I like Birds

 

 

I like birds, and Walt, and Whit, and Whitman. I like kindred spirits- especially when found between the lines of Ann of Green Gables, they're my favorites if I haven't mentioned. I like books, and crushing looks, like the ones in “silly” fables. I like the strings at the end of my sleeves and tugging on them with my fingers. I like standing still on sidewalks before the light turns green, I sway and sing, to the pedometer of cars driving, and passing, and honking, and creeping.

I like wind that pushes my hair into my face, even on good hair days, because it takes me back to better days, and better ways, before I found out about the other. I like seeing kids do weird things at the store, while their mothers look bored, and when we smile at one another, I know we know something their mothers forgot because they were taught to forget along the way. So I say hey to the kid who says he’s a vegetable. And I laugh when his head becomes a bed of cucumbers and lettuce as he leans under the spraying water in the produce section. And when he’s pushed away by the bored pilot of his cart, his lettuce head bobbing down the aisles, I remember to remember to laugh at my kid when he does the same thing.

I like twelve o’clock when the sun meets me at my window, and the thirty minutes or so it takes it to pass. I like imagining strawberries growing in snow, because it’s unusually beautiful the white against red, and maybe it’s just all up in my head, but it seems it should happen as so.  I like kicking acorns down the road, and crunching the others below my shoes. I like pretending I’m somewhere far away just before I reach my drive. And in those few seconds when I imagine “he” is at my door, my heart has never felt more alive.

Sometimes I like getting lost in my car on a street I'm supposed to know. When the signs and houses have changed, but I feel the same, in a good way. Other times I like when I'm so different, it seems appropriate to meet the street I walked on with bare feet as a kid.

I like the winter more than the spring, when the trees become dead looking and white things. I like the sleepy quiet, my disapearing white breaths. I like cold fingers and toes, because I know when I get home, there's a fire and cover and family there. And I like the cold stars that are really far and white and bright and quiet. I like plaid flannel shirts and coats and socks, especially the ones that reach my knees, and save them from the freeze of January, when snow flakes could fall.

I like the nights when I cuddle like a cat in the downy chair in my room, or my living tomb, where I’ve kept my life so near. My piano and guitar, my books and writing desk, my tin lid with holes from when I went shooting guns with ken, the Alabama hat that was my great uncle Jim's, my Bigdaddy’s carved birds, the locket and pictures and postcards and paintings, all of it I hold so dear.

I like the time after I close my eyes, not the minutes before. I like feeling the warm in my bed, the pillow under my head, and knowing everything else is shut out behind my door. I like thinking and dreaming before I am sleeping, and I’ll do it for as long as I can. And then I’m waking again, the light warm on the bed, and I try to lie still and hold on to it all while listening to the clicking of my fan. I try not to move, so I don’t ruin the visions I had of you, because somewhere between the night and the day, when I was quietly slipping away, you’re all my thoughts knew.

the in-between

Now is my favorite time, the in-between. It's not morning, because the sun isn't up, but it isn't really night, because it's morning.

Everything is sleepy and dreamy and quiet. The music is always especially good, and so is the lamp light and my fat chair. The folded down pages of my favorite books mean more, and so do the lyrics to the songs I set on replay.

I'm alone, but in the best way. My roommate and her dog sleep. The houses, and the people in the houses, and the cars sleep. I'm not really alone though, because I know that many of you love the in-between too. And you're reading, and listening to your songs, and sitting in your own lamp light, and being "alone" in the sleepy, dreamy quiet too.

"And in that moment, I swear we were infinite"

I could stay up all night, every night just to sit in the in-between, at least until the sky starts to turn gray. I could listen to all of the songs on my hardwood floors and rainy days play list, or maybe my ladies and guitars play list, and I could reread my favorite books, or write a book, or look at old pictures I keep under my bed. I tucked my feet beneath me, and read a psalms. I wrote some scratchy lines that no one will ever be able decipher on some paper, and considered it a prayer. I imagined the great things in my life to happen, and considered how I'd get to Switzerland one day, and felt peace considering it. Peace, if I didn't mention it, that comes with the sleepy, quiet in-between too, and it's the best part. It's not always there, because some in-betweens can be hard, but you're more likely to find peace in the in-between then you are in the bustle and the lights of the afternoon or the alarm clock screaming morning. At least, that's true for me.

Tonight, my favorite song is "silhouettes" by the careful ones, or maybe "slow dance on broken glass."

Something will happen. Because something always happens in the in-between. It's like the rules of life and science and whatever else are allowed to break. All of the potential is in the air for something to change, or to spark, or to rotate, I don't know how to say it better, there's just a delicate something in the air in the in-between, and if you stay up long enough, you'll get to feel it, or maybe breathe it in. I guess you can think of it kind of like a waking dream, I'm not sure I know what that means, but it sounds pretty right.

I guess it doesn't sound like much, but in the morning, I feel so sure that everything happened in the in-between. The clock ticked so slowly that I felt time move, and I got to live in it. I spent it hoping and living, and waiting for the great things to happen, like they so often do. The houses, and the people in their houses, and the cars were all sleeping, and I spent it trying to be apart of the something bigger, and if you live in the in-between like I do, you know what I mean.

I thought and became and loved. And those "things" really matter.

The Thin Girls

She was beautiful.

Her cheeks were sunken in, and her arms and legs were so thin she looked easy to break. She weighed nothing, and yet, somehow, she was filling the room. Her eyes were gentle and soft, and when she spoke of Christ, you could see the love pouring from her small, angular face.

She weighs nothing because she can't eat. She can't eat because she is bound by the same thing that all the other thin girls are bound by.

These are the girls I see once a week. Girls who throw away their fears, insecurities, pasts, tears, and anger with the pounds. The scale doesn't weigh the bone, and skin, and fat; it weighs their beauty, it weights their worth.

These are the girls we have made.

They all once had round, happy faces. They once played on the swing set, and painted butterflies with their fingers. They giggled when little boys walked by, and they whispered secrets in-between teacher chatter. They wanted to be princesses, they wanted to fall in love, they wanted to be safe, they wanted the world to be like the one they imagined it'd be. And it wasn't.

They grew up believing that beauty was more important. That their bodies were more important. That their hearts were little to be considered. And at some point, they began to hear the commercials and conversations and comments thrown in their direction. And their eyes opened to their jean's size, and that number on the scale. And once they saw, they couldn't forget.

"You're not thin enough, good enough, pretty enough, sexy enough, worth enough." That's what we're telling them. "Be better, work harder, be more disciplined, set standards, be prettier, be thinner, be better, be better, be better."

And it's so cheap, so empty, and incredibly misleading.

"Be braver, be stronger, be louder, be brighter, be more and more and more of who you already are." That's what we should be telling them. Throw away that damn scale. "Eat the damn cookie," as one of the girls said. And enjoy the life you have been given, and do it knowing that you are incredibly, incredibly beautiful.

I'm constantly blessed and humbled by them. That despite the incredible struggles, they are so brave and strong. And I am absolutely amazed by the little mountains I've seen them overcome.

I guess, I felt strong enough for them to write these few words. Our ideas of beauty is cheap, you guys. God's however, are not. Maybe we should get more acquainted with God's mirror, and less with ours. Because ours is ruining a lot of lives.

The Rebuilding

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

-The Velveteen Rabbit


Sometimes, I imagine myself like a small bird. Small, and gentle, and delicate. Easily broken. And where I should be flying with other birds, and protecting my tender neck, I've descended amongst a pack of wolves.

That's how I see it. I'm a tiny bird amongst wolves.

You may think it's ridiculous, but I'm pretty confident that we all started off that way. Naive, gentle, whole, and then we were being gnawed, and torn, and broken by circumstances, and words, and actions. And unfortunately, our delicate wings grew claws, and our beaks turned to snouts, and we became the wolves, and we tore the delicate hearts of others.

This is life. Eat or be eaten. Break or be broken.

It's ugly, unforgiving, hard...And every morning when I wake up, I know to my soul that I wasn't made to live here. I was made for something beautiful, and it is by grace and incomprehensible love that I know this. I was not made to be a wolf, I was made to fly. I was made to be tender and gentle and kind. I was made to give love, not take it away.

I don't have the slightest clue about what God is doing with me. But whatever it is, it's changing me. Sometimes, I'm scared it's for the worst, but as of now, I have this strange feeling its for the best. I feel strong, which is ironic considering the circumstances, but despite the breaks in my metaphorical wings, I'm flying better than I was two weeks ago.

I think to become who you want to be, and who God wants you to be, you have to hurt. I don't know why, I don't get it, I personally think it seems backwards, but it seems to me that when we're broken, but we're still breathing, and we're still moving, and we're still changing, we know it's something beyond ourselves.

