When Lists Become Prayers

I have never been a huge fan of lists unless they involve groceries. I'm not one to use a variety sticky notes trying to keep track of everything that I need to do or a calendar of events, though perhaps I should. However, there are two kinds of lists that have become sacred to me; ones that I keep tucked away in my journal, and only speak of when asked.

During my last semester of school,  my therapist and I spent several sessions discussing what I wanted, specifically in a romantic relationship. She suggested coming up with at least six non-negotiables, something that I'd never given much thought to up until that point. I'd been told quite often that my expectations were too high, so I usually kept it at "I want a guy who is nice" (high school), and "I want a guy who is nice and will take me out on the weekends" (college). But I wasn't a child anymore, and if I wanted to find love, it was necessary to not just decide what I wanted, but what I needed as well. It felt refreshing to not only narrow down the important deal breakers, but to proclaim them on paper. Each time I buy a new journal I write them down again on the last few pages, even though by now they're pretty much stuck in my head. I probably should keep them posted on my bathroom mirror, especially in moments of loneliness where my values can easily take a backseat, or I feel like buying into the "twenty-something free-bird" mentality.

I've keep gratitude lists on and off since I was a teenager, but couldn't stay disciplined enough to do it every day. Sometimes the concept seems like one of those happy-go-lucky fads, a band-aid to put on when desperate to ignore reality. Yet, I've picked it back up again recently; instead of waiting until the end of the day and looking back, I record thankfulness as I experience it. I focus on the small, mundane things that don't seem worth being grateful for, but it helps me to recognize the beauty right in front of me as opposed to looking too far ahead or around me. For anyone who has read Ann Voskamp's 1,000 Gifts, it's very similar to her practice. I also took a bit of guiding from Soul Keeping, which my church did a series on about a year ago. 

Translating these practices to a communion with God is a work in progress. When I have my quiet time each morning, I experience the self-pressure to say things a certain way, to make sure that I balance gratitude with what is on my heart. Sometimes I cry when giving thanks, understanding at that moment how much I've been blessed with. 

And in terms of praying about relationships, that can be a tough one. I have moments where I almost don't know what to say, let alone how to say it. I toggle between praying about a person I have yet to meet, and wondering if I've already met him but the timing isn't quite right. More than anything, I don't pray about it often because I don't want to become obsessed or stressed over it. I don't want to use love is a bargaining chip (i.e. Lord if you give me an affection man, I won't curse like a sailor ever again!)

In my faith journey, I've been told that God created us so that He knows our words and thoughts, even before we say them. Realistically, there's no need to pray out loud if I don't feel moved to do so. I'm still getting used to the whole pray-like-you're-talking-to-a-friend formula. 

I think lists are like prayers because they often get to the heart of things, the bare bones of what we want and need. In hindsight, that's what God wants when we pray to him; no embellishments, no ancient language or ritual. Just what is. 

It seems very silly; almost as silly as saying, "and please let the Bears/Blackhawks/Hawkeyes/Cubs win, AMEN!!" But if that's how God made me, than why not welcome the cheesiness? Who says sacred can't be light-hearted and almost humorous?

Writing that stuff down (length aside) is a way of remembering. I want to look back. I want to remember. For the memories, no matter how painful, are the ultimate prayers. 

Photo Credit

The First Pages

I recently found a box of old journals that I saved, one of which is the original notebook that I used when I began writing poetry. It's easy to grimace at the thought of being in seventh grade again, to wish that I had known then what I know now. Yet when I read the words of that girl, a girl who was very naive and unsure of who was in her corner, I can't help but feel surprised and in awe. I was a lonely, fearful, and depressed misfit teenager, yet still managed to see the bigger picture. Either by the Grace of God, or the skin of my own teeth, I pushed onward.

Maybe this seems too happy-go-lucky in light of what we see on the news every day, or that hope seems to grow a little bit more distant every time we're on the internet. Nevertheless I wanted to give a glimpse into the early days of being a serious writer, if only to give thanks for how far I've come.

