cheers

this weekend my sister-friend got married to this guy. (sorry for the grainy picture i stole from somebody's facebook...) and the feller and i were lucky enough to make it in the bridal party!

it was memorable and it has been an honor to see them make this journey towards marriage. they have endured much and have sought counsel and the wisdom of others. they have loved God by loving each other well, by continually inviting Him into the conversation. they are good examples and great friends.

i have known Truth by their correction and love. they always make me laugh. and usually leave me feeling uncomfortable! but this is in a good way. a way that helps me realize how people's uniqueness is to be celebrated, a way that pulls me out of my introverted cacoon. they are so much fun and i love them dearly. i am thankful for their presence in my life.

cheers to the beginning in all its vibrancy.

cheers to navigating the daily-ness of life.

cheers to trusting God and each other when life is grey or black.

cheers to intimacy in all its forms.

cheers to a sacred union, the blending of lives, that insufferable balance between you and i and us.

cheers to their life together.

last night, family and friends picked bottle caps off the floor, stacked dirty dishware, folded linens, rolled out tables and loaded up cars with props and decor.  many hands make light work. yes. this, i think, is the biggest testament to the kinds of people jackie and josh are. they have a circle of loved ones who will, even after the celebration and in their absence, voluntarily serve them. 

favorite person.

leftovers for lunch. chatting with my parents.
practicing for sunday (our friend's wedding). giggles and coming in too early. but finally getting it right. music is fun with him.
walking to the park. sitting at the park. talking and sharing and laughing and being honest. knowing him.
buying pumpkins. carving pumpkins in concentrated silence. his, traditional. mine, not. both, wonderful!
the dark knight rises in comfy clothes. one word: intense.
good night smooches with eyes locked.

he is definitely my favorite person.
i am all smiles.
i am living a good good life.

strange as it was,

sunday afternoons have been my solace for the past few months. after church, my day is free. the feller has every sunday off. this means he comes over and we eat food my mother prepares (or my dad buys). if neither of those things happens, we get in-n-out. duh. we've been frequenting local parks with our ratty old blankets - his, stolen. mine, from childhood. we lay on them and nap. we read. we talk. we crinkle our noses. we smooch. i tell him, as we sort through future possibilities, that days at the park are enough. although we have done and enjoy both, no wining and dining needed here. laying by his side on an old blanket at a park is enough.

the clouds were theatrical, tumultuous. they wrestled with the sun our entire outing. the wind was cool. the grass was damp. the feller was warm. by any estimation, it was perfect.
i have been turning things over in my head about a difficult situation. i know my faults and where i have been wrong. where i have been unfair or too quick to turn my head. and i know where others misstepped. i am aware of the past and how it informs the present. i have been shaped by life experience. and whether i like it or not, i have to look at that experience and push back against the repercussions of it all. the betrayal, the unforgiveness, the lack of trust. what do i do with these assumptions and these feelings of uncomfortability and anxiety? how do i handle this in a way that honors and respects all parties? how do i embody goodness to those i have harbored malice against? what does the Lord require of me in this situation? i have been thinking carefully. the feller has a voice in the matter. and there is a voice i have been avoiding. so i have been thinking about avoidance and all those questions and what to do with a situation that will not evaporate.

and, unfurling from between the questions - that anxious, empty space that quivers,
arose a peculiar thought:
i have nothing to worry about, do i?

strange as it was, i believed it. if only for a minute or so, i believed it.

so i voiced this to the feller. he responded with:
no, dear.

there was sincerity in his voice. no pleading. no fight. just tenderness and understanding.
and while i love boundaries and things to be sure (above all, i want to be sure),

i know that
it is better to trust,
it is better to give chances,
it is better to extend peace and friendship.
(even if typing that makes me cringe still)

and as jonie reminded me at coffee, i have everything to be confident about.

looked on and loved.

a month or so ago, i stumbled on a poem by doris ferleger.

it moves me.
it helps me love myself.
it brings me back.

i am memorizing this poem because of the fifth line.
i repeat it over and over again when i become anxious at another body or phrase.
and i remember that i am that tilted fir, which is looked on and loved.

Daily he told me I was beautiful,

my breast cupped in his palm cured

me of any doubt. So you see why

I cannot gaze at my own nakedness.

Mirrors tell you nothing about love.

The tilted fir outside my window

stands taller than our house. Even if

I described each tuft, counted

branches, became its mirror,

you could never love it as I do,

understand how it kept me faithful,

stood watch with me when the other tree fell.

doris ferleger, "mirrors"

good and safe

i saw this above picture on pintrest* months ago. i caught myself in the middle of smile when it came to my attention that something was awry. at first, i thought it was funny. i assumed myself the fit girl, began to question this, and concluded i was the skinny girl. i, uneasy and flustered, had been targeted by a picture with eleven words on it. guess which one is the most important? oh, you don't have to. it's been highlighted by it's designer. 

this phrase: 

dehumanizes women by reducing them to bodies,

we are physical beings, yes. but we are intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and social beings as well. relegating these aspects of our humanity to the corner is damaging. it fractures our sense of self.  we begin to forget that we have more to offer. we get confused about food and clothes and exercise. we take part in dehumanizing other women - our friends, our enemies, and strangers - when we use this language. this language does harm to how we perceive and treat ourselves and others. it is self-sabotage in the sneakiest of ways.

divides bodies - not people - into camps, which are identified as bad or good or best,

this is important. because it does not compare the way we love well or live well, which is something i touched on here. the division is concerned with the ephemeral - bodies, which we do not have a say in (for the most part). it is concerned with flesh that will meet life-experiences (pregnancy, cancer, etc.), age, and decay. sidenote: it only follows that society dismember the woman further: to her parts. she becomes her legs, her breasts, her bottom, or her waist. all of which are up for public opinion and critique.

and it does these things while hiding behind the guise of exercise and self-care.

it pretends to champion an ideal of fitness - the goal** of which is to carry out functions well - while subervtently offering us a more tangible, obvious goal: the promise of hott bod. will a firm, toned body be the result of a life that incorporates exercise? maybe. but it isn't a guarentee and it certainly isn't the point.