Break a bird's wings and drop it in a pack of wolves, and it's dead. But when, despite broken wings, the bird flies...I have a feeling that it wasn't the bird's own strength that got it back into the air, and the scars, and the pain are just another reminder that something greater is at work.

 Being hated by the world is hard, because it breaks down the soul and the heart. And being loved by God is hard because He wants to make us better than we think is possible. And though sometimes things happen outside of Him, and outside of His Will, I think He cares to make it beautiful, and to redeem us.

 There are two sides to every fence. Be in the world, or be something outside of it. Eat or be eaten. Break or be broken, but know that the broken side is not neccessarily the losing side, though it may be the harder side. On this side, you have to have something beyond yourself to keep going, to keep the broken wings moving, and to keep the heart soft.

God breaks to destroy the wolves in us, but he also breaks to rebuild the gentle, delicate, and hopeful hearts in us. And I don't know how He does it, but he doesn't just rebuilt the heart, He sustains it.

And I'm being rebuilt.


 "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

The Hard Stuff

I just spent an hour sitting on the hood of my car in the dark, trying to put it all together. I was having an imaginary conversation with a confidant, I was imagining “him” appearing at the end of my drive, I was waiting for a shooting star to confirm my entire existence. My entire existence was not confirmed, and the only mark I left, the only proof that a sad girl was sitting on the hood of her car while strangers drove down the neighboring street or girls walked and laughed together, was a wrinkled and wet tissue that was thrown away. 

And that tissue will end up in the bin at the end of the drive, and that bin will end up in the back of a garbage truck, and my proof of existence will be stacked amongst piles of all of these other marks of existence, and then it will disintegrate.

I spent the majority of my childhood looking forward to now, only to be disappointed that in order to get to now, someone had to cheat on me, or lie to me, or forget me, and I had to make mistakes, and lose my words, and cut off my hair, and lose my cat, and so-and-so had to die…I had to break in order to be mended, and broken again to be taught, and broken again to learn the meaning of love and forgiveness. 

And as long as I believed, “everything has a purpose. Everything happens for a reason,” I allowed the breaking and mending, and the “happenings” in quiet contentment of some kind. Because I believe in a higher power, a hand bigger than mine, and an existence that gives it all purpose.

 And 2 hours ago, that belief, already fragile, was shattered. 

Because, as much as I believe in a loving God, I don’t know how apart of anything He really is.  

And I’m not supposed to say that. I’m supposed to have the right answers, and I’m supposed to be a light on top of a hill, and I’m supposed to make your hearts lighter and not heavier. But, I don’t understand “it” and by “it” I mean everything. “Everything” leads me back to God, and I have to face every Christian’s biggest nightmare, and that is doubt. Because a doubting faith, seems to be synonymous with a wavering faith. But my faith is not waivered, my confidence is.  

I’m not sitting on an alphabet rug in Sunday school any more. The easy stuff is over. God, Jesus, the Holy ghost. Noah and the ark. Jonah and the fish. The blind man healed by mud, the woman who touched His robe, the dreams, the manna, the locust, the fire from heaven… 

Now, is the hard stuff.  If everything has a purpose, He’s hurting me on purpose. If some things happen outside of God, why didn’t He save me from it, especially when I prayed for guidance? If my petty world can’t fit in His hands, where else can it fit?  

The truth is I don’t have any answers. I don’t know right now.  

I want to believe He loves me, and that he guards me and protects me, and that He’s moving me in the best direction. But when I can’t learn from an event, and I can’t understand it, and it means nothing, it connects to nothing, and the only thing it is produces is pain…It makes it that much harder to have that childlike faith that I so easily had at one time.

I guess I said all of that to say, I don't know where God fits anymore. And if I don't know where God fits, I don't know where I fit. Where life fits. Where anything fits. Life becomes harder and uglier.

 

ps. I wrote this in pure honesty, which is mostly due to the fact that I'm not posting it, and I've deleated my facebook account...giving me a feeling of freedome.

one roadtrip, a pug named walt whitman, and popcorn flavored jelly belly's

Its 4:29 in the morning, but it’s the best time to write. Instead of lying in bed thinking of sentences, I think I’ll finally take the time to write them down, since my studying is done, and I have time.

I saw “Seeking a Friend for the End of the World” the other night, and since then, I’ve been thinking about it. It wasn’t like “Little Miss Sunshine” where you find yourself laughing almost to tears despite the obvious cracks in characters and dreams, and so on and so forth. Nope, “Seeking a Friend for the End of the World” was much darker to me than funny, but though I didn’t laugh so much, I found it endearing anyway.  

I kind of decided that maybe we’d all be doing what we’re supposed to be doing, going where we’re supposed to be going, and saying what we’re supposed to be saying if we all knew that we’d be wiped clean from existence in a month.

Phrases like “what if,” or “but” wouldn’t really exist anymore, because the possibilities following those two phrases wouldn’t even exist…not really. I mean, if you had a month to live, would you really consider the potentially humiliating, embarrassing, or stupid repercussions of your actions? I wouldn’t.  

It’s not like you have to live with the consequences, and dying with them might make some light of the situation. I mean, here comes the end- catching the air on fire- and in that last second, if you’re not closing your eyes tight, or holding your breath, or being- you know- realistically human, then you can think of all the wonderful things you just did out of pure bravery and selflessness. You could laugh just as you disappear realizing how simple it was, and how you should have done it sooner.  

I’m just saying. If we all knew the world was ending, we’d be free of it…. 

So, these past few days, I’ve been thinking realistically for once, and not romantically (gasp!), about what I would do if I, and all of you, had one more month to live. 

Now, because the world is not ending next month, I can’t be selflessly honest, but I’ll share what I can

I’d leave. I’d start driving to the middle of nowhere, and I’d try to see as much of it as I could. The irony is, I want to go to Italy so badly, but if the world were ending, I think I’d rather go somewhere quiet. I think I’d drive west. I’d go weaving around the middle, up and down, where the dirt turns red, and the sky gets clear, and the Rockies pierce through the serene landscape their sitting in. And my favorite would be sitting in the passenger seat. 

I’d sleep in my car, and I’d lie on the hood, and I’d watch the stars. I’d eat sandwiches, and drink wine, and I would hunt down Ben and Jerry’s Cheesecake and Brownie ice cream. I know it’s out there, somewhere. 

Prior to my escape from familiar, I’d post every single blog I’ve written. All of those I’ve written but haven’t posted for various reasons, they’d be posted. Bam. And the novel I’m working on, I’d post it too. I mean, there isn’t time to attempt to get it published, so I’d publish it myself, online of course, and then be tremendously blessed by any pair of eyes to wander over its words. 

The few letters I wrote and never sent. I’d send them. 

I’d talk to a lot of people.  I’d ask them to tell me their stories, and to leave in all of the details, even the seemingly insignificant ones. I’d ask them who they loved, what their favorite was, and what they’re doing with the rest of their time.  

I’d go to a candy store. Random, but I love popcorn Jelly Bellies, and I haven’t had them in a long time. I’d go get some Jelly Bellies for the road.  

I’d go get a pug. I’d get a pug, and name him Walt Whitman.  

I’d get the most amazing and beautiful tattoo, ever, and it just might not be hide-able.  

 

I'd adopt a kid. I'd adopt a little boy or a little girl, and they'd be mine for that whole month, and I'd be theres. And I'd love them more than they'd be loved in that month. I'd tell them jokes, and make them laugh, and let them eat cake for breakfast, at least once, and I'd try my best to answer their quesitons.

 

There are a lot more significant and insignificant things I’d do or attempt, but I think the above is the most I feel like sharing. I don’t think it takes much bravery to do the above, I think most of it just takes time.  

Anyway, it’s a good thing to think about if you need something to think over. Imagine it, The world is ending in a month. Who would you go see? What would you say? Where would you go? And more importantly, what would you do once you got there?

 

Whatever just popped into your mind, you should probably do it any way. And that's the point. If you see clearly who you'd be, what you'd do, what you'd say, and where you'd go...you should be doing them, because it's who you are.

Love Bubble

It’s seems to me that being in love would be nice.

Sure, I have a strongly slanted and naïve perception on the whole matter because my love lust has been the outcome of meeting fictional protagonist like Mr. Darcy, Michael Hosea, and Robbie Turner. Though, I must say, Robbie Turner is my personal favorite. It’s the whole well-read, quiet thoughtful type thing.

