winter

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She inhaled sharply.  The cold air stung her throat as it rushed into her warm lungs.  She watched the fog of her exhale swirl and dance into oblivion as she blew out the used air.

She felt like used air.

She had always held a fondness for winter.  Winter was her cold sister, beauty hiding mysteriously beneath the surface, hesitant to emerge for all to scrutinize.  She looked out at the meadow spreading out like a blanket below her.  A low, quiet mist hung among the naked branches of the trees.  A flock of birds flew gracefully above them, intently focused not only on their destination but also the journey.  The lake in the distance proudly wore what was left of last week’s snow on its frozen surface.

She wasn’t as frozen as she thought she was.

She marveled at the scene before her.  It faintly reminded her of a library—everything you could ever wish to know was right there at your fingertips, but you had to know where to look.  Otherwise you could search for hours, days—weeks, even—and never find what you’re looking for. 

She knew what she was looking for.

This place had always brought her comfort.  Other hills held memories of picnics and sledding trips, grass-rolling contests and snowman-building races—but this place was hers.  Her own little spot to share the joys and pain with.  She told this place things she never dared speak aloud, even to herself.  But here?  Her secrets were safe here.

She sighed.  She truly had nothing to complain about.  Her thoughts flitted wistfully to last summer.  Early summer, spring, really.  The future had looked hopeful, bright, happy.  Then all of a sudden, others’ lives had started crumbling all around her.  A shooting here, a nation’s tragedy there, a father gone now, a sister-daughter-mother-to-be gone then.  She had kept walking through it all, chin up, stride strong and steady, but her eyes were wide open and the fear did its best to pry the already-fragile crack in her heart open wide.

The gash was inevitable.  She had trusted once and her trust had been betrayed.  Hadn’t it?  Hadn’t she gone where no one sane would ever go?  Hadn’t she thrown dirt in the face of everything her culture said was wise and good?  Hadn’t she set sail on an ocean she had no business ever crossing?

She had started sinking.  Hard and fast.  She had gasped for air, lungs burning, heart pounding, arms thrashing for someone to pull her up.  Someone had, but it hadn’t been the One she had hoped would save her.  She had hoped against hope for a miracle and none ever came.

It didn’t come…did it?

And this was before all hell broke loose last summer.  Spring, really.  She smirked at how naïve she had been.  But…her face softened.

Maybe she was a fool to keep hoping.  But maybe she wanted to be a fool, even now.  If fools laugh in the face of despair and cling to courage in the face of torment, she would be a fool’s fool for as long as she lived.

Her thoughts circled back like the geese overhead, landing in the misty grove of naked trees below.  Yes, she could relate to winter. 

the grating normalcy

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I sit on the edge of a mountain, the cold, yellow sun slowly cloaking itself with the peaks.  I’m free.  It’s wide open here.  There’s no fear, no care, no worry.  I’m enough here.

I feel the wave roll over my back as I squeeze my eyes shut to the rush of sandy water.  Involuntarily I swallow a little as a smile forces the corners of my mouth open.  I’m terrified and happy.  I think of what could happen if one thing went wrong like it did once, but it’s too late now.  This is happening.

I can’t remember the last time I danced in the rain like this.  I laugh and twirl and relish the thought of sky water washing me of the cares and scars.  I wouldn’t say I’m broken, but the dancing makes me feel more whole—the way a crab is more of a crab when it has its shell.

In the back of my mind are the ones who are gone.  The two, three people who ripped a part of my heart out this year when they breathed a final breath and kissed earth goodbye.  There are thousands more, too, who I never had the privilege of meeting and will never even know are gone.  Yet the world is so different with only their ripple forever shaping history.  The world would be different without you, too.

What is important?  Dinner seems mighty important when you’re tired and hangry after a long work day.  Love makes you feel awake and alive and okay—thus you crave it relentlessly.  Doing something with your hands that’s beautiful to look at or listen to makes you feel complete and useful.  Those are important things in life.  So why is it we miss the little things most once they’re gone?  The sounds that came from the kitchen when he made coffee in the morning.  The faint, distinct smell of her shampoo when she wrapped you in a hug.  The opening song of the show you watched together every night before bed.  The car running outside while they wait for you to hurry up and get out the door.  Their favorite jacket hanging in the closet, just waiting for them to come back and put it on.