Few feel 
good and safe 
in their bodies.
susie orbach

i believe that the above picture is a way for a person who feels bad to feel good, who feels unsafe to feel safe. we are fighting to feel good and safe and are, unfortunately, doing so in a way that is violent and oppressive to other women clawing for the same thing. we are waging war on those that have dismembered us by ripping ourselves apart. we are unjustly punishing those that have offended us with their bodies, which we covet.

kyrie eleison.

christe eleison.

*other pins that do similar things: this, this, this, and this. they may seem benign and funny but they are part of societal consciousness that i want nothing to do with.
**other benefits of fitness: strengthened muscles, bones, ligaments, tendons, and immune systems. improved endurange, balance, performance, circulation, and memory. lowers risk of heart disease, diabetes, cancer, osteoporosis, strokes, and high blood pressure/cholesterol. helps make rest more restful. healthier pregnancy and fewer childbirth and ovulation problems.  these are the reasons we exercise. 

a girl turned blue

a month or so ago i finished sylvia plath's, the bell jar. it is considered autobiographical fiction.
i had been avoiding it for years. i heard something about her having a dark soul - full of despair and terrible thoughts. she had stumbled into a wasteland of infinite sadnesses and committed suicide. i know instinctively that my avoidance of a girl turned blue could be claimed by one thing: fear, go figure. i decided long ago that she and i were too much a like. i, too, was glum. her signs were obvious, mine less so (at least, i'd like to think). there was lots of sulking. but all sulking was personal, not shared, and internalized, except at home. the internalization bit kept me in a cacoon of my own opinions and assumptions. besides this hue of self-absorption (artists call it many things but it should never be denied for what it is - the excessive concern for one's self.), i think what causes her to materialize across the living room in that old 70's mirror is my shared willingness to concede to all those dark feelings that i am told to push out with cheery dispositions and white teeth. instead, we welcome them.  i have explored sorrow and grief, given myself to it, and am more human because of it. i have words to give children on the playground when they cry and i have a taste of what a daughter caught in the fault lines of a marriage feels like. i have words and understanding. they are shades of what sorrow and grief all people feel. and i am not afraid to welcome them, to give myself to them. but i know that in the very hole of darkness - the airless and alienating bell jar - there sits with me a friend and a savior, who has conquered death and its misshapen cohorts. so while i allow sorrow and grief to run their course, i choose to live according to the Truth.

being of the same strain as plath, i feared that reading her book in me would set off some trigger that would cause me spiraling into an oblivion of isolation and madness. i was wrong.
in esther, the protagonist, i found a familiar spirit. distancing herself from people. observing from afar. pessimistic about relationships. holding people to be honest about their decisions. disoriented by many things. especially the life she was supposed to be living and the life she desired. feeling inadequate. reducing things to either/or rather than both/and. carrying on imaginary conversations with the loved and the loathed. a disjointed and confused perception of self. fearful she might be trapped by her madness again.  esther was direct. cynical, yes, but matter-of-fact. she knew what she was feeling/observing/thought and explained it plainly. these characteristics, among her love for avocados and the feeling of fingers running through her hair, made me feel a friend in her.

and because it goes without saying but i cannot be as direct as esther...
plath, a poet at bottom, stole me with her words. i was thinking of posting my favorite quotes - phrases even! but maybe only as they are relevant to upcoming posts. they are all so lovely though.

p.s. i have a proclivity to coming-of-age novels. i've noticed those are the kind i always find myself reading. i like tension, in anything. and when is there more tension than in becoming acquainted with the world as a somewhat adult?

wishlist

update: crossed out items have been purchased

bodies
by susie orbach
and
fat is a feminist issue
and
the impossibility of sex
and
hunger strike

and
on eating

like i have said in these posts i am working towards a better understanding of body and beauty. sometimes i cringe in comparison, sometimes i am brazenly confident. knowledge (and the internalization of that knowledge) will hopefully help level this all out. i want to speak intelligently about this subject. i want to confront this issue with understanding. i want the language and the facts. miss orbach knows these things. i want to know of bodies of art of beauty. if you have any suggestions on the matter, please say so.

anything, absolutely anything written by norah ephron.

a collection of her essays, perhaps? [i feel bad about my neck, heartburn, i remember nothing, scribble scribble, crazy salad... just to name a few] i read an article she wrote on breasts, which made me laugh and feel unusually close to her. she gave me the gutspa to buy only lace bras in celebration of myself. the original article on Esquire.com has been removed since her passing this year but you can find it here. she is the mind behind romantic comedy you've got mail. fantastic.

the bradbury chronicles
by sam weller
i was reading a book called steal like an artist by this guy. if you watch the video you will know why i chose this book. in eighth grade i read farhenheit 451. it was then that i thought, you can do this with words? i was shocked. i was pleased. and i began to write better because of it.

is everone hanging out with without me? (and other concerns)
by mindy kaling
i think i might be a tad obsessed with her at the moment. her new show the mindy project is the love child of confessions of a shopaholic, mean girls, and thirteen going on thirty. all movies i adore. she is funny. she is smart. she is one hell of a writer and her sense of humor is stellar.  i wish she were my adopted indian sister. i'm not sure if reading kaling's book means i must read fey's bossypants, but i'm not against it.