Anyway, I was attempting to go to bed, and I kept reliving the whole day:

 Late for class on the account of Auburn’s dramatic C zone parking makeover, the 3 hours of statistics (called “sadistic” by myself), the realization that my desired 4.0 may have to be sacrificed on “sadistic’s” account, the hour of college politics at a campus meeting, the need to join more committees when I’m already doing too much as it is, wondering if the intrigue editor at The Plainsman is still laughing under her breath at my nutrition article attempt, the yellow check engine light coming on in my car as I’m leaving campus, and of course, the thought occurred to me last night that after orientation at the clinic today,  I’d be walking, not driving, the thirty five minutes home in a cardigan and unforgiving humidity.

Previous to pillow thinking time, I had ordered Jimmie Johns and tried to really lose myself in the chocolate chip cookie, but I only ate half, and then I ran a mile listening to “angry songs” by Avril Lavigne in an attempt to give myself an outlet. Not so successful.

I took a bath and read Atonement, and felt similar to Robbie up to some point, and then he’d talk about getting married and having babies with Cecilia, and he totally lost me. That is a comforting thought that I don’t know yet.

It was time to escape from the no good, very bad, day. But sleep didn’t come. It’s like the day was some hiccup stuck in my chest …lodged there, and with it, the reoccuring thought of, "what am I doing here?" And turning on my side, I figured that being in love would be a nice thing: to have a horrible day, for someone to witness it, and at the end, to pull you in, their arm on your hip.

The world out there, you in here, in your love bubble.

Your world out there is just the motion you go through every day to get here; the world in here is what really matters. The parking chaos, the dying car, the pointless debates, that evil class, the cardigan and humidity…none of that really matters, and with that hand on your hip, I wonder if it’s easier to remember.

Feel safe, know your life was witnessed, and then close your eyes and sleep.

The Laundry Room Symphony

I was just checking a load of laundry downstairs- putting a lavender softener in with some baby blue sheets in the dryer, and letting a duvet soak in the washer- when all of a sudden:

I was five or six years old. My back was against the dryer in the laundry room at home in Monroeville, and my eyes were closed as I listened to the hum of thuds, and clanks, and tap, taps just behind the dryer door. It was the clanking and the thuds that made the metal door vibrate against my back. My mom was ironing my dad’s plaid shirt, and my brothers navy Tommy shirt, and my umbros. She chatted to herself, the hum of her voice as constant as the dryer’s. I opened the door, momentarily forgetting the feeling on my back, and took out several warm towels, and wrapped them around my shoulders and knees, still trying to sleep.  I sat on a hill of t-shirts, and towels, and linens; my foot on a sock, my hand on one of my dad’s t-shirts that had an airplane diving from the left pocket stright to the bottom hem.

 My mom was asking me to go get ready, to brush my hair, to get my socks and shoes on. But I was limp against the dryer, so heavy with sleep, and warm, and the smell of Tide detergent that I fell over just like a sock would.

I was just a sock on a stack of clothes, and I smelled like mountain breeze along with all the other threads and stitches. We were all sleepy and heavy, and obviously without any limbs in which we could put on socks or shoes or brush our hair. We wanted to sleep, to close our eyes in the darkness of the cabinets, and the drawers, and the closets in the house.

“Clink, Clink” My mom’s bracelets said, as she moved the iron back and forth. “Clink, Clink.” I heard them over and over, their tiny voices small, but resonant. They mixed with the humming laughter of the drying machine: its big belly rolling, and rolling, and rolling on my back.

“Shhh,” the iron said. “Shhhh, Shhh, Shhhh,” it said, as my mom steamed and steamed and steamed the creases and wrinkles out of my dad’s trousers. Where wrinkles were concerned, mercy was not. The iron may be an appliance in some people's homes, but it was a cruel weapon -at least if you were a wrinkle- in mine.

I opened one eye to watch her back. Back and forth she’d move with her arm. And her arm moved with the iron- that dictator of the laundry room whose hot face and fiery mouth could suppress those endless wrinkles. All the while, she was going over the grocery list in her mind, and out loud. And at the end of that list, she would begin another: things to do at work, people to visit after work, people to take food to, people she had met here and there, things to take to Granny and Bigdaddy, and of course, the most important of all, what we would be having for dinner than night:

Butter beans, corn, and okra from  Bigdaddy’s garden, meat loaf, and corn bread. And sweet tea that was so sweet, it was like syrupt.

List after list, like a morning bird chatting to the rising sun, she chirped and chirped to me, or maybe to the air, or maybe to herself. My eyes closed again, and I listened to her mind hard at work, chirping with the “shhh” of the iron, and the “mmmm” of the dryer’s belly, and the “clink” of her bracelets. And I was content, sleepy, but content.

I would do this every morning. Like a ritual, it was my snooze button. For years I would sit- my back against the warm dryer- on a stack of clothes. And I would listen to the music of the laundry room.

I don’t remember the last time I sat with her, maybe I was twelve or so. Sitting on the floor in front of the dryer was no longer practical about the time I realized that washing my hair in the morning was necessary, additional to attempting to do something with the tangled mess on top of my head.

But even so, just now, after having just leaned over the dryer, and feeling its warmth, I thought of her, my mom I mean. I thought of her, and the smell, and the sounds of the laundry room. And I remembered, like I so often do, a season in my life that was so sweet and good.

She always says, “We’re making a memory,” but she’s right when she says, “you don’t really know what you’ll remember until you’re older.”

I think the laundry room symphony is one of those things I will always remember. And perhaps, one day, I'll be the maestro wielding the steaming iron, and starting the dryer's laughter, so that a son or a daughter may rest their backs there, and spend the morning listening to me chirp while they drift in and out of a mountain breeze snooze.

I slept but my heart was awake

“I slept but my heart was awake"

Song of Solomon 5:2

1:02 AM 

Night after night it’s been happening. It’s time to go to bed. I watch the moon move from the left corner of my window to the right.

Black changes to blue to grey, and the sun comes.  

I don’t sleep well. Night has been reserved for a time when my heart gets so full that I think it will burst, but since I don’t want that to happen, I write it into pages and pages and pages of paper in my journal as a measure of prevention. I resist the temptation to write my heart to close friends. I resist the temptation to write a blog about it.

I weighed the pros and cons of all of my options, and writing a blog seemed alright. I’m not the only person in the world whose heart is awake. Maybe you’ll find some comfort here. And If I can offer comfort, I’ll give comfort.  

I attempted reading “When God Writes Your Love Story” and it was completely counterproductive. My heart wasn’t there with the writer. All of the “you’re single for a purpose, and this is your calling, and be productive with this time” was not making my heart less heavy. In fact, the amount of peace and contentment these other people are finding in their long-term call of singleness makes me feel like a mouse next to their super humanness.  

The problem is that the book was written by a married couple. They have their story. They aren’t single. And while they are trying to console me, it doesn’t work. All I have to do is flip the book over to see their embracing and smiling photo to remind me that both they and I believe everything they are saying, but it doesn’t make anything better…because I am single, and sugar coating everything with exclamation marks and funny stories about dating, well, it does no good. 

I am trying so hard to be a Jane Austen or Elizabeth Eliot. I’m trying to be this independent, confident, driven, self- sufficient, productive woman. I have seasons where I see her so well, and when I am thankful for my singleness because of the time, growth, conversations, friendships, and academic success I have been able to experience, but there are other seasons, like now, where she struggles.  

My inner independent, self-sufficient Jane Austen just wants to be one of the loved characters in her books who is swept away by a gallant, brooding, book loving, gentleman. And my inner Elizabeth Eliot who wants to be so oblivious of men that the only “he” she knows about is God, dwindles and thinks more of Jim and less of God. 

My heart was made to love. If you don’t understand me, the best I can explain it is like my heart is a moth in a jar just big enough for it to fit in, and no bigger. And the older I get, the more I experience and see and grow, the more I become, the bigger my heart gets. And it fills and fills and fills with hopes and dreams, and those things make the wings I was born with bigger and bigger. I feel the greatest need to fly, because I was born to fly, but I’m stuck in a jar because The Lord want my wings to get bigger, or because I need to learn something about the jar, or I was called to a jar….

Either way, when there are fireworks going off in your heart and nowhere for the fireworks to go- because you’re stuck in a jar- it starts to burn. 

So, as a 24 year old single (this isn’t old, I’m aware) I’m going to say that being single does not always feel like a blessing. Some days, it’s hard. I want to give all of my secrets away. I want a hand to hold, dag gummit, but there are no hands. I want to dance in the middle of a street (real couples don’t even do this). I want letters, but I settle for writing them instead. I want my stories to matter to someone other than the people I naturally belong to (parents/siblings).  