Amen.

Championing Creativity

I can’t say if creativity is bequeathed at birth or somehow manifests itself over the course of a person’s life. At four years old I could talk somebody’s ear off about fairies and princesses, supposedly making up elaborate stories as I went along and apparently never shut up. In middle school I was aptly nicknamed “The Boom box” because I sang whatever popped into my head, writing poetry as though they were song lyrics. Ten years later I’d be cooking in my apartment with off the cuff recipes, discovering that a bagel sandwich with peanut butter, Nutella, and bacon is actually pretty decent.

It might have been an antithesis for my lack of athleticism, but I’ve always had a competitive streak: I grew up in an incredibly sports-oriented family, and feel like a little kid whenever I get to watch my favorite teams. I also know several who are pretty damn good on the field and with an instrument, so that’s not to say that you have to be one or the other. Yet, it’s interesting how the right-brainers are met with skepticism, doubt, and even discouragement: they’re deemed idealistic at best, and unrealistic at worst.

Creatives tend to feel deeply and take notice of everything, almost to a fault. They know it’s partly because of who they are, and partly because it’s what they’re supposed to do: if you don’t pay attention and capture the details, the moments that matter most, then you won’t have anything to be inspired by. Inspiration can be a matter of waiting, but it’s also a matter of discovering.

For some, the threads of expression become a way to survive, especially when they can’t quite grasp what’s going on around them. As a teenager I wrote myself raw, where my dreams, thoughts, and feelings came out more clearly on paper than in actual conversation. I was in that confusing in between stage of not-quite being a kid, but definitely not an adult.  Artistry, whether in the form of writing or music, was the comfort and support I craved but couldn’t get (at least not in a way that I could understand at a young age). I was told that I had a God given talent, but sharing it seemed to result in pushing people away, or frustration because of what I was going through. I developed a sense of perfectionism, wanting to protect what I viewed as sacred, not to be blotted by the opinions of those who could only see from a distance.

“So…what are you going to do with that?”  

It’s a question that most high school and college graduates are faced with, and a valid one. That being said, it’s often loaded with open-endedness and doesn’t really help in planning a future. It’s more thought provoking to ask, what are willing to sacrifice? What are you willing to give? And most importantly, how many times are you willing to pour your heart out and bare your soul, running the risk of getting sucker punched with a “You’re not good enough” at the end?

Not everyone wants to make a career (let alone a life), out of that, and it’s completely understandable. It’s a challenge, finding the balance of giving an audience what they want to see/hear, and saying what they want to say. There’s no shame in not wanting to stop loving what you do because you might demanded to produce more than authentically create. The words are in my bones, but I’m not in a place where I’m ready to devote each and every day to being a full-time writer. I’m not ready for the isolation and quiet fury that comes with the territory, and I’m certainly not in a place financially to do it. I’m young and I want to establish myself first, which is why I went into marketing and content writing. It’s still cutthroat and competitive, but it gives me opportunities to be part of a team and form relationships, which I get most of my energy from.

I have a story to tell, and I will continue to do so regardless of the professional path I take. It takes courage to bleed vulnerability, knowing that some won’t understand where I’m coming from, and might even see it as a personal attack against them. I would never say anything to purposefully hurt anyone, but I can’t promise that it’s not going to be a tough pill to swallow.

I hear the skeptics, and I respect their opinions. But if you really stop and think about it, creativity is what keeps this crazy, ever-changing world going. None of us would stay sane if it wasn’t for art and entertainment, which is why I shake my head when people gripe about the latest book or movie/television phenomenon. Why is it so wrong to take a break from reality every once in a while, as long as you know how to separate fact from fiction? Yes, there are things that are completely BS, but it’s not the job of the creator to facilitate discussion about right and wrong.