It’s not fair, life.  I cry bitter tears when I think of the people who are gone.  I cry for what could have been and what actually is.  I’ve never been good at saying goodbye.  Sometimes the tears take me back to when I was a child hiding in a giant cardboard box to cry because my summer friend went back to her mom’s house in California.  Or when I hugged my aunt goodbye the night before we left Arkansas and then went straight for the shower to silently sob while the hot water disguised the tears.  My heart likes to come out in the form of crying alone, although only heaven knows why.

The grating normalcy of the second hand ticking away seems too much to bear sometimes, especially when you miss someone or anxiety breathes down your neck.  I can’t imagine why I am here on earth, why any of us are.  We didn’t sign up for it, but we take responsibility for our existence as though we had.

In fact, I don’t even know what this post was about or what it was for, but here it is and I feel better now.  Go hug someone.

on dancing and what not

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All I ever wanted to be was a dancer.  It was the only thing in life I felt all the way down into my soul.  My heart felt the music.  My body incarnated emotion with a grace I couldn’t seem to find outside the studio.  Every step and turn cost me every ounce of strength I possessed.  I pushed myself to the limit and then some, yet somehow there was always more.

I sacrificed everything in my attempts to be the best.  I saw my flaws and ran them over with a fervent belief that I could become whoever I set my mind to be.  It wasn’t to win a trophy or to get into the best company or to impress anybody—I did it for me.

See I was fearless on the dance floor.  The hours and days and weeks of practice made the scrutiny of the spotlight intoxicating.  Whether dancing a solo or in tandem with other dancers, all I knew was I felt most alive when everything in me—my strength, flexibility, grace, passion—was put to the ultimate test.

Yesterday I put on a leotard again for the first time in almost nine years.  That was the skin I wore for most of my life growing up.  I was more comfortable in a leo and tights than I was in my own skin, much less any other outfit, fashionable or otherwise.  It was strange, wearing a leotard again.  I instantly saw the girl I was back then: innocent, courageous, blissfully blind to the journey I would embark upon in the following decade.

It made me cry.  Like, sob.  I wept for the dreams that haven’t become reality.  I wept for the failures and disappointments that I’ve blamed myself for.  I wept for the seasons of loneliness and aimlessness that would come, sometimes bringing me one step away from breaking.

Funny though, none of that crossed my mind back then.  I marched forward, never looking back.  When I looked in the mirror, I saw a dancer.  I didn’t see the thicker thighs; I saw defined muscle and a graceful line that went all the way down to my toes.  I didn’t see the baby face that looked even rounder when my hair was slicked back; I saw the perfect ballet bun that stayed firm as a rock through every fuete, pirouette and grande jete.  I didn’t see the perfectionist who was always way too hard on herself; I knew what I wanted and did whatever it took to get it.

I’m a little fuller in the hips these days.  I’m not as flexible as I was and I still don’t have good feet for pointe.  I could probably dance like that again if I really wanted to, though it would cost me a lot more than it did back then.

But I can tell you one thing, I’ll always be passionate.  My passion just keeps growing.  It’s expanded into regions beyond just beautiful dancing.  I’m passionate about addressing injustice, giving people space and permission to be themselves, learning new things, making honest music, loving with my whole heart.  I’ve got a lot to learn, especially when it comes to being vulnerable.  It’s hard to let people in sometimes.  I guess that can be a good thing but, hey.  Like I said, I have a long way to go.

I always loved when I’d finally feel the sweat running down my back during class.  It was like a victory.  A small one, just for that moment.  It didn’t mean I had mastered my routine, but it did mean I was headed in the right direction.  A hundred sweaty rehearsals ended in one electrifying performance—and that made it all worth it.

even if he never answers another prayer

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So many unanswered prayers.

So many precious lives taken from this earth too soon, despite endless faith and pleas to the heavens.