And then there’s God, the “invisible” He I pray to at night, the one whose words I read in the bible, and the ever present Love in my life, and yet, even that can feel like less than enough. I want to see His face, to hear His voice, and to know that if no man can know me, that He can. I want more, and more of Him.

But I’m learning that that is the point. The more I long for someone to love, the more I long to see God, my first love, because I hope that in seeing Him I’ll forget the other “him” and my heart will find some peace. I spend most prayers praying to find contentment in singleness, but contentment is rare. So, I have to pray to find contentment in Him, and that’s when some form of peace arrives.

Don’t be so naïve to think that this peace is the “I don’t feel a thing,” kind of peace. I think too often we have a misconception about what “peace” is. Real peace isn’t the absence of pain or feeling, it is not apathy. Real peace is finding comfort in God; it’s acknowledging that He is in control, despite the pain one feels. Pain and peace can coexist. This is a miracle in itself, and why peace given from God “surpasses all understanding.” At least, so I have come to understand it in my life.

Then the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him”

Genesis 2:18

Caught that, did you? If it is not good for man to be alone, why are single people still single? What I’ve considered is that Adam literally was the only man, and though Eve was given as a helper, she was a confidant as well, a friend, a soul-mate, I guess you could say. 

But, in case you haven’t noticed, you and I aren’t the only humans on earth. There are currently 7.05 billion people on this ball of dirt, and counting. According to worldometers.info, 32,000 people have already been born today, and it’s only 2:07 AM. Imagine how many new people there’ll be by 11:59 PM.  

Do you get where I’m going? We’re not alone, not really. It is true, it is not good for man to be alone, but that bible verse doesn’t guarantee we singles a relationship with a significant other, it just means you need to spend more time with a couple of those 7.05 billion people and find ones you can truly confide in. Find your soul-mate friends: Those who understand you, love you unconditionally like Christ, and can offer you a place of comfort. I think God made us “helpers” in friends, and thus far, I have found they all lessen my “he’s” absence.  

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

He has made everything beautiful in its time”

Ecclesiastes 3: 1 & 11 

I’ll be 25 on February 14^th, Valentine’s Day. I’ll have prayed for weeks in advance that my heart will be asleep that day. I’ll have prayed to find contentment in the Lord, and that the absence of flowers and sweet letters won’t be noticed. I do it every year. And most years, I do find peace. I jokingly consider that God keeps me to Himself, and then I go to bed one year older, dreaming about the Valentines to come when the flowers at the door will be mine, and the letter in the mailbox will have my name on it. That day may never come, or it might.  

Dreaming about it makes me heart bigger, and that makes the jar smaller, but that’s life. Books won’t help the ache, sad songs just do a better job of articulating how it feels, and writing in journals just gives future grandchildren  (either mine or someone else's) something good to read. I don’t know why we have to be lonely for a short time or longer time other than God would have it that way. It’s not a real answer; it’s vague and potentially disheartening for those of you who started reading this in hopes that I’d offer something more concrete. Maybe God is jealous of you too, He wants you to Himself, more of you. Maybe He is refining you, growing you, teaching you. I can’t say. But I do understand, and I know the feeling. And if you feel like a mouse at times in comparison to the Elizabeth Elliots, go ahead and know that I have too. I think we all have, but “He has made everything beautiful in its time,” and I pray for both you and me, that despite our mousy, hungry hearts, we can all be a part of that something beautiful.  

I really do.

2:30 AM

The Grey

Grey. That’s the color the sky looks the moment the sun begins to rise. It’s not immediate. It starts slow. The sky black, and then navy, and then a shade of blue that has a hint of purple in it, and then, as the earth keeps turning, and the sun keeps coming, the sky begins to turn grey. And the grey isn’t just in the sky, it’s around the trees, and tip toeing on the ground. It puts its hands and face right against my window, and looks in.

It’s not the warm you would expect with the rising sun. It’s tired, and sleepy. It’s still. And for those who have yet to fall asleep, it’s like this quiet when everything stops. The night stops. The day stops. You’re caught between the two in a grey “before.”

Maybe time stops for a few seconds, I’m not sure.  And I imagine it sounds just like “Dream of Thaw” by Balmorhea. When the song ends, the birds start.

 They wake, and sing. If you’re waking, it’s sweet. If you haven’t slept, it’s disheartening. It’s like the world is starting over, but you haven’t started over. You’re still stuck in yesterday.

I’ve been stuck in yesterday a few times this week and last week. A few times, I’ve gotten to bed, and then, I’ve woken up, just before the grey. And I lie there, and decide I’m just thirsty. I get a glass of water, and empty the glass of water, and still, I can’t sleep. Names are on my mind. Endless names. Names I spell out in my mind, and then I pray for.

Other times, I’m caught in a pause, and I don’t even realize the time is moving, that the dawn is coming, until it is here. Those times, I like the grey. I like being awake. The world is sleeping, unaware, and I am there to see the grey, to hear the song, and to know that today has come.

I’m the one to welcome the day, to invite it in, to know that all is well, that the ones who went to bed crying will wake to light, their tears gone; that the ones who prayed through the night, will wake –some prayers answered- in the morning; and the ones who went to bed angry will wake less angry; and the ones who fell asleep next to the person they love, will wake next to the person they love; and the one's who went to bed drunk, will wake, glasses empty, sober; and the one's who were tired, their feet heavy, will be less tired, and their feet, lighter...

I watch from the window like from a tall tower overlooking the world, and I look for the grey, waiting for it to arrive. Ever watchful, hopeful. And as I see it coming, I slip under the comforter, and as the birds begin to sing, I close my eyes, and as all of those hearts beyond my window sleep on, I sleep, knowing that the morning is coming.

Our morning is coming.

Rocky Road and Long Conversations

I’m currently listening to youth lagoon on my record player. I know iPods are necessary, but does anything beat the raw, organic sound of a vinyl?? 

“When I was seventeen my mother said to me ‘don’t stop imagining; the day that you do is the day that you die’ ” 

Those lyrics might. 

Rocky Road ice cream was on sale today at Kroger, and it fit nicely between the tomatoes, spinach wraps, bacon, red grapes, keys, wallet, and cell phone in my basket. Somewhere between the tomatoes and spinach wraps, the attractive boy who had been standing in the produce section crossed my mind, and then somewhere between the Rocky Road and pulling out of the parking lot, I decided I could be a Jane Austen in marital status and the next J.D. Salinger in writing status; though, the J.D. Salinger status would be necessary to make the Jane Austen one tolerable.  My point, you never know what’s going to happen when you put Rocky Road in your shopping basket.

For all I know, Rocky Road lead to the Youth Lagoon vinyl purchase at Hastings, the New York Cheesecake frozen yogurt at Chill, the movie at Carmike Cinemas, and the awesome conversation in the hammock on the back porch which was lit by strings and strings of hanging lights…

The conversation came to these conclusions: 

It’s ok to be mad at God. It’s ok to doubt, to be afraid, to second guess, to wonder. It’s ok to really find out who He is to you.  A relationship with Christ shouldn’t be you sitting on a pew, hands in lap, head and eyes lowered, mouth sealed tight. It should be hands and mouth moving, eyes looking, and hell*, if you want to stand up, stand up. 

*I did write “hell.” My conservative background was against it, but I’ve got Holden Caulfield on mind. I tend to pick up the writing/attitude of what I’m reading. Plus, if Salinger could dedicate “Catcher in the Rye” and I quote, “to mother,” with all of its language….well, you get the point.

We’re human, we’re sinners, we make mistakes, and we aren’t perfect. I don’t want to talk to someone perfect. I want to talk to someone who understands the sinful nature that I possess. Someone who can look at me, see my flaws, understand the pain, and offer me comfort through a testimony, a story, their own heart.  I want something real. We- my friend and I- wanted something real. Isn’t that what Jesus was? God sent to earth to be broken, made small, and put through humanity’s worst so that I could know that God knows what it means to be human? So that I could know Jesus was only Jesus through God, and even so, as part human, his skin broke, his eyes cried, and he bled. He was angry, happy, lonely, hurt, alone, abandoned, betrayed…So shouldn’t I feel the same, experience the same, know the same, nothing more, nothing less? And though He was God, He lowered himself, humbled himself, and gave of himself? Shouldn’t I do the same, nothing more, nothing less? 