For me it’s not about entertainment as much as it is about connecting with people; I’m much better at writing than I am at talking, so nine times out of ten I’ll give them an essay or something to read first before I try to articulate whatever it is that I’m mulling over. If they get weird about it, I’d like to think it’s because they see something in themselves that’s hard to face, or they just don’t get it. And that’s OK.

It comes down to doing what makes you come alive, and what makes you feel authentic. It doesn’t just involve pursuing happiness, but pursuing what makes you whole. Stop overthinking and trying to figure it all out, but go out and experience life. Ask questions. Allow yourself to get close to God and others.

Occasionally I hear talk about schools motioning to remove art and music programs from their curriculum, and the prospect makes me sad. If this has to happen due to lack of funds or teachers, I hope that they can still incorporate it into learning somehow. Teach kids what it’s like to listen to the radio, music and movies that previous generations grew up with. Encourage them to play, be messy, and find joy while doing it. The world is certainly scary, unkind, and not the safest place to be in; but that doesn’t mean it isn’t beautiful either.

Never lose that sense of child-like wonder, regardless if time or experience makes you age. Explore. Write. Paint. Build. Be curious. Play. Stitch. Re-purpose. Finish.  Savor. Breathe. Learn. Love. Live.

Photo Credit

Friday Finds

It's been a busy month, but I still want to share some beautiful things I've discovered around the blogosphere (and the internet).....

Expanding The Ways We Experience God (via Relevant Magazine)



An interesting perspective on those that feel mentally different (via Momastery)

-I love this so much because I can relate to this on many levels. For years I felt like I had to be happy all the time; that once I could somehow "fix" the way my mind worked and the way it dealt with emotions, all would be right the world. But somehow I get the sense that the world needs people that aren't afraid to show that their sad, angry, or down right pissed off. And this article gives me hope.




With Love, from Bob (Via Willow Creek Community Church)

-The author of one of my favorite books, Love Does, spoke at my church during our Celebration of Hope series. His words are soul stirring and his personality is so infectious that I literally want to jump up and dance. Despite how whimsical and out there it all seems, just take his words for what they are. Oh, and read the book too!


Every decision should include this one question (via Stephanie May Wilson)



Inspiration from Jamaica (via My European Adventures)

-Written by one of my closest friends from college. She is an incredible person with such a big and beautiful heart! I wanted to share it because it was so moving that it brought tears to my eyes. 


Have a wonderful weekend, everyone!


photo credit: vert.jpg via photopin (license)

Ocean Wide

I wrote this is honor of my best friend, who recently began a new chapter in her life in the Peace Corps. May God go with you, sweetheart. 

Ocean Wide

I can easily recall the ocean of my youth

A child looking out, wondering about

 All the mysterious creation contained beneath the water

Sharks, jagged edges, and perhaps even mermaids

An over active imagination’s paradise

Yet I feared submersion

Of having my dreams dashed by the powerful forces below

So I stayed on shore as the rolling tide teased my ankles

Begging me to join

Ten or so years later

Fourteen, sixteen, teetering on womanhood

The adventurous spirit within me awakens

I am cautious, but I long to be free

A day trip in a beach town I break away from the confines

Gallivanting into the waves on my own

Diving in between to feel the sting of salt in my eyes and nose

Dancing against nature

Only to realize that I’ve wound up on the other side

But I went unpunished, and later basked in a palette of colors

Shades of blue and pink surrounding me

Realizing what made me feel alive

The way I felt back then

A mirrored reflection of how I feel right now

One moment I’m terrified of the vastness before me

Yet eager for the opportunities that lie ahead

We’re now at age where it’s considered normal, if not expected

To go off in directions

Anything can happen

And whether that’s good or bad is as unpredictable as a rising tide

Some of us will only be separated by a phone call

Others by a couple hundred miles

Perhaps for a select few

An Ocean wide

There’s no way to know how things will change

How we’ll grow and evolve

How we’ll look, think, or feel once we meet again

But let’s not let love be dependent on stages and places

Rather, unconditional faith and support in one another

Seeking to understand, rather than just be understood

I don’t know what the future holds. But I know who holds the future

Let’s hold onto that promise, along with each other

My friend forever

No matter how far

photo credit: Avila Beach Pier via photopin (license)

Unboxed

I wrote this in the midst of trying to choose between visiting Iowa City and going to Nashville a couple of weeks ago. And while that weekend has passed, the theme surrounding this is still a big part of my life and process, especially during this "in between" stage, as some have dubbed it. Sometimes it's exciting, confusing, heartbreaking, and perhaps all three at once. All I know for sure in this moment is that it's OK to not have answers all the time. 