i already have a stack of books i am reading. not to mention the ones on my trunk and the ones on my shelves and the ones in my ralphs crate that have not been scoured. but i will have to agree with john waters, the writer and director of hairspray (88):

nothing is more important 
than an unread library.

yes, mister waters, yes.

on feeling inferior, reading into things, and trusting.

this post might as well be titled the sequel to "it seems too simple."

last night was anouther double date with the same couple, our third one with them to be exact. and it wasn't as defeating as the first one, which you must keep in mind while reading this. another thing to keep in mind? i endured a headache all day, my heels hurt, my body was achy and i had woken up several times the night before. i wasn't feeling too hot (though i looked it). there might have been recognizable dissonance brooding in me but the night was no fiasco. we ate, laughed, and walked. it was good.

phrases like representational art, conflicting american ideals, and the lesser of two evils disagreed with me. in all honesty, i know nothing of politics or fine dining or historical figures or pipes or economics. i am terrible at retaining information.  my memorization skills kick ass but retaining what i memorized? a whole other story. so i forgot what president did what or what some wars meant for our country.  i'm not well-versed in how to eat this or the art in that gallery across the street.  i don't have pointed opinions about some things. heck, i am poorly informed about many things. i am not a knower, though i wish i was.  so the beast made a dramatic appearance once again last night. and i became fixated on my lack of contribution to the conversation. i become fixated on how much i do not know (and how much they do). i become fixated on their tailored speech. the whole time, feeling inferior. feeling that i cannot be friends with these people. feeling as if i've some sort of impression to uphold and defend and prove. making assumptions on how i am being perceived.

i read into things. it is what i have been told to do as a singer. i get a song and i analyze why the composer did such and such with the melody line and why the accompaniment does such and such. i become a character and i must know every nuance of their emotions without asking them. i make up my own story, my own background and i construct (and reconstruct) the reasoning of each character in each song i sing. i sift through the possibilities of motivation behind one phrase. is she sad? is she jubilant? is she fearful? and why is she these things? and why is she deciding to give this words now? so i read into things and i construct your reasoning. and i make assumptions about what you are thinking and why. it's terribly unfair because you are a real person that i can - gasp - get to know. and getting to know someone will usually relieve me from my assumption making duties. knowing you, i don't have to assume... i can ask or trust what i already know.

i need to give people a chance. i need to give myself a chance.

stacey, give yourself a chance. you are smart, funny. 

you know about family and dailyness and alonedom. 

you know about change and decision-making. 

you are soft and a good listener. 

you are primarily a feeler, but you are a thinker too. 

you are beloved. 

and because you have weathered life for twenty-two years

under the grace, faithfulness, and leadership of a good God

you can contribute to the conversation in unique and enlightening ways.

i get lost in surging assumptions and violent fears and i forget that i know a God who stills these things with faithul love. he is my anchor, yes? i've got to bring this to mind on nights like last night. i've got to trust this so deeply that nights like last night become rare - preferably nonexistent. 

a big plus of last night? learning to eat an artichoke the right way.

there is always a silver lining.

it's okay

saturday afternoon i was sleepy. having a friend over the previous evening after a whallop of a day at work was difficult. being present when i am sleepy is probably one of the hardest things for me to do. feel especially pleased with yourself if you are a person who unravels my sleepiness and makes me awake. others can't do it. saturday afternoon proved what i already knew: this friend could not. but i tried my hardest to honor her and her time. to listen to her stories and worries. to discern when to use my tongue, which often resulted in not speaking because, well, it wasn't necessary.  she is a beautiful individual and i must always meet her with the same loving attention i do the sleep unraveling ones.

my dad had been having back problems the evening before. the remote was on the ground and wanting to fast forward through the commercials he walked over, extended his arm, bent his back and suffered terrible muscle spasms.  he was able to get in bed with help. saturday morning he couldn't get up because of the pain. age had absent-mindedly forgotten it's tightly clenched dentures in his lower back. there was a brief time span where he was able to walk and eat breakfast and protest, of course, that he was not in need of immediate medical attention. pride said no to a hospital ride. my mother couldn't break his mulishness and such a division cut off her opportunity and impulse to help. she took my nephews to a soccer game and i, who had been planning on attending a surprise birthday party, was his only helper. i assured him that if he was in need of help i was there. this is something i am working on. helping. putting aside myself for the sake of others. i'm not playing martyr but i am trying to good to those i love.

love stays.
love helps.
love prefers the other.

the call was made, despite his embarrassment. i have never been immobilized and i could imagine his embarrassment.  for a man who only truly confides in his own strength and ability to get things done this is as welcome as chinese water torture. he is a lone ranger in a family of fixers, helpers, and talkers.
 
he insisted to the dipspatch that he wanted no sirens, no lights. both were present. they came. five or six of them. i can't remember anything really. i just remember thinking thank God it's only his back. not his heart. not a stroke. no blood. still conscious. just his back. these men were friendly. they made jokes. they eased the tension. they are professionals and could save his life, but their presence was more than steady hands and knowledgeable minds... they made my dad laugh. thank you paramedics for being more than smart and able. you are kind, funny. you helped in many ways. they made themselves at home. i stepped back. they moved tables and pushed back couches. they asked me questions. thank God it was just his back. rolled him on a paper gurney. then he was placed on a real gurney. he was rolled out of my house and into an ambulance. it was just his back. i had to keep reminding myself of this because i am a fan of csi - the great perpetuator of fear and worry. i have watched them all. i have also watched all without a trace episodes and cold case episodes. i'm starting to enjoy criminal minds but i can't help but be hesitant for one reason only. anyways, i was about to drive off when i realized my curling iron was still plugged in. i was curling my hair before we made the call but had forgotten about it in the midst of five or six men making themselves present. not wanting to see these men again about other business, namely a slightly toasted house, i ran in and turned it off. i followed them. i sang. i gave thanks. i remembered He is my anchor. i hoped He would become my dad's anchor.