Being a Christian isn’t about believing what your parents believed, and their parents, and their parents. It’s about discovering who God is to you. What has he done for you? Who has he made you, is making you, will make you?? I claim the last name “Ryals” because it was my father’s, but I claim my place as Christ’s, not because of my father’s faith, but because of my faith. My faith won’t look like yours or come about like yours because my relationship with Christ is not yours. It’s mine. It’s His. And we have our own secrets, inside stories, confessions, and you have yours. I prefer this. I don’t want what we have to be what you have, if that’s the case, what’s this “relationship” thing about anyway?? If I wanted something monotonous, I could do something a lot less challenging, painful, and refining that pursuing Christ. 

Being a Christian is challenging, painful, refining, and sometimes, confusing. Because it’s a daily effort to face human’s demons, grasp hope and faith, and walk, face set on something beyond yourself.  

And if your knees don’t hurt from the falling; you’re back hurt from carrying; if you’re eyes aren’t crying from seeing the brokenness, darkness, and hurt; if your heart shows no cracks or signs of duck tape; if your feet aren’t heavy from the weight of it all; if you don’t know these, you don’t know me. There’s nothing you can say. There’s nothing you can do. You speak of Christ, but what has he done? Where are the bandages he gave for your knees, where are the scars on your heart where he healed it, where are his hand’s marks on your back and legs from carrying you, and where is the redemption? 

I want something real. It doesn’t have to be beautiful, light, warm, or comfortable, it just has to be real. Your faith means very little to me if it is anything but, and mine should be the same for you. We are here to refine one another, teach one another, share with one another, not to paint on smiles, sugarcoat the uncomfortable, and avoid the hard stuff.  

So please, can we just eat some Rocky Road and talk about who God really is to you? What he is really doing or not doing in your life? Whether you two are on speaking terms, and how you feel about the whole thing? 

Because there are two things that I am known to love, and that’s ice cream, and long conversations.

The Shaved Headed Boys

I'm supposed to be thankful that young men are willing to go and fight for my freedom. I'm supposed to be thankful when they leave their families, and their homes with a couple of bags of camo, and one pair of clothes. I'm supposed to be thankful when they stand out in hot deserts, kicking cans, and carrying guns. I'm supposed to be thankful. But I'm not.

I'm not thankful because I can't help but think that they shouldn't be there in the first place. What began as a nation's war became a couple of mens' war, and those mens' mens' war, and those mens' mens' mens' war, and so on and so forth until a sweet boy had his head shaved and was called a man and sent to do "man things" in the desert.

I probably have it all wrong. The truth is, I don't know much about anything because no one talks about it. I see books about marines who are heroes, and national geographic tells me about the bad men who were caught by the good guys and put away. But where are all the sweet boys turned grown men with shaved heads? What are they doing? Where did they go? Why don't I see or hear from them??

Do they want to be there when they get there? Do they know why they're there. Do they wish they weren't there. Do they wish that I knew that they don't want to be there, they don't know why they're there, and they want to be here?

I have a problem with this war because I can't see it. I too easily forget it in the morning, and I sleep too easily at night. And only when I hear about so-and-so who lost his leg overseas because he stepped on something that blows up in the ground, do I feel any attachment to it at all. And that's only after I learn that that same so-and-so went to my school and graduated with my class, and his picture is in my yearbook.

I'm supposed to sing patriotic songs, and wave an American flag, and applaud those who have fallen, but I can't do it convincingly. I move my mouth, and my throat makes noise, and the flag hangs in the wind, and my claps are small...and I know that the men who are leaving shouldn't be leaving. They shouldn't be fighting someone elses' war.

I don't know a lot, but I know that peace is a fool's dream. I know that when people don't want you in their country, it's better to leave. And I know that humans are worth more than oil. I know that you can't fix another man's problems. And I know that the only war that can last 11 years is an invisible one. And if it's invisible, I don't know how "good"and "necessary" it really is.

Tomorrow a boy named Jay is leaving to prepare for going to Afghanistan. And he's not just some so-and-so, he's my, and Rachael, and Rebbecca, and Alycia, and mike, and Cassie, and Seth, and Chris, and Justin, and Brittany, and Blair, and Jaime, and Kendal, and Jeremy, and Hannah, and Bill, and Sarah, and Hayley, and Laz's and too many others' so-and-so.

He's shaved his hair, he's a man, and he's leaving.

And because he's leaving, I can't ignore the war. I can't ignore it, I can't love it, I can't embrace it, I can't do anything but wish Jay's hair was long, that he was on the couch watching a movie or- more likely- sleeping, and that I was sitting on the other end , and Rachael was in her chair, and Becca was folding clothes, and our little family was still a little family.

I used to look at pictures of men from the war, and they were just men. But now, they're shaved headed boys, I know they aren't really boys, but that's how I see them. Before they were fighters: cold faces, camo, metal and steel, black boots, and dirty hands, but now they're Jay:funny, and sweet, and smart, warm faces, bones and blood, pictures, and memories, and someone's someone. They're more than soldiers, more than camouflaged bodies, more than single file lines...

Open Books

I want to be connected.

In- between thoughts, I admire the walks, and habitual movements, and the backs of those in front of me crossing the street. I notice their hair- blond, brown, black- and their backpacks, especially the ones that are the same rusty orange as mine. Though, their initials are different, I’m glad to see that something that belongs to me belongs to someone else. We are different. We have something that’s exactly the same.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

Are yours and mine the same?

I hope they are. I really do.

I’ve written it before, but I have a feeling that we spend most of our time avoiding one another. Walking and talking and looking around each other. But I don’t know why. I have a feeling that we share more than the same backpacks and shoes and songs.

Your sunglasses keep me out, and your cell phone is stealing your attention, and you look at the ground the moment I look for your eyes. I’m going to be so bold as to say that you are avoiding me. And I avoid you too.

You’re a blur, really. You are whatever I want you to be. What you look like is who you are. And I’m sure you’re assuming and doing the same about me.

***

At the grocery store, you’re on the same aisle as me. And while you pick between crunchy or smooth peanut butter, you want to cry because ...but you can’t because I’m standing there

Rewrite: you don’t know what you’re doing

Rewrite: your thinking about how much your dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: you’re picking out peanut butter for your roommate and you so happen to be allergic to it, but you’re awesome, and will hold it at arm’s length all the way to check-out

So, I say “hi

Rewrite: I stare blankly as you choose because I don’t know what I’m doing

Rewrite: I’m thinking about how much my dad loves peanut butter

Rewrite: I want to cry because…but can’t because you’re standing there

Rewrite: I wonder what it would be like to be allergic to peanut butter and pity those who are.

Rewrite: pretend I don’t see you, and grab my peanut butter and head for the Oreos.
…
We’re missing “it,” whatever “it” is. But “it” was intended to be good.

You’re supposed to be giving me advice, and sharing your hopes, and letting me find little pieces of myself in you. And I’m supposed to tell you this story about this time that is going to help you when your time comes. And I’m supposed to encourage you and love you unconditionally because that’s what God asks me to do.

Supposed to. But don’t.

I want to be connected.

I want more than small talk, and absently watching movies, and staring at cracks in the sidewalk to avoid the one’s in your face.

If I may be so unrealistic and hopeful, I’ll say this.

We’re all our own little books. And if we were read, and read others’, it’d probably be the best thing, hardest thing, saddest thing, most romantic thing, scariest thing, most vulnerable thing, craziest thing, Greatest thing any of us would ever or could do.

In my ideal world, we’d all be open books, but in reality, we’re mostly shut.

And as an avid reader, I have a feeling that there are some amazing books that I’ll never get to read, and I’m sorry for it.

Mason Jars and Fireflies

I've heard numerous comments and I have already read plenty of blogs about fireflies. I know, I know, we are all mesmerized by shiny, glowy things. So when I saw fireflies flying around in the backyard, I -like any reasonable adult- got really excited, quixotic, and decided I'd stand outside and watch them.

Watching fireflies is no good. You watch them, but all the while, you feel yourself being pulled to them, until you're holding one in your hands. And if you're really excited about them, you'll put them in a jar and keep them for yourself (hoarders).I haven't actually ever put the fireflies I've caught in a jar before. I typically hold them in my hand for a second or two, and then just let them go. But catching fireflies in grandmother's mason jar- or in my case Sarah Shine's mason jar- sounds a lot more romantic. And I am a romantic.

I found that catching fireflies with just your hands seems near impossible. Catching them with a jar is a cinch. It makes you wonder if they want to be caught...

I caught four. I could have easily caught more, but I headed back inside to test them out. I figured sleeping with little glowing lights on my writing desk would be nice, and so I went upstairs to my room, and turned the light off.

The fireflies and I both sat in the dark. Looking at one another. I can't make myself glow, and they refused. So we sat in the dark. I tapped the glass. I tipped it upside down. No good.