Unboxed

I wasn’t born on one side or the other

I just walked in the middle of the road

Believed from observation

Always questioned, never told

Some say it was the rose-colored glasses

The romantic and optimistic side

Can’t say for certain how it happened

Perhaps it’s just my mind

I wonder why we use labels

Special names and categorize

We push away in fear of discomfort

Rather than realizing how we were each created

By God as human beings

To love and give love

Yet instead we have to decide

Rather than seeking to listen and understand

With age comes evolving and changing

In interests, tastes, and dreams

The world gets a little bigger

With more chances and opportunities

And the possibility of going anywhere with anyone

Both equally thrilling, yet terrifying

Truly anything can happen

You’ll come across thresholds on how to live your life

Wondering if you could be doing better

Or if you’ve fallen behind

You want to do what feels impossible at times

Sharing you heart with the world

And one day giving it to another

You ask, you doubt, you wonder…

What’s out there?

Part of you desires to play it safe

But there’s still a mild itch to explore

Not for selfishness, but to grow and learn and be inspired

So throw away this empty box

And breathe in freedom’s scent

Let the winds of history guide you in order to lead and teach

Don’t follow your heart, but feed your soul

It’s OK to come back around

Keep being sweet with a little bit of spice

Faithful, but unafraid to go deep

Take chances and set boundaries

Pray and trust in the unseen

You were not made for a box

You are wonderfully made

GO

photo credit: alki_set via photopin (license)

Life Lately: When You're Disappointed (and Maybe Even a Little Heartbroken)

Do I focus on the positive or the negative? The side embellished in sunshine and pretty colors, or the raw, deep and sometimes tear inducing stuff?

 That's a question that I'm sure all writers and bloggers alike ask themselves at some point or another. That's part of the reason why I haven't been posting for most of February, as this month has come at me in a way that I was not expecting, nor was I prepared for.

My birthday was overshadowed by the passing of my sweet Yellow Lab two days early; she'd wandered off and was hit by a car, and there was nothing more that could be done. Despite that she was closest to my brother out of everyone in my family, but the loss was still devastating. Knowing that she was pretty far up in her years, I knew that time was going to come sooner rather than later, but I believed that at the very least I would be able to say goodbye. However, this was not the case, and as it usually goes with any kind of upsetting or heartbreaking news, I found my mind going numb. All I wanted to do was curl up under the covers and cry.

And like most losses do, this caused me to start thinking about my choices and making the most of the time in front of me. That's why when one of my best friends invited me on a road trip to Nashville, I took her up on it. Granted it took some deliberating, but I ultimately made the decision because I wanted to do something different, and it's been on my list of cities to visit (along with San Diego and San Antonio). I'm in a place where I want to explore and try new things, and am now slowly building the means to do it. Unfortunately this trip was abruptly cancelled; and while I understand the reasoning behind it, it doesn't mean that I wasn't disappointed. It taught me that circumstances don't always result because they're supposed to; sometimes it's a result of poor planning or not thinking, and sometimes stuff just happens that no one has any control over. 