i arrived. and waited in a room full of wheelchairs and crying babies and laughing children. i dislike hospitals. mostly the clamy feeling they give me - i swear, those flourescent lights and AC kill me. not to mention that the easter bunny left his pastel fingerprints on the tile and walls. i waited. not long after, i was given access to his room and sat there for three hours. he got shots and pills. i heard him moan in pain. there was fear. there was helplessness - i could not ease his pain or lift him up.  i could do nothing about his condition. i wondered if he felt embarrassed in front of me. i wondered if he felt out of control. probably. maybe it was lack of control that frustrated him. wanting to get up, but not having the ability to do so. weakness is embarrassing. i gave him a card last week telling him it's okay to be weak. i hope he remembered some of that saturday. he is better and i am still thanking God that it was just his back. i love my dad. and was reminded that he - as well as my mom or any other person of significance - is not guarenteed to be around as long as i idealize.

momento mori: remember your mortality.

i would rather think on it now, come to terms with the ash i will become - that taunting pile of dust that will claim us all - than to still mortality's voice. what good what it do to shove it in a corner with sewn lips? it will make itself heard in tragic ways, regardless. 

p.s. the feller will love me for my latin reference. it's one of his favorite things to ruminate about.

for him.

dear sweet children,

i am twenty-two and at home. i am five months from twenty-three and will probably still be here. i am living off of the gratitude of my parents. and i am thankful. they have poured me milk and have left me the back parking when i am out late. i am typing on this computer because of them. i have internet access because of them. but it is difficult sharing a home with two people who don't much like each other anymore. who have suffered difficult lives. who have offended each other. who have shut one another out. who cannot hold a conversation about much.

when comparing you to your father i want it to be good things. you are creative, intelligent, curious, adventurous, spontaneous, goofy, philosophical - just like him! you honor people the way he does. you have a rough sort of affection like he does. they might not be those specific things but they will be good things. you will surely mimic all his nettlesome habits but i will not rattle on about those. i will correct where correction is needed, but i will praise you for the good things. i want you to know that i love your father. and that life and marriage can be a tumble at times but that i am for him. i want you to see - even when you are twenty-two - that we work with eachother not against eachother. i will share my bankaccount and not just my bed with the man i marry, the man you know as your father. trust, sweet ones, trust will be something tangible and bright. it will make us resilient. we will be a team who makes decisions together. we will hold each other and you will see by the way he tickles my sides and the way i trace the backs of his ear to his neck that we are a team. you will see by the way we argue. and the way we make up.

at twenty-two i want to be honest with you about the road. i want to confide in you that the road is this or that. i am not sure of the road yet. i am not on it; i am not married. but i know some things of importance. and i have some hopes for what it will be like, even on those bad terrible days where i'd rather be in alaska than right where i am. which is saying a lot, because i shiver easily.

with love,
a twenty-two year old who is praying tenderness into her parents, who is showing love to them when they cannot show it to each other, who is hopeful for the future.

wednesday morning

each morning i coax myself out of bed. i think of reasons to stop pressing the snooze button. sometimes i do this aloud, which will be a surprise for the man i marry as i mumble reasons and affirm one, each morning, with an "of course" that shoots my head off of the pillow.  this morning cereal prompted my eyes to fight the elixir of half-sleep. honey nut cherrios and whole milk are my vice (one of many). i would have it no other way. quickly suited in highwaisted pants and a grey half-tucked shirt, i wiped off left over mascara and eyeshadow from last night. glasses beat out contacts because they meant cereal was one minute closer. teeth brushed, lips tinted, and hair unwashed i left to work. the morning was strikingly chilled like a foggy glass just pulled from the ice box.  which reminds me - i wore a scarf for ten minutes this morning - a miracle considering the record temperatures that have inspired frequent use of air conditioning and lengths of bare skin.

it takes only two streets to get to work (three if you count the .2498467 of a block before i turn in the parking lot). it was at the major intersection that i saw him: black hoodie, black jeans, black boots, blue eyes, and red skin like crumpled paper. homeless. the descent of his hoodie down the back of his head revealed a spotty shave. the whole spectrum of whites, greys and blacks on his head. the numbness of those colors on his face. and in my car - my dirty, dusty car - played a triumphant song. freedom! shouted the singer. and this man passed in black. this man who i have seen in old towne and on corners and always by that denny's. what does he know of freedom?

i think

so i've decided to live. and that's not a shocking new decision. i mean how many times have you, in your realization that you've lamented one or ten months too long, decided to live? how many times have you, after you've overcommited yourself for the twentieth time, decided to live? it's too common a decision and is made by people who usually don't mean it. or by romanticists who idealize adventure, spontaneaity and the ease of life. and especially by those who don't give a damn enough to follow through.

it's actually a terrible way to put it. a description of what i mean to do might be more helpful.