Sitting, they were just ugly bugs in an old jar. In the house, the magic was gone. They flew into one another, making clink clink noises against the glass as they flew into it. Clink clink clink. clink clink clink. And I was disappointed.

I shook the jar a bit more. Maybe they needed time. Maybe they only glow when there's a little more light. So I cracked the door to let some light from the bathroom in.

clink clink clink. They flew, and fumbled, and fell.

And I wonder why we love them so much. What is so wonderful about a bunch of glowing bugs. We pay exterminators to kill the bugs that get into the house, and we wear repellent, and light candles, and what not to get rid of the ones outside of the house. So why in the world are we running outside with our grandmother's priceless jars to put bugs in them??

The only thing I can think of is the light. We're drawn to light. It's warm, beautiful, and it makes us full somewhere. And we love light so much that we'd catch a bunch of bugs in a jar to keep some on a summer day.

They take us back to when magic was real. When being a kid was good. When we ate warm watermelon outside and let the juice roll down our hands, and arms, and shirts. And we'd spit the seeds out. And if we swallowed one we hoped it wouldn't grow in our stomach. They take us to somewhere hopeful and beautiful and good.

As I let them all go, the moment they left my jar, they filled with light, and glowed, and glowed, and I was sorry I'd ever put them in a jar. That I had tried to catch their little bit of magic. And that's what I love most about them, you can't catch them. Not really. You can put them in a jar, but they won't glow then. They won't do it.

I love that. I love that you can't keep them. Not forever. Not like you want to keep them. Their like a beautiful dream. Always hovering before you, but once caught, they kind of disappear back to something quite ordinary. But in the summers,  every evening, just before the sun is gone, they invite you to sit and watch them. to remember good and warm and comfortable things. They invite you to a place you can't wait to return to. And every summer, as they draw nearer, you'll sit out longer waiting to see the warm glow they leave in their wake.

And when they're gone. We'll hope for them to come back.

The Snooze Button is a Lie

I know it's late. Or is it??

I went and saw "The Raven" at theatres and was successfully deterred from eating right afterwards. That's beside the point though. The point is I went and saw the Raven, and then I had some left over homemade pizza when my appetite returned, and as I was sitting down and eating a pepperoni, I realized that tivo was uploading onto the the Telly because (as I suspect) a certain dog must have hit the power switch on the power cord.

On the screen, there it was. "Almost there, just a few more minutes." And I looked at my phone and it said 9:11 (no joke, it really did). And I thought to myself, "alright, I bet it is working by 9:15. Just 4 minutes." But as I sat there, four minutes felt like forever. And then I thought that over a bit as the "almost there" slogan continued to taunt me on the screen.

Here's what went through my mind in those few minutes.

If you had four minutes to say goodbye to someone you'd see in an hour, that would be the longest goodbye. If you had four minutes to say goodbye to someone you'd never see again, that would be too small a time to say goodbye.

If you had four minutes to kiss a boy who you really disliked and who brought to mind lots of fowl words, that's four minutes of torture. But if you had four minutes to kiss the boy who brought to mind nothing, because he made you forget your words, then that's four minutes of heaven.

If you were told that in sixteen years, you'd be celebrating another birthday, you'd think nothing of it. No need to plan the cake now, that is forever away from now (40th birthday for me). But if you were told that in sixteen years, your family would be planning your funeral, you'd obsess over every single day knowing and honestly believing that sixteen years isn't enough time.

If you had one minute to grab your backpack and  meet some amigos at the library to study, you'd be walking. If you had one minute to grab your backpack and meet some professor in class for an exam that your alarm clock kind of forgot to wake you up for, you'd be running, screaming at your alarm clock, and praying for diving intervention.

Time is a funny thing. It really is.

I guess you could say I've under appreciated time, a couple of times...

I've squandered minutes, and hours, and days, and once a whole month. No joke, last October might not have even existed I spent so much time studying and not watching the clock.

We only count the seconds when it is convenient to us. When we want something now, a minute becomes an hour and we greedily count every passing second until our time has come. And when time is not in our hands, and it is not moving around our wants or our needs or out motives, we let it go unnoticed, and the seconds, and minutes, and hours, and days blur and disappear.

That's what makes time fast or slow. When "nothing" seemingly happens in our lives, we say time has moved slowly. When "everything" is happening in our lives, we say time moves too fast.

Maybe watching the clock, being aware of the time, that's what makes it go slower. Because it matters, it becomes something of significance. Four minutes to "waste" saying goodbye to someone is four minutes too much of your time, and so it goes by as you ramble and let the time go, but it goes by in slow motion, because you keep hoping it will speed up and move on faster as to convenience you. But Four minutes to say everything of worth to a person you'll never see again. You watch every second, the way it ticks, bends, what ever else a tick does...you'll notice it. You'll make every second count. And so it moves slowly as you watch it, but as it moves, it moves faster and faster because in your heart you want it stop, you want it to rewind, but in reality, it moves forward like it always has, and because it is against everything you want, it comes too fast.

We hold time, we hide time, we push it, we pull it, we manipulate it... that's all the snooze button is. It's just a button that was created to make you feel like you're cheating time, sleeping in, when in reality, you probably set it 30 minutes early. So in those thirty minutes when you should have just slept soundly and then woken up, you lost 30 minutes of real, quality sleep to feel like some kind of time god. congratulations.

The snooze button is a lie. If nothing else, remember that.

But, if you'd like something a bit more substantial, I guess the most obvious is that if you're wasting time because it isn't revolving around you, you might want to back up, rewind, and reconsider how your spending the seconds you have. Now, it seems irrelevant, but when those four minutes, or 16 years, or 1 minute are counting down to the last seconds, I'm sure in retrospect you'll either be thankful, or sad that it's over and you missed it.

Birches

I like most that when I sit at my desk to write, I'm overlooked by tall oaks, and sweet gums, and other trees I cannot name, all just outside of the window. When I look out at them, they create such a thick green curtain that I cannot see houses or roofs. They make their own village, and they create such a collage of greens: mint greens, and hunter greens, and lime greens,and olive greens. And they wave their branches to the other in such cordial hospitality that I am taken to their front doors and forget that I am, still, sitting at a desk looking out of my window.

When  I was younger, there was a particular tree in my yard to which I gave the name, my star tree. My star tree was just a sweet gum, but as a child, the star-like leaves were enchanting and replaced "Sweet gum" entirely. I'd climb most afternoons high into the limbs and I'd hoist books up by rope and read about peter rabbit, or I'd lie and daydream, or I'd talk to the limbs.

I'd ask my star tree how it was. I'd tell it about my days. I'd say most anything to it.

Looking back, it was a sweet, childish thing to do. I don't climb my star tree any more. I broke most of the limbs when I was younger, and others died with time, so that now it would be fairly difficult to climb into it without a ladder.

In fact, I haven't climbed a tree in a very long time if you wish to know the truth. I've played with the idea, but I haven't really climbed high into a tree since I was a kid.

If you haven't read it, Robert Frost wrote an entire poem about climbing high into birches as a young boy.

"So I once was myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be."

I am not going to admit to fully understanding Frost's thinking when he wrote the poem. But what I gather from its contents is that trees offer another world to those who dare to climb into them. A chance to get away, to sit still as the cars, and the neighbors, and the neighbor's dogs, and the sun goes by.

"I'd like to get away from earth awhile.
And then come back to it and begin over."

I think children are gifted with the ability to get away from earth awhile. And I am amazed by this. Like you, I've grown up, and I am aware that as much as I can find the beauty in the trees in my backyard, I can't bring myself to talk with them anymore.

I love watching children talk to their hands, and their feet, and the toys they hold. I love watching them disappear into a world that I can't see anymore, and if I see it, it is only for a short time, and with much determination.My niece does this. She talks to people and things that I can't see, not like she does. I can pretend I do, but I don't, not really.

She laughs, and yells, and is sad, and is excited by all of the little thoughts that grow into big thoughts, and before I know it, she's created a new world and has invited me to sit and play in it. And I remember my games, and my star tree, and the little worlds I too created, and it seems so long ago. But sometimes I remember it when I look at the trees that have long and thick limbs that bow low to the ground.

It's so funny to think that we were once all children, even those of us who have mustaches, and growl at kids on their porch, and pop balloons when no one is watching. We were all once children. We all knew what it was to dream and to play and to whisper to trees. I think Frost remembered it best, and maybe he longed for it again the most.

I don't know. It makes you sad to think about the child-like faith and grace and naivety we've all lost along the way. But it makes you happy, real happy, to see children climbing up trees, talking about the fairies in the branches, and screaming at the top of their lungs with such joy and laughter that they bring that distant land, the one both terrifying and beautiful, back to you.