Life has been going at a pretty steady pace; I'm finally getting into a routine with work, exercise, and relaxation. But yet at times, I still get the sense that something is missing, whether it be excitement or being in community with others for more than one day a week. Though it has been a little over six months since I moved back, it's still very easy to get lonely out here. In the last week or so, I've realized that it's not business that keeps me going, but the intentional effort to feed my soul. In order to center myself spiritually, I'm making a point to start and end my day with God. Saturdays and Sundays will now be dedicated to creative writing and/or journaling, unless I'm in a place where I don't have access to my computer or a notebook. And though getting around is a bit of a challenge, I want to get involved in at least one or two meet-up groups or organizations.

But the one thing I miss most right now is the deep conversation, especially now that I'm more confident in who I am as a person, It's not so much for the lack of friends as it is less opportunities than there used to be. Granted there are plenty of phone calls and text messages, but it isn't quite the same as sitting face to face and observing their expression and emotion. I miss the no-holds-barred, no sugarcoating type of talks, and that's a big part of why I often send people unedited versions of my writing; maybe we don't always get to spend time together or catch up like we did in college, but at least they'll know what's on my heart. 

When all is said and done, I do feel like I'm out of my element, and not having access to what makes me feel alive all the time is still taking some getting used to. 

However, I'm grateful that places like that are only a bus ride or a train ride away, one which I'll be embarking on in a couple of hours. One extreme positive about post-grad life is that you really have to plan ahead if you want to make things happen, which I've always been a planner and have been for practically my whole life. And though various things haven't worked out like I thought they would, it has been all right in the long run. There's still a lot happening right in front of me, and there are plenty more adventures yet to come.

Unveiled

I wrote this back in October, feeling overwhelmed by having to adjust to a lot of difficult things at once. There was still getting used to not being in college anymore, facing some tough-to-swallow truths about myself, and maintaining motivation while trying to find a job. I desperately wanted to talk about all of it, but struggled nevertheless because all of closest friends seemed so far away, and I didn't know how to do it without maintaining that I was a strong person. It was one of those things where I knew one thing but didn't believe it, mainly because of what was ingrained in me for most of my life.

I had a vivid (and somewhat poetic) vision of what it would be like to be face-to-face with someone, my arms outstretched as if to say, "Here I am and this is me; love it or leave it." Initially I did have a certain person in mind when I wrote it, but it can easily be applied to anyone, or even God. 

Regardless of who sees it, I still intend to include it in the book that I'm writing. 

I’m sitting here with my head in my hands, wondering how much longer this could go on for. For the sake of needing a change, part of me longs to just disappear into the walls that surround us. Still I see you walking toward me, your footsteps quiet but intentional. I look up at you, transfixed by your eyes rather than my heart thudding against my chest; you look worried, yet determined. Taking your outstretched hand, I want to stand up, but the exhaustion won’t let me. I didn’t realize how much energy it took to hide, to ensure that only certain facets of me were seen and the rest were tucked away, only to be discovered by those who made an effort.

Without hesitation, you kneel down in front of me as a way to let me know that you’re fully present and willing to listen. You’re at my level and I am at yours.

I’ve envisioned this moment for so long, one that is terrifying and yet so desperately needed. Surrounded by a self-imposed desert of isolation, where my thirst can only be quenched by that of connection.

 You slowly pull my battered wrists away from my face. Open your eyes! It’s not a question or a command, but reality; self-protection hasn’t kept me all that safe like I thought it would, but actually held me hostage all these years.  I let those wrists splay against my knees, wrists that guarded against the heavy blows meant for my face. You gently trace your thumb over the patches of black and blue skin: I am here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.

I grimace at first, and as I start to speak I experience a burning sensation, like pouring peroxide over a bloodied wound. You must hurt first in order to heal. I’ve done this before, but something about it feels genuine and real this time around. I don’t know what language we’re speaking or what you’re seeing. You know my past and are aware of the present. The future is a different story, one more palpable with each passing moment. I giggle when an invisible touch of silk slides down my face and into my lap. Touching my cheeks, they feel raw and yet soft at the same time. I can feel the clouds lift from my soul, which is somehow giving me the strength to stand. It’s OK. I’ve got you.