i've decided to read more than self-help, christian lifestyle books. because i don't think these are as helpful as we give them credit for. sometimes i need a story. sometimes the story is more helpful with it's death and depravation and descent into humanity than the former.  it usually is.  i've decided to go out on a limb and make jokes. even if i'm not a riot like mindy kaling.  even if i'm cheesier than colby-jack. even if i know nothing about pop culture or have the wit of a rodent.  i've decided to budget. i looked over my account statements the past three months, my direct deposits, and projected my monthly income/expenses. loans are factored in. as are the upcoming trips to washington (lex) and new york (the feller and friends). as is the hope of an apartment next summer. i've decided to show up and lend a hand when friends are in the middle of moving. did the snooze button sweet talk me this morning? yes. but these people were the ones who showed me that people could actually care. that they wouldn't walk over you. that they would say sorry. that they would pursue friendship. that they could be gracious and honest. i've decided to take afternoons for myself and drink tejava and watch mean girls. i've decided to (possibly) get a third job because i'm twenty-two. i had teacher in high school. he was short, petite and wrinkled. he probably had a great left hook. he was from the east coast and had worked upwards of twenty jobs in his life. he had stories. he is the only reason i enjoyed ap u.s. history. i promise if history books were written in his voice, i would have remembered something. so i'm applying at different places in hopes of accumulating another job instead of doing the most logical, straight-forward thing that any smart graduate would do: get one job that pays well. i want stories, friends. i want deviations and squiggles. ones that are well-planned (oh, you thought i was giving in...), but circles and stops and zig-zags nonetheless. i want a beautiful life. one that is rich with agony and every strain of happiness.  one that is messy. one that is vibrant. and do you know what? do you know the secret to such a life? i think it has something to do with a steady gaze. with not looking to the left or to the right. it has something to do with being responsible for the one thing you have a say in: your life. the only one given to you.

it seems too simple,

saturday night the feller and i doubled with a couple i wasn't well-acquainted with. and before i could think about their kindness or their humor or appreciate their uniqueness, i assumed. and based on assumptions, which were (probably) true i tried to correct everything they (might) have been told about me.  because well, when people are angry with a situation they talk - a lot - and to a lot of people. i worried they were measuring me up against the picture sketched with the frustrations of another. i, the young woman who was sure of herself weeks ago, was confident she could hold her own weeks ago, was worried. while twirling my linguini around my four pronged fork and making swirls in the marinara sauce, i thought. thinking, in my case, can lead to devasting conclusions. i am a class one, self-diagnosed (appropriate, yes?) hypochondriac. and i worry about red eyes and slightly bulging veins and tight breathing. my hypochondria isn't limited to medical emergencies. no, i look behind me when i walk to my house from the street at night. i check my back seat before i enter my car lest a murderer or rapist be lurking (or contorted) in the back seat somewhere. and when it comes to relationships and friendships it might be worse. sometimes i conclude it's better to leave everyone (because they secretly want to leave me but won't out of pity), to suffer the losses, and prepare for the next time i'm forced to leave (because they secretly want to leave me but won't out of pity). i worry. my thoughts tend towards the worst outcomes. saturday night i thought of things they might have been told. i thought of how their opinions of me have been swayed. i wondered if they were comparing me to you. i wondered if they could see you at the table rather than me. i was less myself because of these worries. i laughed less and couldn't think of the right things to say.  it was still a good night. my sheepishness likely went unnoticed since they don't know me well. the feller knew. he knows. i love that.
early sunday morning, God reminded me who i am. daughter. strong. silly. wise. beautiful. and who He is. anchor. rock. truth. He reminded to keep my gaze steady. you see, i do look to the left and to the right. i look. and i worry. i assume. and i worry. i think. and i worry. a steady gaze sheds worry.  a steady gaze requires i not overanalyze, twirling thoughts like i do linguini. it is good to be reminded that, at the end of the day, one persons sketch of me as this or that holds no water like His does. but until i lock my eyes with His, i will torment myself with the what-ifs of that sketch endlessly.  the former is just a better way to live. sunday night, in an attempt to escape my easy-bake-oven of a house, the feller and i went to in-n-out and our faithful gelato supplier. i was honest with him about our double. he assured me that proving myself benefits nobody, achieves nothing. that he loves me and that the sketch isn't worry-worthy. vulnerability is great, friends. it builds trust. it increases intimacy. it gives space to bleed. it gives space to heal.

a note on this post:
i penned the above yesterday morning. but on my bed last night, after a bout of anxiety that only preys on the sleepy and sensitive, i opened my bible of ten years. (because sometimes you know you aren't strong enough to pass up the good words of a good God). the leather cover isn't attached to the pages anymore but i still stuff the bound pages between the cover like a pita.
john 5. jesus asked "do you want to be made well?"there was not even a "yes" or a "no" but a reason as to why he hasn't been able to be well. he is an invalid. he needs the assistance of another. no one will help. other people are made well. he is overlooked. and i'm sure he is used to this. perhaps even looks pessimistically towards getting better. perhaps even looks bitterly at passerbys. jesus didn't need a "yes" to know. and He wasn't off-put by the mans pessimism or bitterness. apathetic as the man may have been, He made him well. last night i was reminded that jesus asks me if i am through with sitting on my mat, crippled and despising my condition. he asks me if wellness is my hearts desire. am i through with being a victim of sickness and mistreatment? well, yes. but i have been walked over lord. i have been dragged through shit. and there are people who help me (the feller, lex, sister, jackie, etc.) but sometimes i don't let them. i am understandably jaded, lord. and at the end of the day, it is hard to shake the familiarity i have with the titles invalid, victim, and (because of these things) worried skeptic. despite my condition and my titles He still asks. and i say yes. it seems too simple, but i say yes. and he says "stand up, pick up your mat, and walk!"

it reminds me of isaiah 1: "stop doing wrong, learn to do right." or in john 8: "go and sin no more." these are unnervingly direct commands. there are no prefaces or buts or ands or ifs. there are certainly no explanations, which usually stave off change and quiet courage. sometimes they come after His kindness or healing. even so, they say we have a part in being made well. so i recognize my weakness and i say it. i describe it. i learn it. i do this so i can spot it from afar. i do this so i can articulate situations to loved ones in the most true way i can. it equips them to help. or to tell me to help myself! i do this so i know where i need Him most. so i can make specific requests of Him. so i can invite Him into these areas to do as He desires. i stop worry in its tracks. and i don't, out of boredom or stress, navigate social media sites such as facebook and blogger and twitter. i kill the beast. i redirect my thoughts. i replace them with the current state of affairs, which are lovely. i exercise confession and honesty. i present myself bare before loved ones. i rejoice in vulnerability. and i celebrate the ones who make vulnerability possible.

