Thursday, January 30, 2014

seven.

think



read

"Questions are like gifts – it’s the thought behind them that the receiver really FEELS. We have to know the receiver to give the right gift and to ask the right question. Generic gifts and questions are all right, but personal gifts and questions feel better. Love is specific, I think. It’s an art. The more attention and time you give to your questions, the more beautiful the answers become."
- Save Relationships, Ask the Right Questions.

see


Paintings, by Brett Amory.

look


Detachez Moi | Untie Me, by Alice L. Marin

watch


THE GAP by Ira Glass from frohlocke on Vimeo.

listen



eat


Chocolate almond butter bites, apartment 34.

what are you enjoying + inspired by lately?

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

here's the truth.

I was ready to pull the plug.

I sent messages to a few of my best girls and dear friends and said, I can't do this anymore.

To put yourself out there is hard. To share parts of your story, when you can't share the full, is hard. To juggle metaphor and meaning and to be vulnerable and say, this is where I'm at. I'm not always happy. Life is not always sweet. Sometimes it stings and slaps and feels like winter all the time. That's hard.

And then, to be judged by people who don't know your heart, to have assumptions made. To be offered pretty advice or "kind" suggestions. To be told you share too much, not enough, that you're rude, that you're melodramatic, and on and on. That makes my bones ache.

After a string of anonymous messages in the past few days and months, ranging from a myriad of topics, I shook my head, dusted my hands. I'm finished. I don't want to do this anymore. I need to rest.

Because the thing is...knowing and believing are different things. And getting messages telling you to do or don't do, messages telling you who you are and who you aren't, they still hurt. I'm not going to pretend they don't. There's no power in that. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is a pretty thought, but sadly, not always true. Especially if you're going through something absolutely crappy. If you've had a rotten day. If your heart simply hurts.

No matter that people who love you get it.
No matter that your story, your pain, your joys, are personal to you.
No matter even that you know where you're at.

It still hurts.

And thankfully, truthfully, in the end, the messages don't matter. The words don't stick. But in the middle of places in your life that are raw, they're salt in the wound, lemon on a cut. They exacerbate the pain, even if the source doesn't stick around. I checked my phone and my heart dropped. Another one. That was it. The proverbial last straw, the final blow, the penultimate piece. I felt myself collapsing and crumbling. I love writing. I love sharing. I love creating and connecting and being a part of this place. But it had gotten to the point when doing so didn't feel safe for my heart anymore.

But then. You lovely, kind, dear people. I don't know how you did it, if you knew. I woke up to messages in my facebook, on my blog, in my tumblr, on my phone. Encouraging thoughts. I'm praying for you. Love and support. A group of beautiful people all walking through your own joys, your own pain, your own stories, taking a moment to stand up and say, I may not know where you're at, but I'm with you.

I was (I am) overwhelmed. I cried. I had chills. I remembered just why we keep on keeping on this thing called blogging.

Because in the process of sharing our stories, in choosing to be open and vulnerable, we create a safe place to say, you are not alone, I'm standing with you, there is hope. In not hiding our brokenness, we form a community built on honesty, authenticity, strength. We create a safe haven for people to gather and share real life and the painfully beautiful and beautifully painful moments that come. We form a place to celebrate the intricacies and nuances of our stories. We are brought together and stand together. And in the places we could find ourselves so very alone, we find ourselves with not one hand to hold, but many.

So, thank you, friends. Thank you for "standing beside me" even if the story is not all told. Thank you for praying, for loving, for encouraging. Thank you for sharing your stories courageously and truthfully. Thank you for spreading light and hope. Thank you for reminding why this community is the way that it is. Thank you for "being there" even if we've never met.

All of it matters more than I can say. You matter more than I can say. I wish I could give you all an enormous hug, could look you in the eyes, could express how overwhelmed and grateful I am and how much you've blessed me. Thank you. 

Saturday, January 25, 2014

grief is.


I started this post, grief is and couldn't find words. I laughed at first, but it's hard. A sad little knot in your stomach. It's hard when something you do doesn't come easy. It's hard when one of your things, your way to process and pull apart life and say, it's still good, still beautiful, feels foreign. Like realizing you were speaking gibberish and you thought it a language. That's where I'm at. Unsure. Hesitant. Tasting out words on my tongue and trying to remember if they're the same. I'm reading what I write and telling myself I can't delete the words. That to put something out there, anything, is better than nothing. That the first step to get through is to dive deep.