We’re taking baby steps here, both with caution and one foot in front of the other. We’re holding onto one another, but not so tightly where moving becomes impossible. A mirror is now in front of us and I stop to look at my reflection. I’m laughing and I’m dancing. My sallow skin is replaced with a warm, natural glow. The bruises, faded but left in traces as a reminder that I am not a victim, but not necessarily a survivor either: I’m a warrior.

This is me. Not who I want to be. Not who I wish to be. I see a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. This is who I’ve always been. You’ve seen her. You’ve grown to care about her. You’ve always known.  It was more a matter of accepting her as myself.

We continue to walk. You’re not saving me, but rather allowing me to save myself.

We’re outside now, the sky a mixture of both rain and sunshine. Time has passed, a number of years that we both lost track of. It’s all right though, because we’re both where we need to be.

Yet before we go on, I have one request. That you let me take care of you too: that you may feel comfortable enough to show me the depths of your heart the way that I’ve shown mine. That you don’t shut me out or brush me off because of what society says is supposedly normal or correct. You’re not less of a person for crying or for getting pissed off at the world. It shows you have passion. It shows you care. It’s what makes you the kind of person I want to know and to keep growing with.

Because like it or not, we have each other now, and we’re in this together.

photo credit: P7120003-2 via photopin (license)

On Favorites, Blog Edition

Sometimes writing about deep things can get emotionally taxing, so I've decided to mix it up a bit by going through some of my favorite blog posts that I wrote this year. Just because it isn't recent doesn't mean that it isn't valuable, right?

The Bubble
-I've started to refer to this as the night where I didn't give a damn; not for any negative reasons, but I chose to be present in the moment and it made me incredibly happy. It was the beginning of my understanding that the only barriers that exist are the ones you set up between yourself and other people. This poem is an excellent reminder of something that is often hard to stick with.

The Invisible Line (Ten Years and Counting)
-It's been ten years since I became fully aware of having Cerebral Palsy. Despite the insecurities and challenges that have come with it, it's something that I've found peace in. 

Where I'm At
-A Part 2 of the post I mentioned above; there was so much to write about that I couldn't do so in one without making it feel like a novel (and a poorly written one at that).

When Words Wear Me Out
-I know how to express myself, and in the eyes of many friends and family I do it well. That being said, there are times when talking about a problem or situation doesn't bring comfort. Different circumstances bring out different needs, and I'm getting better at being able to openly communicate that. 

When You're Eighteen
-College only lasts four years, but the ways in which I grew and what I learned from the process made it feel like a decade (but in a good way). So much can happen in that time, and it's amazing how it can change you.

On Technology and Being Alone
-It's not just about a culturally imposed addiction, but learning how to genuinely appreciate (and make time for) solitude. 

A Letter To My Cousin
-She was just going off to college as I was coming out of it. We're two different people with different personalities, but I still had wisdom that I wanted to pass on.

For My Guy Friends
-A revised and updated tribute to some of the incredible men in my life. No matter how many times I re-read it, it still makes me cry a little bit.

On Streets and Safe Spaces
-Whether you've been through it or not, street harassment does exist and it's something worth talking about. Regardless of gender or the kind of life they live, everyone deserves to feel safe and treated like a human being.

My Wilderness
-For months I'd been struggling to describe how I viewed my current transitions. I loved including the imagery, as it's something that I don't always use in my poems. 

Thanks for reading!


photo credit: flatworldsedge via photopin cc

Writing with Pixie Dust

As a writer, what piece or project are you most proud of from this year? 

This my friends is a tough one to answer. I worked on quite a few pieces this year (both fiction and non-fiction), and I have to say that I'm extremely proud of all of them, though most aren't entirely finished yet. But if I really had to choose, it would be the reinterpretation of Peter Pan, but from Tinkerbell's perspective. When I started with it, I experienced a kind of excitement that I hadn't felt in years. I'd written fictional stories throughout college, but the subjects were heavy and even depressing at times. But with this particular work, I felt like a kid again: not only was it revolving around a classic that I absolutely love, but there was a kind of wanderlust about it. There were many different directions I could go in, and the idea of incorporating a real-life aspect into a fairy-tale was fascinating. I appreciated the feedback that I received from my workshop group, along with the guidance from my professor in that particular class. 

