistakes, and say the wrong things, and do the wrong things, but my favorite thing about you was that you really tried. You really tried to have Jesus’ heart, and sometimes you got just close enough that I could see him in you. And I knew his love then, and I knew his words then, and I knew his face, and voice, and smile. And I had sisters and brothers that I never imagined I’d have, and even when I was gone too long, you were still there, waiting for me. I loved hearing you sing and pray, and I even when I was still, and quiet, and small, I loved worshiping God with you.

To Me
I’m glad I was brave enough to ….I’m glad I read all of those books, and listened to all of that music. I’m glad I never quit piano lessons when I was little. I’m glad I was patient enough to figure out something on the guitar. Even if I didn’t make it to Italy, I was going soon, I was really going soon, and I’m content with soon rather than never. I’m glad that Africa had called my name that summer and rearranged things in my heart. I wish I had finished that painting that’s been staring at me now for three years, quietly reminding me to “finish.” I’m sure I could have said more to you, but I’ll take what was said since it’s better than nothing. I wish I had written that novel, but I’m thankful to have written anything at all. Though I was hard headed, I don’t think I ever became hard hearted, and I’m glad. From all the times I looked back and saw God’s hand in my life, I should have looked towards the future knowing it was there too, in everything. I’m glad to have run, and danced, and sang as often as I did. I’m content with my stories, with my mistakes, with my crushes, with my tears and laughter, with my constant humming, with my learned lessons, with who and what God was to me. The regrets I have are few, and the thankfuls I have are much.

Today is the end of the world. And I’m ready.

Lewis

And this leads on to my second point. People often think of Christian morality as a kind of bargain in which God says, ' if you keep a lot of rules I'll reward you, and if you don't I'll do the other thing.' I do not think that is the best way to look at it. I would much rather say that every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before. And taking your life as a whole, with all your innumerable choices, all your life long you are slowly turning this central thing either into a heavenly creature or into a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war with God, and with its fellow creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other.
C.S. Lewis. Mere Christianity

I guess what it comes down to is knowing that we'll always be going one way or the other. There's no "middle ground" no "safe land." There's only up or down. And I'm sure that as I meet more kind and gentle and Godly people, I'll see more and more of the hellish creature within myself, and I'll be more and more refined. That's what having family in Christ means anyway. Refining and improving one another out of love...and hope never hurts.

Gone Away

“These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river.” Frankenstein

“I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” Moby Dick

Ever since yesterday afternoon, I keep imagining myself, hand rising and falling outside of the window, some acoustic music playing, and the wheels of my car hot against the road.

I’m having an itch for things remote.

This happens occasionally. I just want to escape, to run, to spend a day away.

It would just be something spontaneous and perhaps a little risky or dangerous, or maybe just exciting and new.

Every time I image myself gone away for awhile, I imagine old, broken paved roads; the kind that have cracks and dips everywhere, the kind that have been neglected. And I think of rusty gas stations where weeds have grown up around the corners. And I think of big, open fields where old grain silos are gray in the background, and abandoned farm houses that are white against bright blues and greens. And I think of big lakes, and long piers, and tall grass.

I have no idea why this is what I keep imagining every time I think of getting in my car and driving, but it is. I guess- if I were to get in my car and just drive- I’d like to go driving towards nowhere. Call it the “country” or whatever you’d like, but I’d just like to go where there aren’t any people, or buildings, or at least, anything familiar.

Have you ever considered this before? We have entire days away from school, or even an entire half of the summer free (I finally have this luxury) and in that span of time, imagine where a car, and gas, and a road could take us?

Turkey sandwiches, and warm cokes, and rolled down windows, and open fields, and those silos I keep thinking of, and sleeping in the backseat of a car, and laughing at everything and nothing, and listening to music, and eating Little Debbie brownies out of the wrapper, and staring at the sky, and reading all of those books you’ve been meaning to, and stepping out of the car doors- every time- to somewhere you’ve never been before, or maybe, somewhere you haven’t been in a long time.

Consider this: You don’t have to go too far, and you don’t have to eat turkey sandwiches (maybe you prefer peanut butter and jelly...or maybe ham and cheese), but you could go. You could just get in your car, with everything you really need, and just drive. There’s nothing stopping you.

It’s no wonder I was so captivated by novels like Robinson Crusoe, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, The Call of the Wild, Treasure Island, Huckleberry Finn, or Around the World in 80 Days growing up. I read that entire classic adventure series in Junior High School, and recalling now, I’d like to read them again.

Maybe somewhere in the human heart, or maybe in the soul, we all have some kind of longing to escape and to discover. This would explain why men built ships to cross what could have been the end of the earth to find out what was on the other side, and faced starvation and death in seeking out the West, or the East, or the South, or the North.

I was always fascinated with Lewis and Clark. I used to think, when I was younger, that if I could have lived in any time, it would have been in their days when they were just setting out so that I could have tagged along at their heels. Of course, I couldn’t really go back to their days, so novels had to suffice, as did creating little maps for my friend Kimberly which allowed us to live out our own adventures. And when maps weren’t enough, there were always forts to build, the railroad tracks to walk down, or the creek.

I think it’s about time to put the novels down. I’ve walked the tracks enough times to know which bend the bridge is around, and the creek, which once seemed so mysterious and deep, is really only ankle deep and only goes so far. But the road is endless. And I’m having an itch to know where it could take me.

Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
-Emerson (from the essay Nature)

A Portrait

I usually tend to dislike photos taken of me. They never look like me. I mean, yeah, the eye color is the same, but the eyes are usually scrunched up in a silly face because I find looking straight into the lens, really looking into the lens,somewhat uncomfortable.

I'm not sure why. I was actually thinking about this last night. I don't know why I can't just stand there and let someone take a picture of me without feeling awkward or stoic. Smiling usually helps, but then, I don't walk around smiling like that all of the time, so looking at hundreds of pictures of yourself, not in a moment, or a pause, but in a strategic smile and stance is disapointing.

When I die, these are the pictures my grandchildren, and great grandchildren will have to look at. Me, standing with one foot slightly in front of the other, smiling, and on occasion making a weird face.

So I took a portrait yesterday (which is really a series of pictures).