confession is the way out.

i had a brief stint in a book club full of girls two summers ago, 2010 i believe.

we read the weight of silence and the particular sadness of lemon cake.

the first i enjoyed, the second, well... i could appreciate.
schedules are the death of many things. 

people moved and got busy, that was the end of that book club.

in 2011 i met with some friends and we opened up james frey's a million little pieces. besides the oprah scandal, which i think was overwrought and silly and don't give much weight to anyways, it was wonderful.

stream-of-concsiousness alway steals my heart. lack of quotations marks is quirky and we all know that the best break the rules. fragmentation. quick and short and long and quick. repetition. base needs given pulse in his torrential excess of words. it seemed his way out of addiction was a hole of blackness and whiteness - both blinding. the hole was terror. the hole was fury. the shovel was loss of dignity. he wriggled out with confession. frey showed me - at a time where i could continue in deception (of self, of others) - that truth is paramount. the. only. thing. that. matters.  confession is the way out. this slightly fictionalized memoir wrapped thick cloth around my wrist and dragged me through the hole. and i experienced pain and agonizing isolation and estrangement. i took heed of the destruction deception ensures. monstrosity. 

if frey is one thing, he is self-aware (distorted, depressing awareness but aware). aware of what he feels he deserves. nice things or nice people are not some of those things. small kindnesses are too beautiful a gift. pardon from his sins is laughable. he is responsible for the sorrows of others. he has ruined all good things with carelessness and avoidance. he disqualifies every human thing in him thus creating a boundary that keeps people out and away. his sentiments about light and being exposed and his uncomfortability with both are, i think, universal. darkness provides cover. his sabotage. self-loathing. shaming. are best done in the dark.  he feels akin to darkness. darkness is escape to those unworthy of forgiveness. of breath. of space. of opportunity. darkness is friend to the irreparable. 

he said:

"we are all awful."

and with little reservation, i say - yes. yes we are.

there were lots of stories of similar men and women in similar holes. and there was hope. 

but the one thing that gave me the courage last summer, was frey's conviction that the truth was the only thing that mattered. it gave me the courage to uncover lies and to stop lying. so i told the truth and was met with understandable frustration and grace grace grace (not expected, but given nonetheless). i had been awful, just awful to those i loved. but i took responsibility for it. i had been hurt by those who never took responsibility for their recklessness, for their omission, for their sins. i refused to be that. i may have been awful, but i refused to continue to be such a person. that summer i heard the voice of God in an addict. yes, frey gave me courage. and that fall i began seeing a therapist on campus that semester. we talked about loss and deception and letting go. it was good. one thing became apparent: small decisions and big decisions lead to a life style. i could choose, like frey, to say no to self-destruction. unlike frey, i knew that my salvation was not self-reliance but was instead a God of grace and power. it was the continued support of friends and family who knew me. it still is.

filled me.

in lieu of my absence here, i have been living my life well. it is like the slow unfolding movement of one's limbs mid-stretch. i can't get enough of it.

last night the feller showed me this song.



we sat at his picnic dining table. my sharp chin balanced on my hand, elbow atop the dark wood.
he traced the gentle curves of my collarbone, he pressed his lips against the subtle slope of my shoulders.
my eyelids were heavy with satisfaction, my body inebriated with rest and peace and goodness.
blake's voice filled the feller's apartment.
and the feller's love filled me.

all grown and facing giants!

i had opted to leave my hair salty and my skin still freckled with sand that evening. i applied coral-red lipstick and half-tucked my white lace shirt. en route to the night's festivities i talked to myself, of course. i talked to those i expected to see. i weighed words and juggled phrases and cut my language with precision.  i prayed that change would have a voice and a body in me that night. that fruit would be tasted of. integrity. wholeness. honesty. confidence. peace. it is one thing to perceive yourself changed. it is quite another to be confronted with the past, faces and environments with which you clung to only a year ago, and to feel the change that took place. this was the test of that change. did a year provide the time to get my bearings straight? would i lose them in the presence of the past? i wondered what i would feel. if i could handle it. aprehensive, i parked near a car i spot everywhere. but only because it was the closest parking spot - and still, it was far far far from the house.  the image of that grey truck is knotted to memories. i am a visual person. and images are what i see when i close my eyes. are what i see when i read or sing.  without looking i see that truck, though owned by others, and know the past has a say in my future, but is not the authority within whose power it is to decide my future. i walked briskly to my dear friend's home that i have ate, slept, and showered in. this time round, the grass would have fixtures of my past, the air would be filled with an old familiar murmur. past these fixtures i walked into the home to help with an item for the party and to confide my hopes and fears of the night to this friend who is more like a sister. yes, i walked briskly but turns of heads and first looks were not lost on me. images and pictures and all things visual stick, remember? there was shock. my presence was obviously unexpected. [i had a personal invitation from the one going away, but not the official event invite on facebook.] the shifting and uneasiness was, well, understandable. it had been a year or so since i had been with ninety-five percent of these people. after sharing in confidence my hopes and fears of the night, i headed to the yard. and i passed you who i knew at one time. and you were a stranger. there was only the conversation of acquaintances not deep dish pizza sharers or late night callers or entangled desperate lovers. because we are not that anymore. freedom. release. walking away without wondering, i felt it. we are separate people, living separate lives. and it is better this way. and i would not change the way things are for the world.  other people filled me in - they had moved out and have roommates, they want to do administrative work, mothers are moving closer, brothers are living with aunts, they want to move from performance to sound work.. on and on. i was honored to listen, to be trusted - if only for a night. and they asked about my life. actually interested. and i, freer than i've ever felt, could answer for myself, for the life i chose, for the only one i am responsible for. i could be happy and proud of it, for it. He has brought me to a spacious place. the boundary lines have fallen in pleasant places. surely, i have a delightful inheritance.  for the first time, i could engage with those i once felt threatened by. i could look in the eyes of those speaking without my periphery curiously reaching for evidence of berayal.  there was none of that. ah, freedom. we didn't speak again and i didn't hang by your side. and i didn't even cling to my dear friend. i was confident. i held my own.  and it was wonderful. years of horrific confusion and constant sadness. and, today, i am a wholer, healthier person. restoration came. is still coming, mind you. but it came! driving away, i was aglow. each time i recount the events, the subtle nuances to the evening and what they mean, i become light. content and grateful. alive and awake.