I could easily write an entire post about the topic, but for now I will say this: I find it sad and disheartening that there are people and groups out there who discourage others from reading literature that doesn't resemble "real life." I get that some do struggle with separating fantasy from reality, but I don't see what's so terrible about getting lost in a beautiful story, particular if that kind of escape helps you to stay sane. That's partially why I wrote about Tinkerbell in the first place; the concept of graduating from college was terrifying and dreadful, and I needed something to help me to stay present. That even though that chapter was soon going to come to an end, there was still time left to enjoy it. That was one of the ways I did so, and I will continue to defend that notion as long as people are still bringing up ridiculous charges against it. 

I had planned on sharing an excerpt, but unfortunately I couldn't find a section that seemed to fit as a stand-alone. However, I do have plans to publish it, most likely as an ebook with other similar pieces (I wrote a modern metro version of Cinderella in another writing class and am brainstorming other ideas). It may not be for a while, but I intend to make it happen at some point. 

And when it does, Dear Readers, you'll be one of the first to know.

photo credit: ♦ Peter & Ute Grahlmann ♦ via photopin cc

My Voice

What is the sound of your own voice? (Prompt credit: Kat McNally) 


This was honestly a tough one, so I thought that I could best capture it in a poem. 

My Voice

Soft with a slight rasp

Like velvet with a tinge of vinegar

Smoke without the cigarettes

Coffee and mulled wine warmed over fire

A Midwestern twang rolling off feathered cotton

Snark and Sass as she grits her teeth

Giving way to her Chicago roots

A woman’s mind with a child’s heart

That girl still slides down the chords from time to time

When she’s excited:

That part of her comes out to dance

When she’s tired: feeling small, perhaps hidden by

Her own circumstances and other’s pain

When she’s comfortable, and the walls come down

She laughs the same way she has all her life, regardless of age

Giggle, pause, giggle; a short whimper, sly like a secret-keeper

Let’s not focus on the sound, but how she uses it

A near whisper, but fierce

Soft, but strong

Becoming braver as a time passes

Calling to be heard against those that flutter above her

Like a flock of obnoxious birds

The ones that tell her what tone defines who she is

When they struggle to stop and listen

She wants to scream, but stands firm instead

She celebrates without a second thought

A voice of joy that aches with passion

Never going out

photo credit: -Reji via photopin cc

On New Writing Ventures

What new project(s) have you decided to take on? Will you continue them in the New Year?

I'd like to think that 2014 was the year that I re-discovered my passion for writing. Not that I'd begun to hate it at any point, but the task of writing itself had lost its luster a little bit because of research papers, fact checking, and the supposed absolution of having to write something one way with no room for imagination. There was also the overshadowing of word counts and page limits, which still make me cringe a little because it seems to limit creativity. I found it again, but with a little bit of help from experience. 

I took a class in my final semester of college that focused on reinterpretations of other stories; the topics went across to the spectrum from Shakespeare, to (my favorite) fairytales, to modern-day authors and story-tellers. During the fairytale unit I came up with a fantastic concept that heavily centers around Tinkerbell: I have always loved Peter Pan and jumped at the chance to lend my own voice to a beloved but underrated character. It lit a fire under me, and I had never been honestly more excited to write something than I was writing about her. It brought the magic back to my craft, which I hadn't really experienced since freshman year. I went through four drafts of it with the help of my professor and classmates, and it still needs work. With that being said, I don't want to give too much away about what I plan to do with it, so I'll leave it at that.

But more recently, I've decided to dedicate the rest of this year (and the upcoming year) to writing a book. 

Yes, I'm writing a book. 