It's messy. I say that about everything. But life is messy. It's gory. It's gritty. It's unpredictable, in a laugh so hard you pee your pants and ache so hard you stay up all night weeping way. I read something on weeping the other day and it hit me right in the face. One of those pieces where you breathe a little deeper and shift in your skin and can't help but exhale a mmhmmm or amen. Because someone tapped into a raw place and pulled out something still beating. Someone put words to it, like touching a frosted glass with cold fingertips. Brushed the edge of something.

"Weeping is not the same thing as crying. It takes your whole body to weep, and when it’s over, you feel like you don’t have any bones left to hold you up." - Sarah Ockler

I had chills when the word weeping caught my eye and I was crying at the end. Maybe that sounds silly. But to be walking through long and lonely moments only to turn and find someone next to you, saying, I get it. That's a relief. That's what's so delightfully, deliciously, dearly human about us. That we are not alone.

Grief is a funny thing. It's unnerving, unsettling. I start to write a sentence and stop. I put up my camera and set it down. Everything is heavy. There's a weight we carry, unconsciously. Grief clings to our back with cold fingers and we hunch over to compensate. Curl up, close in. I need to apologize more, because I'm so doggone shaky. I'm sorry, I just feel so unsettled. I've said it more than I can count to one of my best girls. I'm sorry, I feel so uprooted.

The irony (coincidence? meaning?) of feeling uprooted when my 2014 word is seed isn't lost on me. What I'm trying to say is. I'm sorry that it takes me a week to reply. I'm sorry that I cry about stupid things. I'm sorry that I ask you what you think twice. I'm sorry that I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, especially now with that last sentence. I'm sorry I snapped at you.

It's just. I'm so tired. Of waiting and hoping. The hoping is what hurts the most. It's like carrying hot coals close to your chest because just a little further on, there's wood. That's what you believe, anyways. It's coming. But the journey, staggering forward and faltering steps...it's numbing. It's exhausting.

I feel sapped (2014 will be the year of plant metaphors). I feel heavy. I feel unhinged, in a quiet, curl up with a third cup of tea and cry it out way. I gained two pounds. I cut my hair. I picked up my camera again. I'm tired of writing when everything feels old. Winter is turning me into a hermit. I want to throw off the stale scent of indoors and last year and scrub everything clean. I want to strip back to the foundation and rebuild with good wood.

I'm waiting for this earth to unthaw enough to plant something new. I don't know. I don't know. My hands are shaking and my head is spinning and all I can think is, the days are lengthening. I make my coffee in the morning. I say yes to chai tea, even if the sugar makes my head buzz. I'm practicing being kind to myself.

Sometimes, it's enough. Right now, it's enough. Grief is. And maybe it's not grief anymore. It feels different, not quite so raw. Maybe the swelling has gone down and it's a sad, slow sorrow. Maybe it's an undercurrent, not the whole melody. The days are lengthening. Thank God it's not the end.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Just for a moment | film


put together a smallish film a few months ago and forgot to share it until now.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

"And I will give you a new heart." | When we don't understand.


"Uncompromising trust in the love of God inspires us to thank God for the spiritual darkness that envelops us, for the loss of income, for the nagging arthritis that is so painful, and to pray from the heart, "Abba, into your hands I entrust my body, mind, and spirit and this entire day—morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Whatever you want of me, I want of me, falling into you and trusting in you in the midst of my life. Into your heart I entrust my heart, feeble, distracted, insecure, uncertain. Abba, unto you I abandon myself in Jesus our Lord. Amen." ― Brennan Manning, Ruthless Trust: The Ragamuffin's Path to God

I feel inundated in brokenness. More so than ever before. I don't know one person who is not dealing with tragedy, loss, heartbreak, or pain right now. It seems like every day, someone stumbles into grieving like a dancer forced into mourning and soon, the steps are forgotten, tucked away. Lamenting takes the place of laughter. We are part of a song, deeper and swifter than us, and sorrow shatters us into a stumbling refrain. A part, not the whole. It's overwhelming, encompassing. The brokenness we're thrust into takes over the story, becomes our story