the transition from one life to the other was much too quick in some ways. the decisions made about a year ago set me flailing and circling and in a completely different - better - direction.  but there were questions. there were doubts. can she be alone? she hasn't taken time to be her own person. i think i wondered too. but that night provided me with assurance that i am my own. i don't need someone by my side to know know know i am somebody. i can take ownership of my life. i know that if things fell apart again, i could handle it*. i am strong. i am rooted deeply. i know who i am. and i'm pretty damn awesome.

before i pulled out from that evening my dear friend said goodbye, that she was proud of me. it meant so much to me to hear that. thanks, lex. and that evening as i got home and laid down (after already falling asleep on the fellers chest while watching a redbox and sleepily driving home), she sent me a text:

"look at you all grown and facing giants!"

i am glad to face giants with her by my side. with other dear friends and family. with the feller. all by my side. i am glad to have faced the past. and to have come out of that experience feeling sure that yes was the right answer a year ago. 

*the feller and i talked about this. we are far from falling apart. and even though he chants momento mori and even though we visited a cemetary on his birthday, he was unsettled by my cheeky but truthful phrase "darling, i am pondering the end of us." the end. oh! the end. i don't want it. but, finally, i am sure of myself. of who God says i am. and it is liberating. so much so that i can ponder the end, knowing full well that i will be okay if it does end. the first time around i was sick with fright. the feller and i - we don't want the end. we can handle life alone. but we are choosing each other. the sharing. the tears. the quiet nights. the discussions. the kisses. the sacrifice. the laughter. life is good with him. he thinks life is good with me. we make meals together and spend days off with each other. we go on walks and make cards for each other. we know each others families. and we treat each other well. we point each other to truth, even when it necessitates change. we argue and discuss and worry . but we treat each other well. we have been through a lot but, i suppose more than treating each other well, we love each other well. he is quite the catch. :)

p.s. i hope addressing you doesn't upset or confuse anybody. the only reason for addressing you is because you were involved in the horror, the change, and (once we both relented and abdicated our place in the other's life), the good. thank you for relenting, for leaving, for releasing me. for living your own life.  you live so near and i don't know you anymore, but thank you - to be frank - for going away. it has been the best thing for me and by the looks of it for you - i think you would agree. 

place a fan

sweltering. i feel like i only hear this word on the news when they enlighten concerned viewers about the oncoming weather. days are referred to as scorchers. "well, folks tomorrow will be a scorcher!" to describe the current weather as such would be accurate but too close to cliche for my comfort. too close to the overused language of weathermen and women who aim at our laughter only to suffer the changing of the channel. regardless their language, they are right.

it's hot, friends. minus the cool breeze we all expected. it's the breath of a dragon after a fiery expulsion. it's the circus-mirror heat waves when you eye the concrete. it's white wine without the sweetness. and it being week ten of summer day camp - i am suffering. and so are the children. most of my days are outdoors. messy monday activities? outdoors. activity time? outdoors. water play? outdoors. team challenges? outdoors. i love summer. i mean, i love summer. bare shoulders and legs (aside from shaving. but, seriously, who does that anymore?). dresses and skirts and shorts and tanktops. and the beach. i am a summer girl who is doubting her love affair with the heat. i leave work exhausted and i come home and immediately place a fan in front of my face. for a girl who shivers at the slightest breeze, this is pretty ridiculous. the upside is that this is the last week of summer day camp. week ten might kill me but only after i've been beat to the ground by the heat.

boundary lines and a busy week.

i shall not be in want because i have not been left wanting. i've said this before. i will continue to say this. because it is a reminder that i have everything i need. that i actually live in abundance. because it points to truth. last year i did not have this vocabulary, this conviction. last year i had tears and headaches and a quiet yes, a wriggling obedience. my recalcitrance was confronted by scripture.

 

lord, you have assigned me my portion and my cup;

you have made my lot secure.

the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;

surely i have a delightful inheritance

psalm 16:5-6

last year my ill-behaved wants terrorized every good thing. destruction would come, i was warned. the matter, the stuff that held my life together - those miniscule binding components - shook in violence. my portion and my cup could change. but i know the Story. sometimes the cup is suffering. sometimes the portion is blood-sweat. and being in one place necessitates not being elsewhere. and having one life necessitates not having another. my lot would change and my home, my dwelling, my land (and all the things within) would be on the other side of the fence. then and there my yes and obedience hinged on my belief that the new home, dwelling, and land would be good. that the cup and portion would be good. 

there is the promise and then there is all the time before the promise becomes reality. the time before - the changing and moving - would follow the Story. and the only way to experience the reality of things hoped for but not seen was to go through with it. and i did. safe pasture (green pasture!) was found within the loveliest of fences. and what lies outside of the fence is not of importance, is not mine to consider. 