For the last several years I have strongly considered writing my life story; not necessarily as a memoir per say, but a book of essays that take a closer look at the important moments in my life. I've only become more motivated to do it as I've utilized writing as a tool in the healing process. Not only has it helped me get a lot of crap off of my chest, but it gives me a broader and at times a healthier perspective on the situation. I've been through a lot and I've overcome a lot, and that is more than enough to warrant having a story to tell. God didn't give me this gift so that my words would just sit in a computer folder and never see the light of day. A lot of people believe that when you experience something painful, the only way to get over it is to put it away and never speak of it again. I've gone that route, and it doesn't work for me. I need to be able to reflect in order to recognize how far I've come; the key is doing so with a sense of hope rather than hopelessness. 

This book is not only going to be about appreciating the beauty of small moments, or just the small moments that had a large impact. It is also a re-purposing of pain, if you will, to use it for something meaningful instead of only lamenting about what I can't change. What that looks like, I'm not entirely sure of. It's a going-along process and I'm content with that. 

For now my focus is on pulling everything together. While the majority of the work is a compilation of essays that have already been written (most that need revising), there are still a few that I need to get down on paper. I admit that it's very easy for me to envision what an essay looks like, but difficult to tell it without feeling the need to censor myself. I tend to hesitate out of fear of possibly hurting other people, though that is hardly ever my intent. And similar to how I was as a little girl, I'm still wary of showing that deep, introspective side of myself because I don't want to be told that I'm wrong or push somebody away. 

But it's my story. If I can't talk about it, then I'm going to write about it.

It might take anywhere from six months to over a year, at least as far as the writing process goes. My schedule is light right now, but that will probably change once I take on another internship or a full time job. Getting it published is a whole other ball game and I'm nowhere near at that place yet. If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I'm ready to speak. 

And I'm ready to share.

photo credit: Lívia Cristina via photopin cc

Out In The Wilderness

This poem is my way of trying to explicate the season I'm in right now; the mixture of pain, joy, loneliness, and togetherness. Read on and Enjoy!

My Wilderness

What happens to “coming home”

When home doesn’t feel safe anymore?

What used to be a place of rest, now becomes the wilderness

My wilderness

A pair of jeans that no longer fit

A candle that burnt out long ago

My thoughts and emotions contradict each other

In metaphors and analogies

A flying squirrel jumping from branch to branch

Without much balance or leverage

Then, a turtle that stays low to the ground

Hiding in a protective shell when threatened or in a danger

But mostly a deer trying to find her way

Around this familiar but unknown place

Vulnerable and exposed, praying not to be shot down

I can appreciate the peaceful solitude

The spiritual practice of beginning and ending each day

For in solitude comes wisdom

And in wisdom comes growth

Yet there’s a longing for connectivity after a while

To go beneath the surface

Of the water in which we all swim

Every so often that water becomes

And ocean full of waves

That come crashing down one by one

With such force that my legs ache

From trying to stay afloat

My lungs desperate for air

A fiery burning sensation

From what builds up inside

Hopefully transforming into words of vulnerability

A warm blanket feeling

Where for a length of time I’m neither too much nor not enough

No distractions or worries

But feelings come and feelings go

Unexpected storms approach

Leaving me to feel alone once more

The frigidness of abandonment

Becomes almost too much to bear

A target for the bolts of nature crackling across the night

Threatening to strike if I don’t run

Let me hide and curl up like those creatures do

In leaves of insecurity and misunderstanding

Somewhere between hibernating in numbness

And allowing the dirt of a path well-traveled to sting my wounds

I see light once more

The clouds no longer furious faces of complex relationships

The sky no longer a battleground for the desire

To have power or be right

Now a place of hope and promises

Of great things to come

If only I’m willing to embrace them

This is my wilderness

More than I could have expected or fathomed

Simultaneously accepting my past, living my present, and envisioning my future

I wonder if this is all just a bizarre dream

Or a string of possibilities?

Like it or not, this is real life

My life and mine to create

Let it be so