"I'd like to go by climbing a birth tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
 But dipped its top an set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
Once could do worse than be a swinger of birches."

For Jim

Today, I went to my Great Uncle Jim's funeral. I went expecting lots of tears, but found laughter. I love hearing that he adored me since I adored him, and because I adored him so, I wanted to write something for him. And today, I got to share these words at his funeral, and as small as that seems, it felt good sharing who he was, and what he has been to me.

For Jim,

It’s hard to write the right words. To make a person like Uncle Jim unforgettable. To make words do him justice.

You would have had to know him to understand the kind of love and joy he had. You would have had to see his cheeks turn red in laughter- sometimes, in blushing- to fully understand his sweet heart.

I remember, even now, his squinted eyes and that wide, childish grin. I picked on him often about his hat collection, that Alabama football hat in particular, just to get a grin out of him.

We never said much. We talked about nursing home staff, his “neighbors”, the weather, his picture frames on the walls, his snacks he kept hidden in drawers.

But we understood each other, him and me.

He knew I loved him,just like I knew he loved me,and I never needed to talk about more than the peanut butter crackers, or the cokes, or his tendency to win over all of those hearts down the nursing home hallways, to know it.

Some people teach you how to tie your shoelaces as a kid, some teach you how to ride a bike, some teach you arithmetic; Uncle Jim taught me about happiness. It came from deep within, some place that I could only see in his smiles and laughs, but each time I saw it, I was thankful for it, and I truly knew what “peace that surpasses all understanding” looked like.

I never heard any of his stories. I never heard any of his dreams. We never sat and talked about God or the Heavens or the purpose of life. But even so, I feel like we did. I feel it, because I saw it in his face. He didn’t hoard his love, he gave it away, and in giving it away, he gave of himself freely.

I can’t explain it right because you have to witness that kind of love and selflessness to understand it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is Uncle Jim, by the world’s standards, didn’t do great things. His name won’t be in a history book, kids won’t talk about him generations from now, and those who loved him most, when gone, will take him with them when they leave. But Jim lived a great life. And most of us are waiting to witness something great. We travel, and read novels, and visit
museums, and watch plays, and study art, and meet people, and have conversations, all in the hopes of experiencing something beyond ourselves, to feel something beyond ourselves.

But down a hallway, on the right, in a simple, white room where peanut butter crackers were stuffed in a drawer and pictures of family smiled down from their frames, there was a wonderful, kind, gentle, loving Uncle named Jim, who within his own heart, and by the grace of God, knew greatness and contentment that no novel or museum could compare to. He overflowed with it. And he gave all of his greatness away- the joy and love- to those who were willing to sit on his bed, talk about the weather, and laugh with him.

Everyone has moments in their life; the ones that prepare them for the future. For some, these moments are marked by great conversations, or achievements, or the powerful words of an author. However, one of my moments arrived in the back seat of my mom’s silver Windstar in 1999; my head was against the glass, laughing, my feet were swinging in the air, and I was singing Blink-182.

“nobody likes you when you’re twenty three….what’s my age again, what’s my age again?”

My mom probably turned the song off when the word “h-e-l-l “played, but it had already happened. I had just been prepared for the future. I had learned that 23 would be one of the worst of my life.

At 11, I didn’t know much about anything.

I knew that climbing my star tree was essential to my health. I knew that shoes were evil counterfeits of bare feet. I knew that fifth grade wasn’t as cool as third because the playground was lacking a decent swing set and monkey bars. I knew that a tomato was actually a fruit. I knew boys were stupid (with the exception of Clint Kilgore), evidently from my vast experience with my two older brothers; particularly, that event where- stranded amongst limbs- I was attacked from all sides by bottle rockets.

But that day in the van, much thanks to 97.5 WABB, I learned another vital piece of information. At 23, nobody would like me. I might not even like myself. Basically that it would be terrible. But with my wavy, un-brushed, and probably dirty hair laid against that van window, I knew that 23 would never come. It would take FOOOR-EEE-VEEER

Alas, 23, as Blink-182 warned me, arrived. And 23 was indeed worth a song. But what blink-182 failed to advise me by musical lyric at 11 was that 22 was actually the year I would be completely unprepared for.

23 was merely the aftershock, the effect, the aftermath…oh but 22, 22 was the catalyst, the cause, the explosion.

Some scientist vow and declare that the universe all started because of one big explosion -one moment, one second in time when everything roared, and burned, and smoked. One moment when the universe was on fire. And when the ash from that one explosion settled, voila, planets and stars were born, the universe as we know it.

That’s my 22nd year: One big messy explosion of fire, and ideas, and thoughts, and hopes, and disappointments. A whole lot of waking and a lot less sleeping.

It didn’t all happen at 22, just like that explosion before the universe didn’t happen in one second. It took time for those particles to gather, for the friction to build, and for that friction to be great enough to set those particles flying out into space to be born into something new. New.

Here’s where the memoir happens. It’s written in the fire, and it’s realized in the cool aftermath

***

June 18th, 2008
“The only thing worse than death, worse than suffering, worse than fear, worse than darkness, is finding yourself utterly unknown.
Because in that moment, you begin to forget yourself, and your life story disappears page by page as you let others rip it apart.”

October 13th, 2010
“I’m a mess. And not a beautiful one. I don’t know where to begin. I’m not supposed to be a sleepy dreamer. I’m supposed to be wide awake. I’ve realized the world isn’t what I thought it would be. Things don’t change, and I can’t make them.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve caught glimpses of a whole other world. One that is beautiful and elegant. One with white dresses, and churches. One with whole, juicy hearts. It doesn’t matter than I’ve glimpsed it, that I’ve held on to it, because I’ve realized that’s what childhood was.

What an awakening.

I remember God. I remember that verse where He was sad He created us. And I know why. And I’m sad He created us too, I’m sad that we stained all of the beauty black.

I ache because I’ve seen something beautiful. I remember Christ. But hell is around me, in people, in mean words, in the breaking. No matter the healing, things will keep breaking.I wish I could change it all. Take it back, but I can’t. I’m sad that what I hoped the world to be is gone. I’m sad that I’ll never be that barefoot girl in the fields again. Not in the same way.

January 31st, 2011
I feel like I really know who I am these days. Last semester, it’s like my eyes were opened to life. The bad, the disappointments, the realities, but all of the good seems so much better, and the beautiful, blindingly so. God loves me despite it all. I can finally say what I want outside of these paper walls, and I can run outside of them. All of this is because of one person, and a classroom of people who were so very much like me, that as I got to know them, it was very hard not to get to know myself.

January 3rd, 2012
I weathered through the storm. Hope is ahead and warmth. My heart is at peace, my small world, bright.I had the conversation of my life with my mom tonight. All of it, 23 years. Healing, and wounding, and healing. 18, 19, 20, 21, aimlessly wandering. 22. The awakening, the drowning, the breathing. And alas, 23. The finding, the hoping.

My life is a miracle. Miraculous, and only in existence through Christ. I carry thoughts of other with me. I pray they find what they are looking for, and will continue to do so.

I pray this:That the Lord will guide and hold my heart fast and steady. That He will make a path for me where He desires me. That He will remove all of those things where His will is not concerned. That I will be a bramble amongst His lilies, and a light somewhere in His heart. That I can obey him. That I can daily sacrifice, better yet, give myself.Alas, I am free.

***

There’s nothing that I can confess that you don’t already know, that you haven’t thought, that you haven’t felt.

The greatest thing I’ve learned is that you should never apologize for being you. Never apologize for saying what’s on your heart or on your mind. Never apologize for being brave, for being vulnerable, for being honest. For reaching out.

A very wise person I know once wrote about putting your hands in your pockets and falling. Forget the ground, forget the lack of hands, forget the pain of it, and fall. In the falling, in the pause, you learn what you are made of, who you really are.

On the verge of 24, I never want to go back before the explosion. I don’t want to throw away my old journals. I don’t want to undo the done.

I want to love blindly; I want to give more than I take. If I could choose to be any fruit, I’d be a strawberry, since it’s the only one that wears its heart (seeds) on its sleeve (yes, I did just go there). I want to look at the people who pass me on the sidewalk. I want to be so honest, I feel uncomfortable. I want people to read my journals when I’m gone, and I want them to soak up every single word, even the embarrassing ones.

I will continue to hum all of the time. I'll say the wrong thing, and often, nothing at all. I'll laugh- I'm sure- at the most inappropirate time. Somedays, I'll daydream more than one should. I'll love more and more, because loving, it seems, is what I love most. And I'll try to write something you'll love, something you'll read, something that matters.