So many broken hearts left to gather the pieces left behind, to try and move forward without those who always made their hearts beat faster.

In the wake of grief, I ask myself why we pray.  Why, if He doesn't intend to answer?  Why waste breath that is apparently all too rare a commodity?  Why bother hoping for the best when the worst inevitably ravishes everything in the end?

There is no pat answer, only the small notion stirring in me that perhaps prayer isn't about answers at all.  Perhaps God will do what He does or doesn't regardless of our requests.  Perhaps it is only coincidental that some prayers get "answered" and some don't.

But He promises to hear us.  He longs to be with us.  Prayer allows us to draw nearer His heart and find out what really makes Him tick.  The more I uncover of His character, the more I trust it...the more I trust Him...answer or no answer.

in light of the recent tragedies

I write because I have to.  I write because by putting thoughts, feelings, and the unspeakable into words, justice is served.  People’s stories are told.  Honest hearts meet honest hearts and the human condition is no longer a mystery, rather broken down into fathomable pieces, relatable to every other breath breather on the planet.

Why are we alive?  It’s a question that haunts me, often so heavily overshadowed by the shadow of death.  As a race, we contend to continue running as the generations before us, and although we persist, we cannot overcome the one thing that so seemingly easily overcomes us: death.

I don’t mean to be dark or sober or give any undeserved place to the thing most of us triumphantly avoid with every blink.  But death illuminates life with a new wash of light.  This existence is fragile—as are our hearts, hands, skin, breath, passions, dreams.  Nothing is certain, nothing is sure.

Except for hope.

Sometimes its promise is so fleeting.  Other times it carries us on the wings of the wind.  But always hope remains, if only in memory, if only in hope itself.

We don’t seek impressive eloquence.  We seek a note that resonates with the resounding chords of our souls.  Pain that intermingles with tears and love and hope.  A light at the end of the tunnel.  We ache for a better world—if not for ourselves then at least for our children.

I go around and around, looking for a snapshot of heaven.  Wondering if everything I believe of it is true.  Heck, I wonder if everything I believe of this world is true.  What is mortality, what is morality?  What is right, what is wrong?  Is it actually as cut and dried as we have always thought it was?

And if not, what a relief.  Not because we like breaking the rules, but because so many of the rules are too futile to be followed.  Stupid, petty reasons to abandon wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve in exchange for stuffing it back behind the mask that smiles unnervingly like rest of the human army.

I take a deep breath.  Sometimes it is the only thing that anchors me to the reality of life, of God.  The still, quiet peace of the morning, lingered over with a cup of coffee…it doesn’t take away the pain of life, nor erase the sting of death, but the simplest of moments overcome the complexities of humanity most thoroughly.

Because from there we can see farther, clearer.  Because we cannot fight for life unless life itself burns within us, burns for justice, burns into the darkness, burns away the all-consuming pride and fear.  And

FIGHT WE MUST.

Many days, months, years, even decades may pass before we see the sculpture taking form—our blood, sweat, and tears finally making a dent in the oppressive anvil of injustice.

And when it finally does,

it will have been worth it. 

sloths and inventing yourself

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“Oh that we would have the courage to be unapologetically ourselves, because therein we worship God most truly.”

I penned this thought in my journal a year ago.  I had no idea then what the following 12 months would take me through yet the cry remains just as urgent in my heart as it did then.

Have you seen Zootopia yet?  I love it.  I love the message, the imagination behind it (Disney always nails it), and…the sloths.  If you’ve seen the film or even just the trailer you’ll know that the beloved creatures talk…at…a…pace……slower…than…a………turtle.

Sometimes I feel like one of them, slowly inventing myself one word at a time.  I think God is taking his time writing my story, although I have no idea why.  I guess good things come to those who wait.  As I once heard a wise man say, “Just do whatever God tells you to do next.”

But I’m so content right now.  I truly feel more content than I ever have before.  It’s taken a while to get to that place, though.  Up until a few months ago, I have felt the need to always be moving forward as fast and furious as possible.  I never wanted to settle or sell myself short or miss my calling, even though I had no idea what “my calling” was.