I was up until 3 reading Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning until tears streamed from my eyes. I don't understand this, I don't understand the loss of a loved one, I don't understand the loss of faith, I don't understand the loss of a job, I don't understand illness, I don't understand divorce, I don't understand. But I do believe that these ugly seasons will pass. I do believe God is shaping something new from the mess we are in. I do believe God is a God of redemption. I can say that until my lips bleed but without trust, I am a Pharisee spouting words of the law to cover a stone heart, one that is lost and locked away to keep from feeling. It's simpler to live by the letter of the law. But to step out and say, yes, Lord. I believe you. Yes, Lord, I trust you. That's a different story

"And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh." - Ezekial 36:26

This new heart we've been given does not guarantee a pain free existence. In fact, it guarantees pain. It guarantees brokenness. It guarantees hurt. Because this new heart we have is shaped after Jesus' own, and when he weeps, we weep. When he mourns, we mourn. So the loss of whatever it may be that we're dealing with goes deeper than before, because we begin to feel it in the character of God. We begin to feel things from the Father's heart and we see not from our own eyes, but His.

But when we live out of our new heart, we have a greater capacity for not only grief, but joy. When he laughs, we laugh with him. Suddenly, the good things are better than we could have imagined. Suddenly, joy is sweeter while we still dwell in sorrow. Suddenly, we can dance again. Stumbling, slow. There are faltering steps and falls. But we are moving, our blood is rushing, our lungs are breathing. We see through a glass dimly and we see brokenness more sharply defined and delineated. But with that, we see the chance for redemption, hope of wholeness, promise of resurrection, even clearer and nearer, because we are made in the character and image of God. And when that is our identity, everything changes.

So I don't understand. But I believe God is even now at work doing a new thing. He is in the business of beauty from ashes. I don't understand but I trust him. And I trust that there will be a day when we do not mourn, but laugh. When we do not weep, but sing. When we do not ache, but dance.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

january 12.


It comes as a shock to me that the wooden benches with the shiny finish – tacky and sticky to your fingers – or the stiff lounge chaises are functional. I always thought that they were simply a part of the mall, much like the beams supporting the roof, the guard rails separating levels. Who sits in them? And why? They're magnets for waiting. The faux leather or clementine orange fabric attract people in transit. Maybe strangers give each other a nod, much like runners. Maybe it's a secret club. You're waiting too? You can stay.