***

Stars are my favorite. I can lay on my back, hand under head. I watch them, and I hope. I imagine great things. I could lie there, staring at these bright lights, like a month to a flame, for hours. There, in the cold, they burn. They just burn. They burn and burn and burn. They don’t burn up, they don’t disappear, they just shine, hot and bright up there in the cold.

I want to burn like that.

The Magnificent

The day is leaving beauty in my wake.

The down comforter is folded over and barely touching the floor. The gray, ethereal light at my open window. The brush of air from the fan wakes the small and misplaced feathers that are caught in the carpet. And the ones flopped over, against my knees.

Cold. My feet on the carpet, on the wood, on the tile, in the warm water.

My wavy and damp hair pulled up, the most recalcitrant pieces falling around my neck, and ears. The naked skin of my face, its imperfections and perfections. Left as they are.

Vanilla tucking into the white of my tank top. The mix of mocha and hazelnut in my coffee. Hot on lips, warm in mouth.

The robins- who have taken a liking to the tree outside my window- murmur back and forth, back and forth. And when I sing, I think they listen.

White porcelain in hand, feet light:

“and at once I knew I was not magnificent…..I could see for miles, miles, miles.”

But I feel magnificent. I can only see as far as the window allows me, but I imagine much more.

And I hold the warmth closer now, against my hands, against my chest.

My feet gone, now.

And I’m a thousand miles away. A thousand stories away. A thousand memories and kisses and laughs and joys away.

The robins, and the gray, and the music, and the warm bitter against my tongue, and the smooth of porcelain all blending. All blending into something beyond human. Beyond beautiful.

Now is something untouchable. Something safe. Something given to me from someone Greater.

My heart pushes against the borders: open, open, opening, into the most delicate. She fills all the space between here and the closed door. And I know what it means to be unfolded.

The down comforter is beneath me. The gray, ethereal fills my room. The air brushes back recalcitrant pieces of hair from my face. The naked skin of my face, its imperfections and perfections. Left as they are.

The day is leaving beauty in my wake...

And at once I know it’s all magnificent.

Ode to...

I've read a many odes, take Ode to a Nightingale for instance. If you haven't read it, you might consider it: It was written by John Keats and can be found in two seconds on Google. Some other odes I've read are Ode to Tomatoes and Ode to Maize by Pablo Neruda. I couldn't even begin to make that up. He also wrote, Ode to Broken Things, Ode to a Woman Gardening, Ode to the Dictionary.

In short, Pablo Neruda is one of my favorite poets. I love Keats, and Frost, and Whitman, but Neruda takes simple things, and he doesn't make them beautiful, he just reveals the beauty that was already there. I like that. I like that a lot.


I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me
(excerp from If you Forget Me)

There's a little taste of some Neruda; that's a piece from one of my favorite poems of his. It's amazing. Go read it. Now.

Rabbit trail. Alright, back to the point. Here's an ode. And no, this isn't going to rhyme, and yes, it's going to be so deliciously random that my heart just might burst.

An Ode To....
The word delicious.
The feeling of grass squishing under barefeet.
The taste of Indian Grass picked from back yards.
The smell of honey suckle, and white blooms, and the greenest grass I've ever seen driving through Repton in March
The scars that remind us that pain exists, but so does healing.
Black fingertips from playing the guitar for hours
First kisses
Those dryer sheets that make your clothes smell like mountain breeze for days...
Personalized ring tones, because the ringing was getting annoying as was the cheesy elevator music.
Pandora. Because you know exactly what I want to listen to.
Soft sheets, sinky matresses, and fluffy comforters
Rain. I know I don't stand in you as often as I used to...but I still love you.
Long drives on warm afternoons
Guitars. I will always have a crush on you.
Pianos. If you're not my first love, you're certainly my second.
Dancing in your room when the door is closed
Toothpaste splatters on the mirror. Just another way of saying, "I've been here."
Crest's Expressions toothpaste. Vanilla and Citrus. You're so good.
Vanilla. If I could smell like anything, I'd choose you.
Late night birds that sing the rest of us to sleep.
Dancing in the street.
The second after waking up. The second when anything is possible.
Late night conversations and heart to hearts.
Cheese-its. Cheese nips and Cheese Whales will never compare to you.
Figuring yourself out. Messy...but beautiful.
Opposable thumbs.
Trees.
Knock knock on wood.
The Giving Tree, Where The Wild Things Are, Velveteen Rabbit, Oh The Places You'll Go.
Mistakes. I don't like making you, I don't prefer you, and If I could, I'd avoid you, but in the long run, the really, really long run, I somehow end up learning from you. How does that happen?
Teacup pigs. Having a pet pig isn't so unrealistic any more.
Sandwiches; you'll never get old.
Home.
Hand written letters.
Spinny chairs. I have a feeling that the adult who invented them was more of a big kid than a practical turn-right-around-to-reach-this-in-your-office-person.
Birth marks. The people who know you best know them, and to everyone else, they're just spots.
Feet. You're weird and funny, but you take me where my heart can't.
Popcorn kernals that have only partially popped. If I could have a whole bag of you, I would.
Windows. We don't thank you enough for letting us momentarily escape from the classroom, office, airport, car, house...etc.
School. I hate your test, and I hate that you sometimes stress me out, but thank you for introducing me to Irving, Balzac, Shelly, Bronte, Orwell, the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system, an action potential, Van Der Waals force, RDI's, RDA's, and AI's, and my personal favorite, this thing called creative and nonfiction writing.
Music. If you were a man, I'd marry you.
Toilet tissue....I mean really.
Old, worn, dusty, books.
Handprints and footprints left behind in concrete driveways and sidewalks.
Hands. You're one of my favorites. What would I do without you?
Running to something, or someone you miss.
Long talks and walks down railroad tracks.
Confided secrets.
Chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
Quirks: you're my favorite thing about the people I meet.
Lyrics.
Airplanes. Yes! I can fly.
Dreams. I can fly there too. And breathe underwater. And be remarkably brave.
Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness. Redemption.
Stars.
Toasters. The oven kept burning my bread, so thank you.
Moments of complete forgetfullness.
Wide, open spaces and a kite.
Paint. Imagine how bland the worlds would be if all of our walls were white...
Tattoos. You manage to sum up an entire life, moment, or event. You're like a personalized birth mark...
Suitcases. They're ready to go when you are.
Pockets...I like you a lot.
Hair ties. You keep my hair out of my face, off my back, and out of the wind, and you fit perfectly around my wrist.
Fingerprints. Serisouly? out of everyone ever created noone else has had mine? noone.
Backwards necklaces. You remind me that someone could be thinking about me...that's very thoughtful of you.
lips. You keep me quiet or let me talk, you help me whistle, you let me bite you when I'm contemplating, you let me smile, and you let me kiss.
Journals.
Clothes hangers.
Drawers.
Hardwood floors and socks.
Peanut butter. Man. Thanks George Washington Carver. And thanks parent trap for teaching me to combine peanut butter with the oreo...
Harry Potter. You introduced yourself to me in 6th grade, and you're still hanging out with me. I tell you what, this has been the longest literary relationship I've ever had....hahaha.
Brothers. You taught me to climb, to play hard, to take a fall, a joke, and a love punch. You've shared your stories, your books, and your hearts.
Dad. You tickled me, took me flying, taught me about hard work and dedication, gave me music, and adored me with quiet smiles.
Mom. You taught me that "it could always be worse," encouraged me, let me talk without ceasing, and listened to every bit...unless you fell asleep...but "loved" me anyway.
Scrabble: Finally a game for all of the dorks who wanted to know how many words they could make out of seven letters.
Coffee and quiet nooks.
White breaths in the winter.
Eyes, especially the kind ones.
Trying to explain the plot of Harry Potter to someone who has never read the books or seen the movies...good luck with that.
Making up words like Dramastic.
Saying funny words like: yesh, nay, concur, indeed, and toodles.
Weddings.
Answering, "where will you be in 5 years," 5 years later.
Saying "hi" to someone you haven't seen in weeks, months, or years.
Hugs.
Butterflies. In the stomach, the ones that fly around are nice too..but I do have a preference.
Finding pieces of yourself in others.
Pauses.
Bon fires and smores.
Team edward. J/k.
Chocolate...anything.
vanilla coke
British accents...or in other words...Bri-ish auc-cents.
puuuuuuuuuugs. What is ugly to you, I think is irresistable.
big laughs, small laughs, snorty laughs, weird laughs....
"I'm sorry."
and of course. "I love you."


I could go all day, but I'll stop there. This was just an attempt to see the beauty in the little things.