As some of you know, I wasn’t able to finish the midwifery program this spring because of some health issues that led me to come home early.  I hated myself for not being able to finish something that I started.  Even though the choice was made in the best interest of my health, I couldn’t bear the thought that I was actually vulnerable and human, not strong and invincible like I’ve always wanted to be.

As my health has gotten back on track thanks to rest, less stress, and weekly therapy, I have come to accept all that has happened in the past 6-8 months.  I’ve also come to several conclusions:

I don’t want to be busy anymore.

I’m done meeting myself coming and going, never having the energy to work with my whole heart and never having time to truly rest.  I’m prioritizing my health (physical, mental, and spiritual) because I’ve learned the hard way that you can’t give what you don’t have.

Everything worthwhile in life starts with passion.

While I was unemployed for a month, I gave myself permission to do things I love—polish up on my guitar and piano skills, watch shows and videos that inspire me, and generally take risks creatively.  One of the shows I got hooked on for a while was Fixer-Upper.  Something about seeing a sad, old house be transformed into a perfect home just hits me right in the feels.  What I didn’t realize is that it was setting me up to work with my friend at a real estate company where we do fix and flips all the time.  And thanks to Chip and Joanna, I was already familiar with a lot of the process and terms—and had also seen how non-glamorous flipping really is.  If I’d just forced myself to be serious and try to find the perfect job from ground zero, I would have missed an opportunity to do something I love.

Perhaps everything we’ve come to believe as infallible Christian truth is actually just wishful thinking.

Hear me out here—it’s just something I’ve been pondering a lot lately.  For example, the principle of “whatever you sow, you will reap” has become more of a mantra along the lines of “give a lot and God will give you even more.”  While that is not necessarily the case, though it may be true in some cases, either way, selfish ambition should never be our motivation for giving anything.  Whether it’s money or time or love or whatever, our goal should be simply to share “the milk of human kindness,” no strings attached.  Jesus hardly had any earthly possessions and he himself said, “Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 5:3)  If you look closely at the definition of the Greek ptochos, translated into English as “poor in spirit,” you’ll see that it refers to the paupers, the beggars, the helpless, and those without formal intellectual schooling.  Theirs is the kingdom of heaven?  Then what do we think we’re doing, those of us who own cars and houses and more money than any other demographic in the world, going around and expecting to be blessed when the blessing is not ours to take?

I’m getting way out of my depth.  I’m no expert on theology or biblical studies, and I’m just as guilty as the next guy for believing that God simply desires that we “prosper and be in health, even as our souls prosper,” period.  (3 John 1:2)  But what if that’s actually the last thing on his list, along with the comfortable, pride-worthy lifestyle we somehow associate with Christianity?  What if what matters most to God is that we know him—really know him.  Everything else would follow if that were truly our goal.  (Matt. 6:33)  I would argue that the most dedicated believers are the ones who fight for their lives every single day as a result of walking with Jesus.  Their existence is anything but comfortable, yet to them, the sacrifice of their comfort and life security is nothing compared to the joy and peace they know in Yahweh.  Their faith in God is relentless despite their circumstances, while mine tends to waver at the slightest suggestion of things not going the way I think they should.

I hope we never stop growing, you and I.  No matter our age, we still have our entire life ahead of us, for we have eternity to find out who we really are.  But today, whoever we are, let’s embrace it and not try to hide even a little bit, for the Father is seeking true worshippers to worship in spirit and in truth.  (John 4:23) 

the light rail and a glove

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The other day, I was downtown getting ready to take the light rail back home.  They just opened up a new line that goes all the way out to the airport (YES.) and since I don’t go downtown very often, I didn’t realize that the new “A” line to the airport starts at a different station than the rest of the city’s lines.

There were lots of people standing around, including several security guards, presumably to help people navigate the details of the new line.  I glanced briefly at the directory but decided it was just easier to ask a human how to get to the old station.

I approached an older security guard and said, “Excuse me, sir.”