today - all week - i have been a busy girl. i made a centerpiece. i cooked zucchini boats. i cried in the presence of the dearest of friends. i discussed a book. i made plans for the next book. i prepared a surprise, of which the feller was the recepient: took a train, explored shops and buildings, contemplatively walked through a cemetery, napped on grass, interacted with strangers and ate too much. i was number eight in laser tag. i had expectations of friendships. i doubted they would be fulfilled. i feld cared for and cherished because they were. i talked through things. i exercised honesty. i had multiple tiffs with my father. i moved in the direction of reconciliation. i understood he must want it too. i swam in a pool with new(er) friends. today - all week - i have dwelt in the land that was the product of a quiet yes, a wriggling obedience. 

i am tired but 

i am thankful for 

my lot, 

my cup, 

my portion,

and for the One who initiated it all.

therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; 

my body will also rest secure,

because you will not abandon me to the grave,

nor will you let your Holy One see decay.

you have made known to me the path of life;

you will fill me with joy in your presence,

with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

psalm 16:9-11

and smile.

"miss r, you look like an adult."

this was the confidence of a fourth grader at the end of her 2011 school year - 

despite my tussled hair tightly secured in a messy bun and my bare face. despite golden feathers the length of my pinky nail hanging from my ears and the feller's least favorite shirt, incidently one of my favorites at the time, her eyes widened with admiration and discovery - i was an adult. something magical and to be desired. 

i felt the change but could not name it then. she was perceptive enough to take note and say something. and i knew, then, sitting on mustard lunchtables that i would remember her words and her face. thank you, mckenzie for noticing. and for saying so.

nothing is more adult-ish than knowing oneself. my twenty-first year was one of the most difficult for this reason.  to know oneself is to see oneself clearly. among other things, i was selfish, deceptive, a contradiction, and deeply, horribly insecure. the process of knowing myself, which is on going and never quite sufficiently completed, revealed good things too. tenderness. creativity. the ability to care. i digress. as i was saying, knowing onself is a sure marker of adulthood. scrutinizing oneself is invaluable. scrutinizing with gentleness and graciousness. never the mean kind that cynics and unhappy people do.  that day at the lunchtables i knew who i was. the terrible and the terribly good. i looked at the trajectory i would soon be headed and was at peace.  i could sit across from myself and smile. knowing my worth and knowing my strength and knowing my beauty. knowing i would not go at it alone.  of course, i doubted all these things. and sometimes i still do. hello, human condition! you are a predictable one. but in those moments i sink myself in the truth. i do combat with truth. i come up breathing with truth. and in the process i am becoming a young lady. an adult of sorts. how adventuresome and peculiar and mysterious and wonderful to be taking shape, to become.

p.s. tomorrow is twenty-two months with the feller. eeks!
p.s.s. i bought a bathing suit today and had a wonderful experience. this week i will write about it i promise.
p.s.s.s. book club is this week. brave new world. hoorah!

invite them both.

dear little ones,

i do hope you aren't holding a grudge because of the silence between this letter and the last. look over it, please. i said some things about being brave and change and about my job with children - daycare kids. i am going on my third year at this school. i don't get paid as much as others but i enjoy it so. i am in the thick of my second summer day camp (theatre camp included) and will be running the whole daycare sha-bang with alexis next year.

i wonder if you know her. if she knows you. i hope.

one day there will be a time when you experience a spell of stillness.  as if the future is painfully bashful or playfully hiding or proudly ignoring you. and like most things, you will be both thankful and worried at once. thankful because you need a break. worried because you wonder what comes next. invite them both. let gratitude loose you to learn new things and forge good friendships and know who you are and what you like and what you, quite frankly, don't like. but never let thankfulness slip into entitlement or complete frivolity (i say complete, because sometimes to do lists must be left unchecked for the sake of your own humanity). and let worries motivate you to be responsible and practical and frugal and wise. but never let them immobilize you 'neath the weight of impossibilities. the bills will be paid. things will get done.

*

truth be told, i am tucked so tight in this lull i wonder if it might ever pass. if you get these letters, it is proof that it does (if only to interrupt my life again in a few years). in grade school you press towards middle school. in middle school you aspire to high school. in high school you plan for college. and sometimes the schooling continues. and sometimes definite long term plans unfold. but i have no masters program in mind. and there is no full-time career beckoning me any time soon. and so i am, in some eyes, plodding forward for no good reason. i am aimless, in the worst sense. the lull is a euphemism for doing nothing. this, of course means being no one. but can i let you in on a secret? i run at a canyon three-four times a week. and this saturday i am officially learning to ride a bike. and i might just take up swimming too. i am in a book club with friends and loved ones. people i share meals with and couches with. people i watch redboxes with (do we do that?). and i am committing eighty percent of each paycheck to loans. i am paying for my own voice instruction. oh! and since i've graduated, i have become quite the cook! i plan services and lead intermitently on sunday mornings at a church i can walk to. and i am learning about life from these people. about being generous with your home and time and money. and i still play mancala with children. uno. shark attack (duh). hide and go seek tag. sticks and rocks tic-tac-toe.  jenga. i still cook with them and make books with them and organize relay races. i still diffuse conflict and teach them about forgiveness and kindness and about being a good sport. and for the first time, i get to teach them specific bible lessons. i get to pray with them. i get to walk them through lifting their hands and kneeling and dancing and worship. i get to see them close their eyes. and know whatever is happening in that room between them and God is real.

there are times when i am convinced that i am doing nothing. because, shocker, there is no goal to be fulfilled in the near future. but, little ones, i am building a life. with thanksgiving and worry. with bravery. and with joy.

sincerely,
a twenty-two year old who enjoys reading and writing and singing and the local church and children but has no idea where she will end up.

*i think the spell looks like this. do i play? do i sit? do i walk? and if i do, to where?