deep in the heart of texas

I know now that my feet will always carry some Texas earth. Deep down, buried into the grooves of my skin, Texas is my home. It is my beginning, my childhood, my self. It is the elusive blur of a memory awakened by a smell, a step, a face, a thought.

I didn't understand until today.

There's no escaping your self. There's no escaping.

I went running this morning and ended up on the side of a creek that I'd play in as a little girl. My whole body, mind, and spirit was struck by the smell—the hot, muggy, stagnant water smell that cooks all summer a few feet up from the earth. The white rock at my feet, reminiscent of the white slippery tongue of clear creeks I'd explore in the Texas hill country. My childhood. My childhood was Texas. And I have cursed Texas, as I have wrestled the stories of my childhood.

It is odd, really—for this realization to come to me as I sit, eating swirled frozen yogurt in a styrofoam cup, reading the last few pages of a book, allowing the smells to mingle in the breeze and settle beside me on the bench. (I am a little schoolgirl, swinging her feet back and forth, lost in the world I imagine as I turn the pages.)

Summer here is freedom, utter abandonment. Texas summers are biting out of fruit, its juices running down your face, spilling onto your arms and legs and shoes. Texas summers are bike riding in the shade, closing your eyes in the breeze as long as you can. They are burn-the-bottom-of-your-feet heat. Swimsuits are your uniform, even on the weekends. Your beach towels, hair, and eyes are constantly stained with chlorine. Lips and tongues dyed red and blue from 7-11 slurpees. They are napping away the hottest part of the day in only underwear to the rhythm of a ceiling fan. Sandwiches on paper plates. Your dad's grilled chicken. Mosquitoes. Leaning into the slightest breeze. The chirping of Katy-dids singing the sun to sleep.

I was certainly not alone there—on that bench today. A good story, a good ending leads me into my own story. Rather, the days which come together to form sentences and paragraphs around the events and non-events of my life. At what point do you begin to look ahead? Where in the timeline of a life are you supposed to start planning long-term? Thinking about what you want, how to get there, and taking the first step?

I am at the point where I am seeing a future and I'm beginning to see more clearly the past. I'm not sure what emotion it is that comes to me in this place. Maybe its fear—fear that a (prescribed) future will be gone in seconds, that the past will always be elusive and blurry, and that this strange life might be all there is. I am not ready for the rest of my life to go by in seconds. I am not ready to be seventy and wonder where all the time has gone, wonder where my life has gone. And I don't want to "long-term plan" myself into a life void of creativity and play, which has to be improvised.

As I begin to look ahead, what comes clear in my sight is grief over the past, hope for the future, and a longing to know that there is something beyond it all. A longing for someone bigger than my story to sit beside me at night and turn the pages for me. Someone to remember my beginning and reassure me of a meaningful ending. This story is far too real to fuck up. For me, at least. Or is it even possible? Is it even possible to "fuck it up"?

My thoughts here, over a cup of swirled frozen yogurt, are getting fairly existential. (Needless to say, the sensation of being a little girl has faded.) Nonetheless, I think I am facing the essence of what it means to be human. Will I ever be satisfied? What life am I "programmed" to want by my culture, parents, etc.? What life do I long for with tears in my eyes and my hand to my chest?

I don't want the American dream. I don't want yellow box, or a red one, or a green one. I don't want a box.

I want to know my self. I want to know God. I want to know grace, enough that I may offer it. I want to know a lover. I want to be a lover. I want to live into my humanity, invite others into theirs, and find deep communion there. I want children. And I want to be a mother who can live with passion and creativity, who can reflect the changing faces of those I have borne so that they may know and believe in themselves. A woman, a mother, a wife, a daughter who can speak to her mistakes with grace and hope in hand.

Practically, of course (of course), we exist in a system. A governmental, economic, cultural, capitalist, patriarchal system which in many ways allows us to co-exist in the hope that we may pursue the life we desire. So, I recognize that there are practical steps necessary at times in our lives.

I guess, the only excuse I have to offer is, "I may be wandering, but it is not aimless. It is so that I may be whole."

at death, a proclamation

A proclamation, indeed. Of freedom. Of regret. Of sorrow.
Of suffering. And of the glory, the glory, the glory....

I am dying. Or dead, and remembering maybe. The face
of a loved one before me, eyes spilling over—so full of desire
and longing and sorrow.

His silence, his eyes so clear, so honest and full.
Hovering, waiting for the loss to be complete. Staying, those
last few moments—days feel as brief as seconds—of life.
There has been too much between us to speak it. And there
has been too much to not speak. Come close. Lay here.
With me. As I find the words. Let me feel the warmth of the
body I have known so intimately, as mine goes cold.
I love you.

A room, quiet with sorrow and respect, but teeming with
bodies—souls. Mothers, fathers, his and mine and so many
others'. Brothers and sisters, murderers and martyrs, alike.
A swirling of white, only just becoming visible to me (though
I understand now they have always been there).
Swimming out of the walls, excited. Preparing, awakening
even the bed, the plants, the trees outside our window,
the curtains and desk. Even they will join us. We will all worship.

