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.

The White Hot Chocolate Intervention

There are many who believe that God is capable of reaching out to us. I don't mean those instances of church going, or woship singing when you feel warm and fuzzy and such. I mean in those times when you really need Him, when you need to know that everything is okay, that the plan is in motion and you are in it. When the quiet is too quiet. And all the glasses lying around the house are convenintly half-empty.

In those times, you want a personalized letter with a signature reading, "Sincerely, God."

You want a great, loud, and low voice to boom through the clouds and drown out the sappy music playing on your, "I'm depressed" playlist, also known as "damien rice, mumford and sons, and ray lamontagne." Earthquakes, white doves, and angel messengers would do too, though.

You want a face-to-face convo. , a text, an e-mail, a facebook message, a note mysteriously left under your door.

You want this and more.

I guess what I should just say is that you want God to be real to you. Personalized. Genuine. You want to see the relationship in motion, not the present stalemate of being stuck in that chapter in the bible with all of the names...which isn't speaking so loudly to you right now...not making you feel the warm and fuzzy, but instead, that awkward silence.

They say God reaches out to us. I guess I am too often a skeptic buying into the illusion of a bright light sitting on a throne thousands and thousands and lightyears away from me.

Call me crazy, but I'm confident that there are "conincidences" so personalized that you can find a God signature if you looked hard enough. I can't tell you what they are, that's for you to figure out. But the point is, I think God sends us letters, we just have to be able to read them once they fall in front of us. And it's in those moments- the ones that are apparanlty insignificant to others- that I know God is close beside me.

Since school started, I've been in limbo. The "I don't know what I want, where my life is going, what's going on here?" limbo. Quite frankly, it's exhausting being anxious and worried all of the time, especially over things that I literally feel like I have no control over. But you understand this, or at least, you will.

The weather hasn't been helping either. Overcast, cold, grey. Every day. As if to say, "hey martha lee anne, I know how you've been feeling so I'm going to rub it in."

So last week, I was shuffling along. Glaring at the grey sky. And every night was the same thought...

"God, make yourself real to me. Let me know you're here and it'll be ok. I can't be ok unless I know you're still here with me."

And this morning, the sky was blue. And I'm sure I was wearing my "contemplative" face all the way to the library. And I thought, "God, let me know you're here and everything will work out ok."

And I pushed the doors aside.

And I was thinking today would feel like yesterday's.

And there it was.

A free
white hot chocolate.

Being handed to me.

I looked around, and noone else was there to take it from the cashier who just stepped out of her door. And she said, "hey, will you take this? I made it by accident."

At which I respond..."Yeah.".......I begin to walk away..."thanks."

And that was it.

That was what I was waiting for.

Oh roll your eyes all you want, but that white hot chocolate was my letter, not yours. And it said this.

"Dear Martha Lee Anne,
I've been there these past few weeks, and I've noticed how much you love hot white chocolate coffee. I noticed how much peace and optimism and hope you feel when you drink it while sitting with your friends, and how relieved you are then. I've noticed that you associate hot white chocolate drinks with comfort. I've been listening to you're worried prayers, and quiet whispers between brushing teeth, and putting on your boots, and locking the door. I've seen your heart, and I know it, but I know what's coming, and it's alright.

I'm here. I'm listening. And as "coincedental" as you may think this, I love you enough to buy you a cup of hot white choclate today. And in five minuets, your mom will tell you it's all going to be alright, and you're going to feel peace, and you're going to know it's all going to work out. And you'll drink your white hot chocolate, and you'll think of me. And that's just what I wanted from you. So I love you, and I'll be there tomorrow. Sincerly, God."

That's it. That was my divine letter today. And I have not one doubt about whose signature was on it. Call it "coincedence," but I call it love and grace.

I'm convinced that God reaches out to us sometimes in what appears to be nothing at all to the person standing next to you. But this is what makes it yours, and not theirs....This is what makes it your letter. Your relationship. Your love. Your grace.

New Years and Feathers

This year's New Years arrived, at least for me, 1 hour before 12:00.

It arrived in my Honda civic to a song by Sister hazel and to the clink of mason jars and laughter from the passenger side as Kimberly- also referred by me as Huckleberry or Diana- reiterated our New Year's story.

Driving back home alone, I was amazed that I was not 8, or 12, or 17, but in fact 23, and that instead of walking back home from that house on the top of that hill, I was driving my car. I was amazed that in one hour, time could both rewind and fast forward, and that I could indulge in my past almost as much as in my future. But, this is the gift of New Years.

They call is New Years, but sometimes, I wonder if in fact it should be called "Old Years." Because one night a year, my inner teenager and the ever courageous child-me appears and she wants big and small things. She wants to hope in all things, and believe all things, and she writes these "things" into her journal, and in the next year, attempts to achieve these things, great and small.

And what is amazing...is that she does. I do.

Some await New Years to make resolutions, to make promises with uncrossed fingers, and to write on notebook paper the list of "to dos" for the days to come, but what I have found myself doing most New Years is celebrating the "Old Years," the year past, the year survived, the year hoped.

I don't make resolutions, not really. Instead, I imagine the future year with all of the hope I can muster, and then set out to keep that hope alive until the day my happy bubble gets popped, and then I pick myself up, and do it again. And the next New Year's, I hope again, and secretly relish in all I've accomplished in the past and in the future.

Thus far, I have:
written tons of novels AND gotten them published, made the cheerleader squad, gone to Tuscany, Italy, written letters that were so masterfully created that they inspired the reader, ran a mile in under 10 minutes, gone to Africa and loved on those little babies, danced in a street, left behind enough anonymous messages in the back of library books that students have found them and laughed at my clever words, graduated from Auburn University, gotten a job as a writer, become a registered dietitian, had a pug, mastered spelling, read all of those books on my book list, come to term with who God is and who He is to me, learned how to long board, written amazing songs, learned how to play the guitar, violin, and read sheet music, had an extraordinary life, have had tons of real conversations with strangers who don't know me, been brave enough to...., gone on a road trip...

this list goes on my friends.

What is real? and what isn't? What has been hoped or imagined and what has actually been achieved? That is for me to know and for you to wonder.

I read once on a hobby lobby frame that, "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."

Hope has feathers for a reason, and feathers allow flight for a reason. I'm not a bird, I don't have wings, but somewhere in my soul, I have a feather, maybe I have a whole downy pillow's worth of feathers. It was in the past that they first appeared, but it's seeing them in the future that keeps them with me.

I walk around sometimes and find myself amused by all of the feathers that fall off of my shoes and backpack. I find them in my notebooks, in-between the shelves at the library, and sometimes, in my hair.

I'm sure there are people who get annoyed when they appear on their shoulders or desk, or who are allergic to them and wish I'd put them away, but I can't help it..the feathers are just there to stay. So I keep on walking, feathers in a trail behind me. I hope that some people will pick them up very well knowing that others will do their best to avoid them by tip-toeing their way around my downy path.

So what is the point here?

Every New Year's I remember the old years, and the old hopes, and I stuff enough feathers into my pockets, and notebooks, and shoes so that everywhere I go, I'll see them on a sidewalk, or in my desk, or on the shoulder of another, so that I can be reminded why stumble around, stubbing my toes on "reality" when I can fly?