I don’t think he actually heard me, or if he did, he didn’t realize it was directed to him, but I continued anyway.  “How do I get to the line for the Southmoor station?”

Now maybe it was because of the coke bottle sunglasses I was wearing and he thought they looked comical, or maybe it was just because I was nowhere near the right place, but either way he broke into a smile/chuckle.  I sheepishly asked, “I’m not in the right place, am I?”

“No, that’s okay.  You made me smile—I needed to smile.”  He kindly led me to the escalators and said, “Go down the escalator and walk all the way to the end.   You’ll pass several more escalators but keep going until you get to the last one.  Go back up and you’ll see the station right there.  I believe Southmoor is the 'E' line.”

I thanked him and went on my way.  I felt like a million bucks.  I could have figured it out on my own by studying the directory more closely or by googling it.   But if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to make that guy smile and he wouldn't have been able to remind me that chivalry isn't dead.

I got my ticket and boarded the train and (after getting off at two different stations because I may have possibly gotten the wrong ticket and may or may not have gotten on the wrong line) I finally arrived at the Southmoor station.  It was nearing 5 p.m. so the station was swarming with people.  I had my earbuds in and sunglasses still on (classic public-transportation-personal-bubble-creator) but as I stepped down from the train car, I noticed a man in front of me drop his glove.

It all happened within a matter of seconds: I see the glove fall to the cement, I glance up to locate its owner whose hands are full and who doesn’t seem to notice that he dropped anything, and then all in one motion I swoop down to grab the glove while pulling at my earbuds and calling, “Sir! You dropped your glove!”  He doesn’t seem to hear me, so I say it again while running after him and then, to my utter amazement, a hand suddenly pops out of nowhere from behind a directory, stops the glove’s owner, and points to me.

“You dropped your glove,” I say to the man who dropped his glove, trying to catch my breath.  For the second time that day, I see a big smile break across a stranger’s face.

“Thank you so much,” he says.  It was so simple, but one of the most genuine thank you’s I’ve ever heard.

I never did see the face of guy who stopped the glove’s owner, but I felt like we had become truly human for a moment.  You know, teaming up to help a random stranger even though we were only strangers ourselves.  The glove probably cost less than $5, but the encounter was priceless.

That’s the end of my light rail story.

But I’ve been thinking.  We all know that technology is taking over, distracting us from reality, draining the life out of our relationships, blah, blah, blah.  We all know this.  We hear the anti-technology message (ironically) shouted from videos and Facebook and articles everywhere.  It’s nothing new, yet nobody has thrown away their iPhones or laptops—least of all myself.  The problem continues to grow and persist.

I had an interesting conversation the other day with someone in their 40’s about where society is headed.  Millennials are tech-savvy and tech–obsessed, and culture tries to cater to this.  But where can it go from here?  Perhaps only backwards, back to face-to-face interaction, we pondered.

I think that may prove to be the case.  What do we do with our free time?  We go hiking with our friends to escape the maddening chaos of the city.  We have dinner with family, go to painting parties, and attend concerts to share in the beauty of emotion expressed through melody.  These are the things that make us feel awake and alive, not the deadening monotony of scrolling through social media and finding more reasons to be envious of other people’s lives.  The moments when someone entrusts us with their deepest fears and secrets, when we laugh and laugh without any reserve, when a stranger makes a point of holding the door for us—without these timeless human interactions, life is dull and empty.

I guess that’s why I wasn’t even disappointed today when I discovered that the hundreds of voice memos I had saved on my phone didn’t transfer over to my new phone last week.  There were dozens of songs I had started writing but never finished, encouraging words from friends, and recordings of original songs by people who live thousands of miles away now—all erased, probably forever.  Yet it doesn’t bother me as much as it should.  Sure, I’m glad we have technology so we can relive sweet moments we’ll never be able to taste again, and so that I can even share my thoughts with you right now.  But I think more important is that we are present in each moment, regardless of whether we capture it in photos or videos or voice memos or not.

Before we know it, the credits of our lives will be rolling.  We’ll look back on the decades and wonder if we really, truly lived.  When I’m 100, I hope I can say I did.