There was a woman fiddling on her phone in a long chair better suited for a living room than the middle of a mall. She looked behind her, checked her phone, turned it on, turned it off, leaned back in the chair, sat up. A man with a kind face walked up. I say kind face in utter sincerity, because he had the sort of smile that makes you want to stay. Maybe his name was David and hers Katie. Or maybe it was Jeremy and Liz. I never asked. He pulled a chair closer to the table dividing the two, and the woman pulled out a game – Farkle. They ignored the people walking, talking, coming, going, passing them. She gestured, he laughed. He rolled the dice, maybe she won. I didn't ask. In the middle of the mall, a picture of leaving, they carved out reason enough to stay. It made me want to cry.
*
I'm currently on my third cup of tea this morning. The floor is cold under my feet and the kitchen is soft with gray winter light. Sad winter light. We bought a tin of tea 75% off, called Dragonfruit. I prefer sharp, spicy teas, with cinnamon or ginger undertones, and this one is floral, almost peachy. It's pale and drinking it makes me think of a pink book of Japanese mythology sitting under my bed in a box of abandoned fiction. Most little girls loved horses. I loved Mythology. I devoured Norse, Greek, Celtic, Roman, Chinese, Japanese, myths. I could name all the major and minor deities and tell you their stories. Norse mythology was my favorite, though Greek came close. I think I nearly cried when Sif's long, lovely hair was cut off.
*
My hair is starting to grow out. I count the months on my fingers, one, two, three? Sometimes I pull the ends to see if they fall lower on my shoulders than before. Yes, I nod to my reflection in the mirror. I can finally put the strands into a bun, though the back falls out if it's too high, and I've been wearing it up lately, out of my face. I need new shampoo. It's funny how you get older and have to focus on mundane things. Like toothpaste. Who thinks about toothpaste? It's always been an afterthought, until the last has been squeezed from the tube. Now I have to buy toothpaste, among other things. I've perfected the art of shopping for something and buying other things to cloak your real cart. No, I'm not purchasing the sixth season of The Office. All this chocolate isn't for me, of course. Maybe you don't understand. Maybe you do. It doesn't matter. I need new shampoo.
*
I wish I could remember what normal feels like. I wake up and for a moment, I can forget. It's like waking up the morning after coming home from the lake. You still have the smell on your skin. It won't come off until several washes later. If you close your eyes, slip back into an almost slumber, you're still there. It takes effort, but yes, that's the water against the rocks, not the air conditioner. Those birds are sitting on the trees outside your door. Someone is making bacon. That night, it will rain.
*
"Hannah loves this weather." "You do?" "Mhm." "How about that..." It's easier to say yes than explain. How do you describe a love based on needs, that white ice days and snow like rain are allowances for being sad? You don't. You put on an extra sweater, pull out a winter blanket. I never have enough socks so I have to borrow everyone else's. That's another thing you don't think about buying, socks. Getting them for Christmas wouldn't be so bad after all.
*
We didn't get a tree until a week before the day. I didn't put ornaments up this year. Not even one. Too busy, or I forgot. For the first time in six years, we didn't put up lights outside. Even last year, when we had what we took to calling 'the death flu', and it hurt to celebrate, we had lights outside. This year was a different kind of hurting. I wish I had made cookies, even just from a box. One year, I went to a cookie decorating party, except there were four of us, two being my sister and I, and we decorated fifty sugar cookies with frosting. They were Betty Crocker, and the frosting, generic. I think we ended up throwing them away. Your favorite cookie, like your favorite anything, says a lot about you. Are you a melting moments kind of girl? And do you struggle with holding the present, just so, in your hands as well? Meringues require patience, situations approached just right. I haven't mastered the technique yet. The last time I made meringues, I used brown sugar and burnt them, and they were like caramel. My aunt's favorites are spritz. She makes extra of the green fluted, buttery cookies so she can freeze them and eat them later. My mom loves thick, hearty gingerbread, most likely because when she was a little girl, her grandmother made tables of them, royal white icing delicately lining the edge. Every year, she and her siblings talk about the cookie table, and how they would sneak broken ones without their grandma knowing. I wonder what I will someday tell my children about my Christmas traditions.
*
Outside the kitchen window, the next door neighbor is attached to a tree and is hanging, floating in mid air, suspended by a cable. He's kicking his legs. He carries a chainsaw. I'm waiting to watch branches fall. Snow is slipping from the roof like rain. Winter too, is ending.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

"broken up like blue bird shells..." | collective


"...often I wish to be another."
there’s a dance and she wasn’t invited,
but she goes anyways, august tasting red
like she’s smacking her cherry lips and it’s
still summer. the steps are new (it don’t matter),
she’s grown up side-stepping the issue all
her life, a little toe-tapping now (it don’t matter).
her dress swirls and everyone stares and she’s
spinning spinning spinning so fast no one can see her face.
the boys all ask her to dance, whispers floating
soft and shallow under pink and yellow lights, who
is that girl? and nobody knows. just yesterday, she
traded pencils and now she’s trading partners, her
fingers held tight in hand after hand but no one stops
long enough to stare her in the eyes. midnight hollers
and her curls are falling loose around her neck, she’s
barefoot now, and if all the world’s a stage, it’s hers
to claim, red dress shimmering like stars she can’t keep.


"My 15th nephew was just born and his eyes are the color of an undone sky."
there are a tumble of names and a litter of letters
tangling a town, making a people together, this
one we call our own. each of us carrying a piece
of family in the place we cry, safe. how
many hearts can you hold before it’s too many,
and that’s the thing about love they say, it
just keeps on growing. the shape changes, lengthens,
manifests and carries a string you find tied around
the beating parts of you. a house divided cannot fall,
and there’s something to be told about a string
woven into a web, a safe place to land on. this
thread starts and spreads and finds a softness with
eyes broken up like blue bird shells and hands grabbing
to be held, because even then in the deepest parts,
you’re born with a knot wrapped tight round home.

Sometimes, I write poems for people. These are a few.