They move to the pulse of my heart. But not mine alone.
I close my eyes. It is a heartbeat that pulses quietly within all
things. All things. A holy rhythm, all-encompassing, swelling—
kind and generous, and oh so reverent.

He is quiet beside me, my love. His breath, warm. I breathe
him in. His fragrance is so sweet. You have been so good to us.
So good. Oh my. Oh my, my Love.

As I am drawn further and further into the vision around me,
the rhythm swells and swells and shakes, stirring the floors and
the walls. The whole house, the whole neighborhood stirring,
responding. The bed is lifting off the ground—everything, everyone
is carrying us. It's rhythm, my breath, my heart, my love, his tears.

"O in life, through many dark rooms we must go," these words
spill out of the pulsing inside me. We are all singing, clapping, beating,
dancing to a rhythm that floods our bodies and all around us.
The room is full of people and sound. The ceiling tears open to such
a brilliant light. We are breathing it in, and singing it out.

"And all right, though many's the hour will come to you sour and
slow. And all night, though flames in the forest ring halos to glory us
both. All I can bring to that chorus of smoke is the hope that you
knowed," cries the singular voice of all humanity, all the earth, rising.

It is a homecoming, a celebration. My skin prickles with excitement
and awe, with the anticipation of a longing nearly met. I am singing,
unabashed. Singing to them all. Singing it over, to my love. He sings it
with me, over me, washing me, anointing me. They are all singing
it to me. We are all singing it to each other. And, we are singing this
sweet, fierce glory to the Heartbeat running through us all.

The collective longing of all creation and Creator, shouting at long
last, "O love, though one day I tarried too far and I never came home.
O love, always I carried your heart, married deep in my own."

(A piece inspired by the song "At Death, a Proclamation," by Phosphorescent)

i am (not) self-possessed.

What comes to mind are the small things of the night.

My cell phone running out of battery. No friends accompanying me. The awareness that doing this—it would be for me. Just me. Me. Alone. Wandering whole foods, talking to my sister. Her insistent pleas for me to take her to the dentist on Monday. In Texas. And the ache, that I could not. My boyfriend on call-waiting. Feeling his softness in the silence—even before he responded to my "hello." And the ache, that I was not there. Sitting in a poorly lit corner with a bowl of soup and a roll. And my self. Part of me was begging to be released from my plans of attending a lecture on campus. The other part, quietly but firmly voicing that this was mine. It was me. It was what I wanted. I needed. I have been waiting. Yes. And. Maybe. Just as important if not more, the hope, the longing to be breathed into. Inspired. Encouraged.

Forty-five minutes later, I am settled into a seat not too far from the podium in the center. And I am settled. Like it is church and I'm attentively waiting for the pastor to arrive. I feel at rest. My aloneness is relief, an elastic waistband after a whole day in skinny jeans. I glance around at the others. The age of those around me is mostly around my mother's age. Mostly women. And as Liz approaches the podium and begins to speak, I think we're all holding hands. I think. I think we're all on our knees. We're crying. We're laughing. We're praying for ourselves. We're praying for a very troubled people, the human race. And a very glorious people, the human race.

I think we are all exhaling. And we are all inhaling. The air is so lovely, so promising, and full. (My mind is as lit up and clear as the morning sky in Texas in June.)

And the lecture is over, the community dispersed. I think I want to sit down.

And sitting there, my breaths are slow. I can feel my chest rising and falling. Everything is slower. Or everything is every little thing.

And from my feet to my fingertips, I am exactly where I am.

I am not outside myself, watching. Assessing how I look, how I am being perceived on the outside. I am not measuring my actions, responses, behaviors against those around me. I am my self. I am in my own skin.

And the feeling is so distinctly different. So nice. Almost new.

s l o w d o w n t h e t i m e

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.

I'm up in the woods...I'm down on my mind.
I'm building a still...to slow down the time.


(Lyrics for Woods by Bon Iver and my soundtrack for today)

11:58, 11:59, 12:00AM January 1 2009

A new year has begun, although for as long as I live, the new year will always begin with the first day of school (sometime in September). I should probably write some profound reflection on the past year, followed by a prophetic word on the year to come. But then I wouldn't write anything at all. Let's stick with the mundane, shall we?

I woke up this morning, first, to my phone announcing the arrival of a belated birthday text at 5am. I ignored it after glancing at the phone. It chimes again, persistently wanting to be acknowledged. I spit a curse into my pilow, roll over pick it up. At this point, my curiosity has grown and I spend the time and the precious little vision I have when I'm that groggy reading the text. It is the long-expected "Happy Birthday" text my boyfriend sent the morning of my birthday — two days ago. Love modern technology.

I return my phone to the bedstand, roll back over into the nest that is my bed. After a couple minutes of trying to slip back into sleep, I concede that I may have crossed the threshold and may be awake for the day. I go to the bathroom — damn, no toilet paper. Get half a paper towel — ouch. Get back in bed. Turn on my left side, my right side, my stomach — my back is hurting. (Ahh, yes, high heels for New Years. That probably did it. And volleyball the night before. I wonder if I'll be one of those people who when they get pregnant, will have to be bedridden at week 6 because her back is so bad. Perfect. So now I'm going to be a cranky pregnant bedridden stir-crazy adult with a bad back and dentures in a glass by my bed like Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Menace. This is what I have to look forward to.)

Yep. I'm awake.

I spend the next hour and a half rationally sorting through life concerns, like the above. Spend the next 20 minutes talking myself out of my warm nest of a bed, so that I can meet up with a friend for tea at 7:15am. I get out of bed at 7:09, put on some leggings, boots, coat, and stumble out the door.

The gust of cool air takes my breath away, and I'm coughing as though I've just choked on my own saliva. The walk feels good. Eventually. A store window shows me that my hair is in quite the disarray. Go figure — at least I remembered to go for the boots over the flip flops. Two blocks from my front door, I am there. And as I open the door, I recognize that I feel beautiful.

Just for that moment, its tangible. All the way down to the way my fingers wrap around the door handle, the way I feel my hair shift as I glance down moving through the doorway.

Cool wind in my face has always awakened my awarenes of beauty.




2008's word: r i s k

fluorescent lights, rainbows and conductors

Spent the day.

The dying fire in front of me spits lasting signs of life underneath Coco Rosie's K-Hole. I am tired and restless. Not sure how to be content these days. Always feeling as though my aspirations are not quite high enough. So I spend my days. I spend my days. Play them like cards, sleepily.

Here's a Tuesday. Passed and what have I done? Wrong question. How have I been? Yes. Distracted. Afraid. And then there are moments I am most present and I feel it. Coming home this afternoon, I enlisted a roommate to make a fire. I sat—the crackling, a consistent soundtrack behind the books through which I rotated.

I nearly played my piano today. I took a step—a literal step—towards it. But I rewound into my bed. Back under the covers. There's nothing to lose there.

I do not see rainbows as the backdrop to my days. And maybe it would be naive to.

A man at the coffeeshop told me he walks around, reciting to himself 5 times a day, "Opportunities come every day if I am open to seeing them." Maybe rainbows are not naive. Maybe they are the opportunities. The belief. The faith that says these moments are opportunities, not dead ends. And they are both—same same. He also said we are conductors. We can turn a flourescent light on and off if we focus our energy a certain way.

We are conductors.

Sometimes, I pretend to not see the sheet music in front of me. It is easier then. When I get it wrong. Because I didn't know.

off the hook

"So you're not letting me off the hook?"
"You can let yourself off the hook anytime you want, Liz. That's the divine contract of a little something we call free will."

Sitting in Caffe Vita, I am out from behind the counter and enjoying a slow afternoon at work and a lukewarm cup of tea. I am feeling my back these days, and my knees (more from training for an 8 mile run I agreed to do with a friend over Thanksgiving than from work). Work does exacerbate these aches. So, sitting on the stools up at the bar against the window, my legs curled up...moments of utter contentment touch me briefly like an occasional raindrop—small, cool, makes you turn your face up to the sky, and blink hesitatingly.

I read through this dialogue in my book, and look up from the pages, creating a distinct pause—a break in the text for me to consider where and how I am hit by these last two lines. How and where they intersect with my story...

My mind scans through all the things I only half-finish. A cup of milk. A book. The "might-could's" of my life. Definitely, maybe. I run when it gets hard or boring. I leave. I buy something new. Distract. The distraction of a shiny new thing or the reality, the hardness, the sandpaper of what is, has been. (And, yet, even as I re-read those words, I feel the longing ache inside my chest for the long-standing. For the constant, the sandpaper when its sandpaper—and, when its home.)

And so, there are the things, the times, the people, the places, the memories worth not running from—not letting myself off the hook. And that is the harder choice, I know. It is not a choice I often make. I know others who choose this route daily, hourly. Their courage and the knowledge of what lies on the other side of such a choice presses them onward. How beautiful a life. And how blessed I am to have people of such courage in my life.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

But it all comes down to this:

If I stand still
you will see me.

If I stand still,
the blurred comes into focus
stand before me
hear me sigh
tired with circles under my eyes.

In a moment, off-guard
confess the thought that i'm scared
that if i stop, you will stare.
See the demons, bare
against a landscape of a heart
you couldn't quite catch
so it wouldn't risk a tear.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

I recently picked up a book I had long-forgotten, The Interior Castle by St. Teresa de Avila. I read a couple pages, sarcastic and angry responses flying through my mind as I read. And this was a voice in which I used to write. How I spoke onto a page. I am very different than before. I am....

I am also the same. A very intense conversation ensued as a result of my internal response. He did not "let me off the hook." And, I chose, with great internal conflict, to stay.

My counselor, a few days later, said he was glad I was reading the book because it was leading me into my shame. I understood this. Understand this. And am grateful he made a point to say it. Otherwise it would have wriggled its way to the bottom of a stack of random etcetera's forgotten in the back of my car. Instead, it is next to me waiting patiently for me to find stillness.


Listening to Comes and Goes (in Waves) by Greg Laswell
Reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (p164)